AN AFFAIRS 
 OfiSHONOR 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 BEQUEST OF 
 
 Mrs* Marion Randall Parsons 
 
o^r^\,^nu.3 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/affairofdishonorOOdemorich 
 
By WILLIAM DE MORGAN 
 
 JOSEPH VANCE 
 
 An intensely human and humorous novel of 
 life near London in the '50s. $1.75. 
 
 " The first great English novel that has appeared in the 
 20th Century."— iV(?w York 7ktnes Review. 
 
 ALICE-FOR-SHORT 
 
 The story of a London waif, a friendly artist, 
 his friends and family. $1.75. 
 
 " If any writer of the present era is read half a century 
 hence, a quarter century, or even a decade, that writer is 
 William De Morgan."— 5o«toa Transcript. 
 
 SOMEHOW GOOD 
 
 A lovable, humorous romance of modern 
 
 England. $1,75. 
 
 ' A book as sound, as sweet, as wholesome, as wise, as 
 any in the range of HcHon.''— Nation. 
 
 IT NEVER CAN HAPPEN AGAIN 
 
 A strange story of certain marital complica- 
 tions. Notable for the beautiful Judith Arkroyd 
 with stage ambitions. Blind Jim, and his daugh- 
 ter Lizarann, $1.75. 
 
 De Morgan at his very best."— /nd«p«nd<«i. 
 
 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 Perhaps the author's most dramatic novel. 
 It deals with the events that followed a duel in 
 Restoration days in England. The action is ab- 
 sorbing, and lightened by occasional gleams of 
 humor. $1.75. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM DE MORGAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF " JOSEPH VANCE," " ALICE-FOR-SHORT," 
 ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 1910 
 
COPTRIOHT, 1910, 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 JPubliahed September, 1910 
 
 REP. GEN. LIB. 
 
 ACCESS. NO. ^^ OZH-0 
 
 GIFT 
 
 THE aUINN A BOOEN CO. NlCSe 
 RAHWAY. N. t. 
 
961 
 
 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Five o'clock by the sundial on the lawn, and the man 
 that had to fight the duel at seven was sound asleep and 
 dreaming. He was dreaming about a place that must 
 have been in existence, of course, when he was a boy, or 
 how could it be there now? And there it was, sure 
 enough, with the great marble fountain in the centre, 
 and the yew-hedges clipped into the form of dancers all 
 round. And there in the fountain-basin were the huge 
 fish that must have been there then, human heads and 
 all. And the six globes of solid gold on each angle of the 
 hexagon parapet that skirted it and held the water in. 
 None of these things had ever been brought to the Hall 
 in his time — he was sure of it. 
 
 Then of a sudden it dawned upon him that this strange 
 place was only Pan's Garden, familiar to his boyhood. 
 But there was no such fountain in those days. That was 
 all new. Nothing was there then but a shallow stone 
 basin where the paths crossed, with a foursquare parapet 
 just above the ground, a mere lip-rim of acanthus- 
 leaf, with a bare relic of the God in the centre, washed 
 for ever by the water-trickle that still kept a memory of 
 the purpose of its youth. But how came he never to 
 have noticed this new fountain? That was the oddity 
 of it. He did not trouble about the human heads on the 
 fish. 
 
 ivi82(5754l 
 
2 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOISTOE 
 
 It was not as if the Box Walk, so called, that led to it 
 was one that he had shunned in those days. On the 
 contrary, the fact that he and his brothers were forbidden 
 to play there, in order that the box-hedges it took its 
 name from should flourish unspoiled, had always served 
 as a stimulus to close investigation whenever guardian 
 eyes could be evaded. He could recognise every lane 
 and alley, every slightest feature, of the rose-garden it 
 bisected as he walked along it but now. And then to 
 find in the very middle of it, where he could remember 
 nothing but the moss-grown masonry, with its trace of 
 Pan, a change like this! 
 
 If he were to see any of his people about, how could he 
 ask them to explain it? How was he to confess his 
 ignorance — ^he, the owner of Croxley Hall for twenty 
 years, whose forbears had owned it for nigh two-hundred ? 
 How could he say to old Nicholas, if he were to see him 
 now : " Speak up, you old dotard, and tell me who placed 
 this fountain here — I or my father." 
 
 If he were to see anyone about who did not know him, 
 then he might ask. There was a veiled lady walking 
 towards him from a very great distance off — ^walking with 
 a limp slowly, slowly — as soon as she could reach him 
 he could ask her. He knew no lady at Croxley who 
 walked with a limp. His mother limped, certainly; but 
 then she died when he was just of age, eighteen years ago. 
 The lady with the limp came on very slowly. 
 
 Quite suddenly she reached him, and her voice was his 
 mother's. It sounded stifled, behind the veil, but it was 
 his mother's. 
 
 " Dumb son — dumb son! Try to speak — try to speak! 
 Oliver— Oliver ! " 
 
 And then Sir Oliver tried to find his voice, but his 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOI^OE 3 
 
 teeth jammed close, and no word would come. A fright- 
 ful nightmare horror was upon him, and he felt powerless. 
 But he raised one hand with a great effort, and caught at 
 the veil before him. He pulled it aside, and saw no face ; 
 but a sort of woodwork of intersecting splints ; that could 
 cause, as it fell suddenly to pieces, a jerking laugh. 
 
 And then the man that had to fight the duel at seven 
 was awake, cold sweat upon his brow; but from his 
 dream, not from the knowledge in his mind of what 
 manner of day was to come. And then a belated clock 
 struck five: it was close enough, though, on the heels of 
 the sundial. 
 
 He left blind and shutter untouched as he slipped 
 secretly away to find the clothes he left overnight in 
 another room. If the woman awoke it would spoil 
 all. 
 
 He stole down the broad staircase, shrinking from the 
 ground beneath at every creak; glancing round and back- 
 ward, round and backward, none the easier in his mind 
 that risk grew less at every step ; too full of manly confi- 
 dence in victory, of faith in the powers of his own sword- 
 arm, to cherish stealthy longings for detection. Small 
 fear of a mishap with that opponent, even if his own 
 cause had not been so bad as to make the Devil's friend- 
 ship sure : there was that Providence at least that he could 
 trust in. 
 
 Across the dry firm foothold of the dewless turf, and 
 through into the covert. The mid-June sun had given 
 its earliest message to the daisies long since, but no cloud 
 had come between them yet. The thrushes on the lawn 
 were disappointed at the weather, as they knew the 
 worms would stay below. Was it true. Sir Oliver found 
 it in him to wonder, that the thrush can hear the sound 
 
4' AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 of the worm underground, and knows from it where to 
 watch for an unsuspicious head ? The sound of the mole, 
 too, he knows, and can imitate; and uses his skill to 
 quicken the worm's pace. So Sir Oliver's mother had 
 told him long ago . . . Ugh! — that intolerable dream! 
 The very recollection of it made the cold sweat start 
 from his brow. 
 
 Three horses and two men were silent in the shadow 
 of the copper-beeches — three horses who knew nothing 
 of the work on hand; two men who knew, and were to 
 know more soon. One, Sir Oliver's second, a tried old 
 friend, a good fellow, one who flinched from no debauchery 
 and profligacy that might add a lustre of achievement to 
 the career of a man of fashion of the days of the Restora- 
 tion; a man of wit and wits — ^who needed them, indeed, 
 for lack of much else to live upon. The other a tried old 
 groom, a bad fellow like his father before him, but like 
 him, too, with one redeeming virtue — an equivalent one, 
 perhaps — of unchangeable devotion to the Raydons of 
 Croxley Thorpe. 
 
 A seven-mile ride to the tryst, half-way to her father's 
 house — for it is her father he is to cross swords with; 
 not husband, lover, brother, merely her father, half as 
 old again as his opponent. That is what makes Sir 
 Oliver so confident, makes his foot spring so lightly to 
 the stirrup, makes him exult in his saddle on the turf. 
 For they choose the grass-land, to be noiseless, and pass 
 by the Mausoleum in the Park. 
 
 Croxley Park is no poor enclosure in a three-mile ring- 
 fence. You may ride through a clear two miles of 
 scattered oak and beechen covert before you find the 
 Mausoleum in its central solitude. When you do, you 
 may wonder at its horrible ugliness of form, but you will 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOE 6 
 
 forgive it for its colour and its lichens. Its architect was 
 surely guilty of a crime against the stone his handiwork 
 kept out of a place in some beautiful building. But it 
 is patient, and will wait for admiration, which will come 
 in the course of the ages that are needed to brew an 
 Antiquity. 
 
 " Good for the Day of Judgment, Eaydon! " 
 
 " Better than the Judgment itself, for some of them." 
 And then they both laughed, and said never a word 
 more. 
 
 But it cheered them up, and made them feel manly, to 
 show that they dared to blaspheme a little. Because, 
 remember! — light speech about the Day of Judgment, 
 that seems a small matter to us, supplied good impiety 
 for men of that time, who had had a Creed flogged into 
 them at a public school. 
 
 Sir Oliver credited damnation to some of his ancestors ; 
 for though they were permitted to sleep under that stone 
 until their resurrection, were there not among them 
 taints of forbidden heresies — errors of doctrine, that 
 would be much more likely to procure it for them than 
 plain sins, murder, or cruelty, tyranny to the weak or 
 treachery to the unsuspecting — far, far more than gentle- 
 manly vices that even their victims would forget some- 
 time? But he rode faster than before to pass the 
 Mausoleum, for his mother was there — she herself, asleep 
 in a leaden coffin — and Sir Oliver had misgivings what 
 she would think, if she were to awake, about the errand 
 that carried him so near her. 
 
 That brought him back his nightmare dream again, 
 with the gibberish the dream-thing that neither was nor 
 Avas not his mother had used, and left him as a legacy. 
 The words seized on the rhythm of his horse's hoofs on 
 
6 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 the turf and beat monotonously with them. He could 
 not escape them now. He could only quicken his pace 
 to get it over. And then Colonel Mainwaring would have 
 it they must not ride hard: a little exercise was well 
 enough, but the duellist should come fresh to his work. 
 This was not to be a bloodless duel — an encounter to be 
 averted by a word of contrition, or arrested by a formal 
 satisfaction to offended Honour. It was a fixture for a 
 Murder — there in the summer woodlands, and all the 
 blue of Heaven athrill with the music of the lark. A 
 fixture for a Murder, with a doubt of which of two men 
 should play the corpse. 
 
 The more reason, so, for scanty speech; the fewer 
 words the better! The ground was chosen yesterday by 
 the seconds : in yonder copse, fifty yards away, a farmer's 
 cart is ready by their appointment to bear away what 
 cannot walk or sit a horse — what may never do either 
 again. Delay is only risk of interruption, and the two 
 swords are of a length. Strip the men to their shirts, 
 and to it at once ! 
 
 A village boy, a youngster of eleven, had been shrewd 
 enough to see that this cart, starting in the early morning 
 furtively, must portend something to be seen, something of 
 interest and excitement. Else why should a gentleman he 
 knew to be no farmer accompany it — the village surgeon 
 who had bound up a cut hand for him and stopped the 
 blood? He had followed on, boy-like, always wondering 
 the more as the cart went farther; had hidden awhile 
 that two horsemen should pass him by; had seen them 
 overtake the cart, and now slipped up to the scene of 
 action undetected. But he is young, and cannot bear 
 intent to kill. The swift glitter of the crossed swords is 
 a terror to him, and he stops his ears that he may not hear 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOE 7 
 
 their slicing ring and sharp metallic click. For all that, 
 he is held spell-bound; and must see it through, now. 
 
 He is young, but he can see and understand — enough, 
 at any rate, to see that the older man is keen to kill, if 
 he may. Keener than the younger and shorter man, who 
 seems to this boy to hold his opponent in play, keeping 
 well behind his own strong guard. A glorious art, thinks 
 the boy through his terror, that can make of a mere 
 quick-moving point an impassable steel wall. And he 
 watches, still spell-bound, and is aware that the older 
 man, warmer and warmer to his work, is taxing the 
 swordsmanship of his opponent, albeit he himself is the 
 lesser swordsman. 
 
 The ringing of the swords quickens, strengthens. A 
 strong rally and a swift ! . . . What is that ? 
 
 The sword-point of the older man, struck upward 
 from a well-delivered thrust, has reached his opponent's 
 forehead, glancing off. Both seconds have interposed. 
 Blood is streaming across his eye from the cut, and he 
 wipes it impatiently away. 
 
 "It is nothing — a bare scratch ! '' he says. But the 
 sight of the blood has broken the spell the boy was under, 
 and he goes sick, and runs, hesitating now and again, 
 and half-turning back. Then presently the swords begin 
 anew, and he is half-sorry for himself, not to be there to 
 see. . . . Yes, he will have a man's courage, and go 
 back, come of it what may! 
 
 The seconds had looked at one another as the two 
 principals held back with dropped points. Sir Oliver still 
 brushing away the blood-drops as they came. 
 
 " I tell you, it is a scratch," he repeated. " Give me 
 a handkerchief." He wound one, handed to him by his 
 second, round his head. It served to stop the blood from 
 
8 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 reaching his eye, and left his sight clear. Then the other 
 second said to Colonel Mainwaring : " Do we proceed ? 
 How is that ? " And then, as they spoke together aside : 
 " We have the technical right to stop this, I believe." 
 
 " It is at least a moot point," said Colonel Mainwaring. 
 
 " Listen to me, Mainwaring," said the other. " If the 
 quarrel were some slight word spoken at cards or dice — 
 or about some gay wench upon the town — I should say 
 that Honour was satisfied, but . . ." 
 
 " But in the matter of a man's daughter, you would 
 say, of course it is different. That is so. But there is 
 no wish to withdraw, on my side. Nevertheless, if Mr. 
 Mauleverer is satisfied, I have no doubt Sir Oliver will 
 be content." 
 
 " Can we not stop it of our own right ? It is a bad 
 business." The speaker left the impression that his ovni 
 co-operation was against his will. 
 
 " Your man is the challenger," said Mainwaring. " If 
 he is satisfied ..." He paused, and walked over to his 
 principal, who was awaiting, with his sword-point 
 dropped, the result of the colloquy. So was his oppo- 
 nent, whom his second approached, and spoke with in an 
 undertone. 
 
 ^^ This quarrel is none of my provocation, Mainwaring, 
 and you know it. This man's daughter is her own mis- 
 tress — a free agent. She has suffered no wrong at my 
 hands. If Mr. Mauleverer is satisfied, need I say I am ? " 
 Did Sir Oliver mean the other to overhear his words — 
 to attach an exasperating meaning to them? If not, 
 why that raised voice and mocking manner? 
 
 Mauleverer's second had urged him to accept what had 
 passed, as amends for the wrong done him. He had 
 wavered, was wavering, before the earnest pleadings of 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOE & 
 
 his friend, when the tone of Sir Oliver reached him, if not 
 his actual words. Then he spoke in a quick undertone to 
 his second, who again approached Colonel Mainwaring. 
 
 '^ Mr. Mauleverer will consent to press this matter no 
 farther now, in consideration of Sir Oliver Rajdon's 
 temporary disablement. But Sir Oliver will no doubt be 
 ready to meet Mr. Mauleverer again as soon as it is 
 removed." 
 
 Colonel Mainwaring appeared to consider for a mo- 
 ment, seeming to refer to the many rings on his left hand 
 for enlightenment ; then looked up and said curtly : " I 
 need not consult Sir Oliver. I can answer for it that 
 he will not avail himself of Mr. Mauleverer's indulgence." 
 
 And almost before the signal was given the swords had 
 crossed once more, and the encounter was renewed. But 
 this time on other lines. Whatever slight remorse of con- 
 science had made the younger combatant hang back, 
 possibly with a wish to steer clear of killing the man he 
 had wronged, whose hospitality he had most villainously 
 abused — for you can guess the story of it — that was a 
 remorse so unstable that it could not overlive the pain of 
 a sword-scratch on the forehead. And all the evil of a 
 wicked heart was in the half-grin and the blood-smeared 
 eye and the set jaw of Sir Oliver as he turned again to 
 his work in earnest. 
 
 But not to triumph at once. E'ot till the fifteen or 
 twenty years there is between him and his opponent be- 
 gins to tell in his favour. Then, as he becomes aware that 
 the sword that opposes him is fainter in its resolution, that 
 the breath comes shorter and shorter still of the man 
 who wields it, the growing fierceness of his own attack 
 follows him remorselessly as he falls back, and ends the 
 long encounter with a thrust. 
 
10 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 
 
 He who receives it is wounded to death. The surgeon 
 who is waiting with the cart can do nothing — no surgeon 
 can — to stop the blood that is welling out inside the shirt 
 he cuts with scissors to detach it. All the lint the world 
 can supply would be useless there. But on no account 
 move or raise him yet. 
 
 He is trying to speak, and his second kneels beside him, 
 puts his ear down to catch the faint words. " He asks 
 to speak to Sir Oliver Raydon," is the report. His 
 murderer then kneels, and the words he stoops down to 
 hear are : " Oliver Raydon, I leave you to God and your 
 conscience." 
 
 Then the father of the woman who is sleeping through 
 it all is dead; and the dead face tells the bystanders that 
 this man was older than they thought him. For the 
 serenity of his strength and confidence, and the flush of 
 strong health, had made him seem no unfit opponent for 
 his slayer. What will the woman say? 
 
 What tale can be told to the woman? Which of the 
 three who can tell it will be the teller? The sound of 
 their horses on the turf dies soon, and now nothing is 
 left but to carry the dead man home. 
 
 Then the surgeon says to the second, under his breath: 
 " He was wounded twice. I can answer it." 
 
 " Can you say what time apart the wounds were ? " is 
 the reply. 
 
 " Not over close together. The first would have bled 
 slow, but there was much blood from it. He fought after 
 he was wounded." 
 
 ^* Make me sure of that." Both examine the body 
 again; and presently, all being ready, the cart departs, 
 with its burden, and the two horses follow some little 
 way behind, one ridden, one riderless. Then the song of 
 
AN AFFAIE (5f DISHONOK 11 
 
 the lark and the cuckoo's note come back into the stillness^ 
 and there is no other sound? . . . Yes! — there in the 
 bushes the voice of a boy crying bitterly for the horror 
 vof what he has seen, not daring to go home for knowledge 
 of the thing that he must tell, or live concealing. 
 
CHAPTEK II 
 
 Sir Oliver's horse shied at the Mausoleum, coming 
 back, and he beat the animal furiously — called it an ac- 
 cursed brute. This was because his own heart shied at 
 it — flinched from it — had suggested to him that he should 
 propose another road back. But his doing so would have 
 involved an admission that he wished to avoid the 
 Mausoleum. He had no reason for wishing to do so — 
 not he! 
 
 That being so, why was he glad to get past it? He 
 denied this gladness, to himself, as soon as it was safe 
 behind him. But what set him on denying it? Why 
 formulate belief or disbelief except at the bidding of 
 doubt or fear? 
 
 When he had got, w^ell past the Mausoleum his mind 
 changed, and he began to feel forgiving towards his own 
 mental discomfort about it. Did not this discomfort, 
 an absurd consequence of a dream-hallucination, show 
 how free he was from another and a worse one ? He was 
 already on the watch against Guilt — already brewing 
 prophylactics against pangs of Conscience. And he was 
 convinced his Conscience must be at rest when an un- 
 reality like that could supersede it. There, there! — he 
 was safely entrenched: who could doubt it? Had he 
 never killed a man before, that he should fret about 
 anticipated remorse before it came? 
 
 The stable-yard they rode the horses into, to minimise 
 publicity, was walled towards the garden. Over beyond 
 
 12 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHON^OR 13 
 
 that grey stone roll that crested its coping was the place 
 of the dream-fountain — the place where no fountain was 
 or had been. Sir Oliver, on the watch for a serpent^s 
 tooth in the vitals of his soul, caught himself again being 
 glad at heart that an idiotic dream should have power 
 to monopolize it. Little need to fear the days to come, 
 if his work of this morning could give place to a thing 
 like that ! 
 
 He was at great cost to prove to himself that he was 
 not beginning to be sick at heart. 
 
 '' No — no ; no warm water ! Fill the pail at the pump. 
 You are a cursed fool, Rackliam! Who wants the tale- 
 pyets in the kitchen to know . . . ? Where's the warm 
 water to come from ? — answer me that ! " Rackham the 
 groom had seen thus far, that his master would not care 
 to take his blood-patched forehead into the house un- 
 washed, but not far enough to be beforehand with a rea- 
 son why he should ask the housekeeper for warm water. 
 He provided the pail, and stood by immovably while 
 Colonel Mainwaring carefully detached the clotted hand- 
 kerchief and helped Sir Oliver in his washing. 
 
 Mr. Rackham did all things immovably. The immo- 
 bility of his close-shaved jaw gave a keynote to the conduct 
 of his life, and sanctioned the presence of a reptile's eyes 
 in a human head, from the Devil's point of view. These 
 eyes were much of a colour with the greyest of the beard- 
 crop's cleaned-off soil, and made his head a monochrome 
 throughout, or very near it. But they had just ex- 
 pression enough in them to say, " Say nothing! " to an 
 observant stable-boy who led away the horses with him, 
 each leading one, and leaving Colonel Mainwaring's — 
 expression enough, too, to make Sir Oliver feel he could 
 entrust his sword to him, with his murder fresh on it, to 
 
14 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 smuggle away out of Lucinda's sight. It would not do 
 to carry it indoors now. And yet, in days like these, 
 few would have ridden out unarmed. 
 
 The two men left alone spoke together, little above a 
 whisper — Sir Oliver morosely, his friend equably. He 
 had done his duty as a friend, you see, and now the time 
 was near for him to wash off the blood from his memory, 
 as he was already cleaning away the finger-taint in a 
 fresh pail of water. The slight wound had stopped 
 bleeding — showed for little. 
 
 '^ She must be told, I suppose,'' Sir Oliver muttered 
 grudgingly. 
 
 ^^ How can it be kept from her ? '' The speaker's voice 
 said plainly : " I have done my part now. That is your 
 affair." 
 
 But the murderer had no stomach for speech with his 
 victim's daughter. Could he not devolve that work on 
 his friend ? His view of the obligations of friendship 
 were those we hold, all of us, when we stand to win by a 
 liberal interpretation of them. 
 
 ^^ Look at this, Mainwaring! This Lucinda has to be 
 told — it cannot be avoided. Think how much more easily 
 you can tell her than I ! " 
 
 ^' Warily ho. Sir Oliver ! Where do you find it 
 part of your second's duty to go to confession on your 
 behalf? Put a good face on it, man! Speak for your- 
 self." 
 
 " Mainwaring ! — I thought you a better friend than 
 that. What would you have me say to her? — think 
 of it ! " 
 
 " Faith ! — I know nothing of what may be to be said, 
 in a like plight. All I know is, it's none of mine to say 
 it. The girl is no mistress of mine. Tell her yourself. 
 
AN AFFAIE OE DISHONOR 15 
 
 You have made your bed — you may even lie on it. Fare 
 you well, and good luck ! '' 
 
 " No, Mainwaring, stop ! What can I say to her ?...,* 
 Tell her the truth! — ^yes, but how? It's a harder task 
 than you think." 
 
 " Wrong again, Sir Oliver Raydon ! I count it about 
 as hard a task as a man meets in a lifetime. But the 
 quarrel was your quarrel; none of mine. And the girl 
 is your girl; none of mine. And the sword is none of 
 mine that made such a brisk end of the matter but now. 
 I have seen you through to the edge of my undertaking. 
 And in truth — listen to me, Raydon! — I should make a 
 sorry business at the best of this telling of a tale in the 
 teeth of its welcome. Get you to it, and get you through 
 it, the best you may. Say your worst of the old dog's 
 obstinacy. I couldn't but admire him, too. It may be 
 you will absolve yourself better than I could do it 
 for you.'' 
 
 " You cannot blame me ! " Sir Oliver's speech had a 
 touch of resentment, or at least of suspicion of something 
 he might resent. 
 
 " Blame you ? Not I, man ! How should I blame 
 you? Every man has a right to his chances in love, 
 and every woman knows her own pleasure best. This 
 girl of yours must answer her share of the blame. But 
 the old fellow was in the right of it — an old game-cock! 
 He could but eat the meal you and his daughter dished 
 up for him. We'll drink to his memory when this has 
 blown over. Tell her the best you may; and then get 
 away somewhere abroad, and keep away till old Ralph's 
 forgotten. Take her with you — that's my advice. 
 Farewell ! " 
 
 Sir Oliver said nothing in reply. He waited in sullen 
 
16 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 silence till the sound of the horses' hoofs died in the 
 distance, then gathered his hat and gloves and whip 
 from where he had laid them while washing. The im- 
 movable groom came back, obsequious. His master 
 handed him the gloves and whip, and asked, as he stood 
 stroking a gentle finger over his cut forehead, " Is that 
 door open ? " It was a door that would have led through 
 to the dream-fountain, had he still been dreaming. If 
 only it could be there, and reaffirm the dream-world ! No 
 harm in walking through to see. 
 
 The door was locked, but the key hung near by. It 
 had been kept locked, Mr. Rackham testified, since her 
 late ladyship — Sir Oliver's mother — ^had ordered it, so 
 that no one should pass between the garden and the 
 stables. But it had been kept oiled, not to spoil with 
 the damp. Sir Oliver had forgotten the existence of this 
 door: was there a faint hope in that, that he was stiU 
 dreaming? But when the groom opened it, with a bit 
 of a strain on the key, there was no fountain in sight. 
 Sir Oliver passed through into the garden, and the door 
 closed behind him. 
 
 The June sun was getting well into stride in the 
 heavens, and the roses were enjoying it. The heat was not 
 overpowering yet, but meant to be, even if those great 
 white clouds came to the rescue. But it was not the heat 
 that parched his tongue, and made his lips restless, and 
 his eyes burn, heavy in their sockets; nor was the throb- 
 bing in his head caused by that slight cut. The pain of 
 that was a little thing apart, that he could separate and 
 make light of. He tried to think that nightmare dream 
 was answerable. Why, see how it clung about him, even 
 now! Even now he could recall distinctly the human- 
 headed fish, and on the most conspicuous one of all the 
 
AN^ AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 17 
 
 head of John Rackham the groom; quite one colour all 
 over under water, eyes and all! And see how the mere 
 meaningless jargon of the dream-image caught and clung 
 about him, finding a shuddering application to some 
 passing thing. It was going, he felt certain, to claim for 
 itself the dumbness he knew he should feel, the padlock 
 he knew would be on his tongue, should he try to speak 
 to his woman-victim of her father^s death. But it was 
 the dream that would paralyse him, not the end of the 
 sword-encounter to which he was not the challenger. 
 
 His manhood would come back to him in time; but 
 his cowardice was on him now, with a vengeance. Else 
 why continue this incessant reasoning with himself? 
 Better stop it at once! Why beat about the bush to 
 prove what everyone already knew? Death in duels 
 must come about, now and again, unless duels should be 
 abolished altogether — a thing inconceivable! And as 
 for the provocation he had given — what foul play had 
 he been guilty of ? The girl was eighteen, and old enough 
 to know better, as the phrase goes. How had his con- 
 duct been unlike that of any other man of fashion and 
 spirit? Could not the wench keep her eyes to her- 
 self? . . . 
 
 Oh no! — she meant it, all along. Innocent — inex- 
 perienced girl indeed! Innocent parent, rather! Little 
 knows Father Stay-at-home how much his country- 
 lass may learn of Life in a couple of seasons of town ! 
 Besides, who could say his suit would not have been 
 en tout hien, tout honneur, if it had not been for his 
 wife — curse her! — ? How could anyone — how could he 
 himself know what his course w^ould have been had an 
 honourable one been open to him ? At least — do him this 
 but justice! — he had honourably promised this Lucinda 
 
as 'AX AEFAIK OF DISHOl^OK 
 
 to make her his wife, if he could rid himself of his other 
 encumbrance. He appealed to an imaginary court of 
 Love and Honour with a confidence that his powers of 
 imagination could keep it ignorant that he never meant 
 this promise when he made it; and his confidence was 
 misplaced, as it turned out. He had to avert summary 
 justice — by repeating his pledge, and really meaning it, 
 this time! He meant it, now; and could mean it with 
 perfect safety, as he knew well that that other encum- 
 brance would give him no chance to fling her off. 
 
 See now! A moment ago he resolved to put all this 
 cowardice aside. And here it was back again ! Patience, 
 patience! It was all too recent for him to make an end 
 of it yet awhile. But a time would come for forgetting. 
 Was that Lucinda on the terrace — ^^vhere his mother used 
 to limp up and down in old days ? . . . Oh, curse that 
 dream! . . . 
 
 I^ever mind the dream — ^have done with it ! . . . 
 
 Yes ! — that was Lucinda. Lucinda in the lightest robe 
 an anticipated hot day dictates — ^muslin or fine lawn at 
 the heaviest. She was leaning on the stone balustrade 
 skirting the steps from the upper terrace, disappointing 
 with her fan the sun-glare that had found its way through 
 a flowering arbutus to kiss her, gazing along the broad 
 walk Sir Oliver had just passed over. A few minutes 
 sooner, and she would have crossed his path. He was 
 glad she had not. Anything was better than to meet her 
 unprepared. 
 
 As she stood there watching for him, and he knew what 
 her great black eyes would have looked like had he met 
 her, what her soft hand would have felt like in his own, 
 her soft lips upon his cheek, he said to himself that this 
 girl was worthy to be loved, if ever woman was. He did 
 
a:n" affaik of DisHo:^roE 19 
 
 not add, " Worthy of the other sort of Love, as well as 
 mine," because he knew nothing of that variety — only 
 his own. 'Not an hour had he passed with her without 
 taking in vain the sacred name of Love — a Divinity whose 
 groves had no path for such as he, whose shrine he had 
 never seen. But the word on his lips had not chimed true 
 with the sound in her ears. And yet neither knew it! 
 Each kept a flavour for the word apart, and neither 
 tasted from the other's dish. Do not peer into the unholy 
 caverns of his mind — dwell in the garden of hers, wild 
 and disorderly perhaps, but still a garden. 
 
 He wondered at himself that he should be so solicitous 
 to delay speech with her, if only for a minute — for a sec- 
 ond! He actually walked along the skirting turf of the 
 flower-bed, to be noiseless, that those eyes should remain 
 turned from him as long as possible. Yet to how little 
 purpose ! The time must come. 
 
 Her laugh rang musically loud in the morning air, 
 when she turned and saw him. It came like a burst of 
 rejoicing out of place in a plague-stricken city. But it 
 forced a laugh from him that nearly choked him, as she 
 came floating — or falling, as you choose — into his arms, 
 and his embrace saved her a fall on the gravel. 
 
 "^O sweet Oliver! — O brave Oliver! — leave me not 
 behind thee.' . . . Why so glum. Sir Oliver ? ^ Why so 
 pale and wan, fond lover ? ' " . . . But she stopped 
 short in her reminiscences from Shakespeare and Suck- 
 ling as she saw the forehead-cut. For she had raised as 
 she kissed him the hat he had slouched forward to hide it. 
 
 '^ Silly beauty ! Just a scratch, skin-deep. A strip of 
 surgeon's plaister, and all will be well." But he had to 
 speak the lie he had arranged for it, in case his cou'rage 
 should fail him. " Your macaw did me that good turn, 
 
20 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 half an hour since, in the greenhouse. I had some ado to 
 get him clear of my head. . . . No, not his beak; his 
 claw, as I dragged him off." And then he felt he had 
 made matters worse. Almost better to have told a less 
 clever lie, that she might have suspected, and pressed him 
 to confession. So he who dares not draw his own tooth 
 is almost glad of the dentist's pincers. 
 
 " The darling ! — what had you done to provoke him ? 
 As if my precious bird — ^my dearest bird — ^would scratch 
 except he was provoked ! Stupid Sir Oliver ! " But she 
 kissed him again on what bad been the grin of his resolve 
 to slay her father, scarce two hours ago. O the torture of 
 living, in the face of her ignorance of it all ! 
 
 But he was in for a term of lying pretexts now, and he 
 would have done better to have said at once, " I am your 
 father's murderer; but it is by no fault of mine that his 
 blood is on my head." 
 
 He could have thrown himself on her mercy, to take 
 pity on his remorse, and share it. He tried to speak, even 
 now, to put an end to the gaiety of her utter ignorance, 
 that was harder to him to bear than the worst reproach. 
 And even harder than that, the tender solicitude for his 
 injured brow. How could he repulse her mock-imperious 
 command to him to come under the hands of the surgeon ; 
 her gentle, and indeed dexterous, handling of the slight 
 wound he could easily have ignored ; her mock censure of 
 his molestation of her darling bird — how without self- 
 betrayal ? He had no heart to feign a light, jesting 
 mood to answer hers. His safest course would be to let 
 his best attempt towards a genial one pass for a churlish- 
 ness just a shade beyond his morning's wont. For it was 
 a common speech enough with her that his sulky lord- 
 ship must needs break his fast before he could find a civil 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 21 
 
 word to speak. And last night more wine than usual had 
 gone to nourish his moroseness of the day to come. 
 
 " Where did you ride so fast this morning, Oliver 
 mine ? " said she, as she attended to his wound. They 
 had passed into the house, and were in the room that 
 opened on the terrace, when she asked this question. 
 
 " How came you to know I rode at all ? '^ She had had 
 to wait for his answer, but he did not wait for hers. " By 
 the Long Park to the Swan's Mead, along by King's 
 Theydon and Russet Cross. There is hay to cut still in 
 the Abbey meadows." This was true, of a sort. But 
 had it not been for that ugly dream, he would have 
 said : " Beyond the Mausoleum," not " By the Long 
 Park." 
 
 Her answer came to his question, rather in the rear of 
 the argument : " I felt you go, in my sleep, and was not 
 of a mind to wake up to stop you. Then the tread of the 
 horses on tho turf beat into my dreams. Are you not 
 hungry ? " 
 
 " Hungry enough. A ride betimes whets the appe- 
 tite. . . . Breakfast on the cedar-lawn? . . . Yes, 
 that was well thought of." He had risen to his feet when 
 she had finished placing the plaister on the cut, and, look- 
 ing at himself in a mirror to see it, had caught also a 
 reflection of the lawn beyond the terrace, and the serv- 
 ants laying a table beneath the trees. He had no appe- 
 tite for breakfast, but he must affect one. It might be 
 easier to eat than he fancied, when it came to trying. 
 
 Yes — food was not amiss after an effort or two. But 
 he was farther than ever from daring to thrust the horror 
 in his heart into the unsuspicious life of the girl; while 
 she, for her part, guessing some disquiet in him, strove to 
 allay it more and more with mirth and sweet speech. 
 
22 AN AFFAIK OF DISHOIN^OR 
 
 N^ever had she been more charming: how she would have 
 lasted! O that he had not been Cain, to enjoy this fair 
 fruit that he had plucked! He cursed his petulance and 
 want of self-discipline. Could he not have had the sense 
 to see where prudence lay ? — a slight wound for the nonce ; 
 or even a bad one and a long nursing, but never this in- 
 exorable, overmastering Death, that comes to all and comes 
 to stay — that has his way with what was once a man. But 
 he had tried — ^yes, he had tried — to disarm his opponent ; 
 yet the old fellow's sword-hand was too strong for that! 
 Think of it, had he only had this much to tell, that a bout 
 of sword-play had been fought on fair ground, and a swift 
 turn of his point had left her father at his mercy — to be 
 generously spared! His magnanimity, that would have 
 been, quickened in his brain; gave him a moment's half- 
 ease, and was dismissed, leaving him poorer than before, 
 as he sickened at its falsehood. 
 
 Had he ridden in view of the Old Hall ? She went back 
 to her questioning, after he and she had eaten, there on 
 the lawn below the cedar-trees. The Old Hall was her 
 father's house, his birthplace and hers. Only a year ago 
 she was little more than a schoolgirl there; knowing 
 nothing, all the world before her. What was she now ? — • 
 answer that! What a knowledge had come to be hers, 
 in that short twelvemonth ! 
 
 " I was dreaming of them all, last night, Oliver mine ! — • 
 all the living and the dead mixed together; just dream 
 stuff! There was my sister you never saw — Amy. She 
 was Aminta, you know, but she would be vexed at heart 
 if one should call her Minty — she never could abide the 
 name. So she was Amy to all of us. O but she was 
 beautiful ! If you had seen her, Oliver, you would never 
 have had a thought for me." She was on the grass at his 
 
AI^ AFFAIE O'F DISHONOK 23 
 
 feet — it was green under that cedar-tree, not its fellow — 
 and the growing heat made her use her fan. He was 
 smoking the tobacco that was getting so common now; 
 grown in Virginia, where her brother was. His pipe was 
 just a little pear-shaped bowl all but in a line with its 
 stem. And it held but a thimbleful; but this was right, 
 for the weed was still costly. She flicked away the smoke 
 with her fan, as it floated towards her. 
 
 " Never a thought for Lucinda — ^never a thought for the 
 Queen of Love! A rare rival in truth! But my Lu- 
 cinda's praise of her sister's beauty is but faint at the 
 best. What are the bluest eyes that ever shone, to match 
 Lucinda's ? How shall a golden head compare with locks 
 like these ? '^ His speech dragged ; there was no en- 
 thusiasm in it. The girl would often have exchanged 
 high-flown compliments for words of Love — of the sort 
 of Love she had to give, a better sort than his. But this 
 morning surely she found it rather harder than she had 
 ever yet confessed it to herself to be, to shut her eyes to 
 an assumption that hurt her, that assurance of her beauty 
 was the prize her life aimed at, rather than a nestling- 
 place in another's heart. The truth was the reverse of 
 what she thought : — never had he gone so near loving her 
 as tO'day. It was sheer mechanical stress of some 
 padlock on his voice that told on his effort to speak, and 
 made an ill sound for it in his own ears. But whatever 
 misgivings it gave her, she hid it well. Her laugh rang 
 out; and the macaw, in his house beyond the lawn, heard 
 it and shrieked in answer. 
 
 " But you never saw her, Oliver mine, you never saw 
 her. Even the bird is laughing at you, sweetheart! 
 Leave your silly tropes, and answer my question: — How 
 near did you ride to the Old Hall ? " 
 
24 AN AFFAIR OF DISH0:N^0R 
 
 " No nearer than to see naught of it ; and yet, as 
 near as my liking carried me. A man would have the 
 eyes of a windhover to see the Old Hall from Russet 
 Cross, let alone that he would have to see through the 
 Hanger Hill and Lea Down. Where is thy memory, 
 lass?'' 
 
 " Oh, but my memory's good, Oliver mine, for all the 
 way 'twixt this and my father's home. Should I forget, 
 think you? Why, I can see it all now, and never move 
 from where I sit! On beyond the Abbey Meadows, just 
 a mile, and there is Ashen Mow and Blean Carn, and then 
 the long road through the wood to Lea Down. And the 
 Old Hall, and the dear old father there among his 
 guests." . . . She paused, warned by a sob, climbing 
 in her throat, of the danger of going on. Sir Oliver would 
 be impatient with her if she cried. But she had only just 
 swallowed that sob in time. After all, where would she 
 be if this man tired of her ? Where and what ? But oh, 
 what a base thought to think of him ! To begin to doubt 
 him thus soon, in the face of all his pledges ! 
 
 And what about him, as he thought to himself — he had 
 to! — ^that her father's guests would look for their host 
 in vain, would listen in vain for his welcome to the home 
 he knew so well how to make theirs ? What could he say 
 to her now if, when he tried to open those dry hot lips, 
 he found he could speak? He could not say now, as he 
 had said twenty times before, " Go back home, Lucinda — 
 the choice is open to you — go back home ! " He could 
 speak neither the thought in his mind, nor the speech 
 that had served his turn once and again, before this. He 
 tried to get his teeth apart for a yawning protest against 
 serious talk so early in the morning, but failed. It would 
 have in the end to come to a choice between silence and 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 25 
 
 the telling of what she must know later, somehow. For 
 now, silence was best. He would not acknowledge that 
 speech was impossible to him, but made believe that si- 
 lence was his free choice. 
 
 She could not understand his suUenness; how should 
 she? But she must cheer him up — bring a smile to his 
 set face, somehow! What did he think was her dream 
 about Amy? She had dreamed that Amy was married 
 to the hangman, and had twins. He managed a stinted 
 smile, and a hope that the twins were doing well, in the 
 dream. But he hated the very name of a dream. There 
 was hideous latitude, in dream-analogies, for Heaven 
 knows what combinations and surprises. 
 
 " And what do you suppose Amy had called the 
 twins ? " Sir Oliver shook his head with a sickly smile. 
 He feaxed an ambush of something unpleasant. " Mack- 
 erel and Murder! " laughed Lucinda, merry at the ab- 
 surdity. But so sore was he that the mere name of a 
 fish, chaotic and meaningless as was its context, gave him 
 a shudder. Were there not fish in his own damnable 
 nightmare of the morning? 
 
 His gloom grew, and she saw it. She must make an 
 effort to penetrate it, or disperse it; no matter which. 
 She moved closer to him, crept up quite close as he sat, 
 his back against the tree-trunk. Her white arm went 
 round his neck; surely there should have been more 
 sense of a response in it — ^not a movement to her, she did 
 not ask that — only another and less stony sort of still- 
 ness. Was he angry with her ? 
 
 ^' Shall I tell you, Oliver mine, what I am half-minded 
 to do? Yes, I will — ^yes, I will! I am half-minded to 
 take my father at his word, and go to him this day — this 
 very day. Did he not say come back and he would for- 
 
26 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 give me, were my sin thrice as black? Did he not say 
 he cared never a straw for the words of women who made 
 believe to saint, each with a lover if the truth came out? 
 Did he not say he would face them all down for me ; and 
 as for the men, them he knew how to deal with ? " . . . 
 Sir Oliver choked a little towards speech in his dry throat, 
 but she ran on before he could command a word. " No — 
 no, my dearest, my prize among men, my very life! I 
 would not leave you, Oliver, though the returning of 
 to-morrow's dawn hung upon it. My faith to you is thrice 
 the pledge of a bonded faith; for, could I not break it 
 and go scatheless? Who would not dare before Heaven 
 to break the pledge he had backed with gold or land, 
 knowing his loss would pay the cost V , , . She paused 
 a second as he tried to speak, but the question that had 
 stopped her was little more than the word '' What ...?'' 
 She caught his meaning, and saved him the completion 
 of it. 
 
 " What should I say, should my father urge me to 
 turn from my wickedness, and repent? I should say, 
 ^ A poor amend indeed for a sin sinned past all recall, to 
 break my word to my love, and leave him to battle with 
 his conscience alone ! ' And then I would ask him what 
 thought would he have of you, dear love, if you forsook 
 me to become a monk, and make good terms in time with 
 Heaven? Yes! — I would say to him that I would 
 expiate with you the wrong we have done Heaven to- 
 gether, not seek its favour by a breach of faith towards 
 my love — my love I love better than Heaven or Earth. 
 And I would make him say in the end that I was right, 
 for all he would talk, as he surely would, of my perverted 
 sense of Honour. Better, to my thought, to be true to a 
 perverted sense of Honour of one's own fashioning than 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOIs^OE 27 
 
 to affect a loyalty one felt not to some wiseacre's law with 
 no heart in it ! '' 
 
 Still, never a word from the man! Yet his having 
 once or twice seemed to begin speech, and seemed to be 
 interrupted in it, left a false sense of his having spoken. 
 No impression was conveyed that he felt, as he truly did, 
 quite dumb. How he wished now he had overleapt his 
 barrier at once, not waited for his task to grow worse! 
 Or why not have written her a letter, and left her to break 
 the neck of grief alone ? She was absolutely, to his think' 
 ing, in his power; — how could she choose but acquiesce 
 in what had happened? It was perhaps the only spot in 
 his soul where a seed of good could strike or grow, the 
 one that felt a sort of pang at the idea of her hating her 
 father's murderer; and the thought was pleasant to him 
 that she could have no choice but to conceal that hatred : — 
 if she did it thoroughly enough, that would do for him. 
 It was his nearest approach to a redeeming feeling. Oth- 
 erwise, he was morally on a par with the foulest human 
 vermin that ever cursed God's earth. None the less that, 
 moral coward as he was, he could be physically brave at 
 a pinch; that is to say, as long as he felt secure of 
 victory. 
 
 Even now, speechless as he was — ^hopeless as it seemed 
 that he should ever get his tale told — he was longing at 
 heart for the time when the first shock should be over, and 
 he should be consoled by the sound of his own voice 
 telling extenuating lies. How he would dwell on the 
 exasperation of that slight cut, on his forbearance till he 
 felt his own blood warm upon his forehead, and caught 
 its scarlet in the eye it blinded! He framed his speech 
 that was to tell the tragedy of the morning, but never 
 dared to utter its first word. It would have been easier 
 
28 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 for him if news had come to her that her father was 
 slain in a duel, to say, " This is the hand that slew him," 
 than to write the fact of his death on the blank sheet of 
 an unsuspecting mind. 
 
 The girl, as she sat backward of a full view of the face 
 her hand caressed, could not see its hard-set lines, its 
 knitted brows, all the tension of it and the greyness. Her 
 voice ran musically on, torturing him with its sweet 
 cadences and disallowance of discarded cares. For some 
 slightest insight — some gleam of something wrong — had 
 shown her that her talk of her father had been misplaced. 
 Maybe — who could tell? — it was too soon in the day to 
 be dwelling on such matters. It was selfish of her. But 
 his fault, too, partly. What need had he to talk of Eus- 
 set Cross and Lea Down? 
 
 It chanced presently that a robin crossed the lawn, and 
 came close to them, claiming breakfast. Lucinda went 
 for crumbs to the table, and threw them on the lawn, 
 watching the bird approach. A second robin, counting 
 his privileges invaded, flew straight at the first comer, 
 pecking at him furiously. " See, Oliver, see,'' said 
 Lucinda, watching them, " how the little peckrels use 
 their beaks, like little wicked swords in a duel. Oh, 
 how can men find heart to slay each other? Oliver — 
 Oliver ! " 
 
 Then, as the first robin fled, leaving the other mighty 
 proud of his victory, she turned and caught a look upon 
 her lover's face. An awful look that she had never seen 
 before. And a choking cry, that none hears until for the 
 first time he sees epilepsy, was in her ears. She tried to 
 catch him as he fell forward, for he had half risen. But 
 his weight was too great for her, and she could not stay 
 him from a headlong crash into the porcelain they had 
 
AN AFEAIK OF DISHO:^rOK 29 
 
 drunk and eaten from. And there he lay in his convul- 
 sion, and foam flew from his lips as from a mad dog^s 
 mouth, and mixed with the blood that came freely from 
 his bitten tongue, till the girl's heart stood still as she 
 thought of the demoniacs in the tombs of old. 
 
CHAPTEK III 
 
 Sib Oliver's rally from his attack was a slow one. He 
 did not know what had happened; could remember only 
 that he thought himself called, and rose to go and seek 
 the caller. Then that he must needs shout loud, against 
 his will — even as compulsion comes on us in delirium, 
 sometimes. And then consciousness, on the greensward, 
 with summoned servants around, and Lucinda in her ter- 
 rified beauty, and her dress soiled with the blood that 
 had come from his mouth. Only this he did not know ; but 
 only that his mouth was sore, for some reason. 
 
 His hope of a couple of hours past, that he was in a 
 dream, came back to him as his wits came back — slowly, 
 yet quicker than he let them seem to come. For his 
 memory of his tale to tell revived first of all else ; and he 
 was glad of an excuse for silence. Yet, to deceive himself, 
 he affected in his own heart that his confession had been 
 on his tongue's tip, at the point of his interruption by this 
 God-knows-what that he could not understand. 
 
 " What is all this to-do ? Why are all these fools 
 here? Pack them all off about their business! 'Nol — 
 let Rackham stay." And then, all the other servants 
 having gone, he made the groom help him to his feet, and 
 leaned on his arm as he walked towards the house. There 
 was in this no such tax on his companion's strength that 
 the woman's arm might not have served his turn as well ; 
 and it made a little soreness for her that her lover should 
 not have looked to her first for help. As for him, he was 
 
 80 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOI^OK 31 
 
 flincliing from her more and more, as the ghastly story he 
 had to tell grew deadlier and deadlier in its hold upon his 
 heart. 
 
 " How came I to fall — why was it ? " said he, as she 
 followed him, fearing his displeasure, yet knowing no overt 
 cause for it. He hardly turned to her to speak. 
 
 " Oliver dearest ! — ^why should I know, and how ? 
 What can I say, hut that you fell and lay insensible ? ^' 
 
 " I was not insensible. How long was it ? " 
 
 *^ I was in such fear for you, love ! — how could I tell 
 what it might be that ailed you? It might have been 
 death." 
 
 " But at a guess, how long ? " 
 
 " There go the clocks at the hour ! What time was it, 
 Mr. Eackham, when the boy rode away for the doctor ? " 
 
 Mr. Kackham couldn't say to a minute. " But it was 
 well short of the half-hour. The boy Kenneth himself 
 could tell best." But his master cut his speech short. 
 
 " Who sent for the doctor ? Where were your wits, 
 Mistress Lucinda, not to stop the damned fool? What 
 has it all been ? Tell me that, and send the idiot packing 
 when he comes — him and his blood-letting and his 
 purges." . . . 
 
 " How shall we know what ailed you, if we send him 
 packing ? Be patient for the nonce, dearest Oliver. How 
 can we be as wise about the malady as he ? " 
 
 "I'll none of his damnable drugs — be sure of that! 
 'Nov be let a drop of blood — be sure of that too! Make 
 him write the name of the ailment, if it be one, fairly 
 on a sheet of paper and sign his name to it. And if he 
 make words over it, souse him in the horse-pond till he 
 be of a wiser mind." 
 
 Thereon the girl urged on him that no physician, were 
 
32 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 he Galen himself, could name the disorder except he 
 should see the patient. But Sir Oliver would hear none 
 of this. There was nothing wrong with him now, as must 
 be plain to her, or to anyone with eyes ; and for his attack 
 of faintness, or unconsciousness, surely she could describe 
 that better than ever he could, who knew naught of it, 
 nor felt aught either. Let her but tell Dr. Phinehas what 
 chanced, saying it happened thus, and thus, and if his 
 doctorship was not a mere quackery, he would be able 
 to tell at a word what was the name of his malady. But 
 none of his 'pothecary stuff for him, till he had drained 
 the last cup of good wine from the cellar. Which brought 
 them up the steps of the garden terrace to the window of 
 the great hall which opened on it, and there Sir Oliver 
 would have it the clock, which pointed to eleven, was 
 wrong. And Mistress Lucinda said so it was, truly — 
 thinking he meant it was some eight minutes behind the 
 time. But he meant that it should have been ten by the 
 hour; for he, being still somewhat stupefied, had failed 
 to count the strokes of the clocks they had heard without. 
 And he now saw, for the first time, that he had lain over 
 an hour on the greensward, without sense or feeling. 
 
 They got him away to his room, at his own choice that 
 it should be so; and there he lay down to sleep, seeming 
 well pleased to be alone, at which his lady chafed not a 
 little. For she would have been better satisfied that he 
 should have besought her to remain with him, in place of 
 indifference as to whether she stayed or went. And 
 thereto his desire that John Rackham only should be 
 near him for service, of all in the house. But she gave 
 way to him in this, as in all else; for instance, his bid- 
 ding her write straightway to stop the coming of all in- 
 vited guests, on the plea of his indisposition. 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 33 
 
 And yet all the while he was saying that nothing ailed 
 him. And in truth he thought so; and his zest to be 
 alone, and sleep, was but the outcome of the stress of his 
 secret burden of which Mistress Lucinda had no knowl- 
 edge or suspicion. It had come to this, that he hungered 
 only for a respite from the telling of the tale that he knew 
 she must one day know. Also, it might be that his task 
 would be an easier one if the knowledge of her father's 
 death came to her first from without, whether or not he 
 figured in it as his slayer. 
 
 So she, compliant in all things, however much she felt 
 this wound or that, left him to himself, and sat alone, 
 building up hopes that she might hear his voice sum- 
 moning her to his side. 
 
 She wrote such notes as were needed to intercept the 
 three or four men guests and the one or two women who 
 would have accompanied them — women situated like 
 herself, but her social inferiors — women whom she shrank 
 from, whom she never would have spoken with but for 
 her own reckless, misguided defiance of social rule. She 
 was better pleased to write these notes to stop their 
 coming than she had been to invite them. When she had 
 arranged for their despatch by messenger, she was inter- 
 rupted in the thought of what she should do next by a 
 sudden fatigue that surprised her — a reaction from excite- 
 ment, an anxiety no previous experience of hers had 
 qualified her to foresee. She made a stand against it; 
 answered her attendant, Rachel Anstiss, who would have 
 had her lie down, with a reference to the heat of the day, 
 and walked languidly about, fanning herself. 
 
 But she lay down presently, on the couch in the great 
 hall that was cool still, for all the sun was so hot without, 
 now near upon noonday. She had no heart for sleep; 
 
34 AIST AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 although she might readily have slept, as far as fatigue 
 went, however strange the hour might seem to choose for 
 sleeping. But she was on the watch for Oliver's voice, 
 should he call, and she longed for it too much to forget 
 that it might come. She could listen to the hum of the 
 strayed bee, cheated by an open window to believe in 
 sweets within — could hear it rise and fall, now near, now 
 far, and then at last detect the cheat, and sweep impa- 
 tiently again into the blazing air without; vanish away, 
 recur once more, then die away for good. She could 
 even dwell upon the monotonous, decisive ticking of the 
 eight-day clock, that would not hurry a single pace, al- 
 though the great event of its day was so near at hand — 
 even that, and yet not half drop an eyelid. For her eyes 
 burned, and were dry, and her brows above them throbbed, 
 and her heart was full of sickness and misgivings of she 
 knew not what. 
 
 Could she have held back the time she would have done 
 it. For she dreaded the midday meal, and the presence 
 of all the servants, and the morose humour of her lord and 
 master. For that was the name to call him by; and his 
 mastery was stronger over her than any rule or rein the 
 laws of God or man grant to husband or father for the 
 better curbing of wife or child. But the hours passed on 
 in the stillness, and the great clock would have its say at 
 last. It muttered a solemn warning, denouncing all who 
 did not pause to listen to the thing it had to tell ; the thing 
 that might be true to-morrow of another day, but never 
 of this day again. 
 
 But Lucinda was impatient with it, that it should dwell 
 so long and loud on what all knew already, when what she 
 herself desired to know was who was the rider who had 
 dismounted at the front gate, whose summons for ad- 
 
AN AFEAIR OF DISHONOK 35 
 
 mission would be heard in a moment — was heard before 
 the last stroke was forgotten, the resonance extinct, 
 each hand busy on its task apart. A timorous summons, 
 as of a man who rings a great man's bell, and would 
 conciliate him by keeping its voice down to the level of 
 his necessities. A summons that says a meek man is at 
 the gate, who may ring again, but not too soon. 
 
 '^ Eachel Anstiss, if that is Doctor Phinehas, see that 
 they send him in here to me.'' 
 
 " Not if he asks for Sir Oliver — my lady ? " The hand- 
 maiden addresses her grudgingly by this title — hangs fire 
 over it, discharges it abruptly in the end. This is the 
 way of the household, and Lucinda knows it — has known 
 it since she came here first. 
 
 " Do as I have told you ! " Eachel knows the time is 
 not safe for rebellion yet. It may come, though, or not, 
 as time shows, or policy decides. For now, she will 
 make sure that the dot-and-go-one footstep of Dr. 
 Phinehas goes straightway where she is bidden to 
 show him. 
 
 A man of sixty may look like a skin of parchment 
 stretched over knobs of wood. For Dr. Phinehas did so. 
 He may have a polished pate, if he wear no peruke, and 
 have no brows or lashes to his eyes, and his gold spectacles 
 may seem to have been born with him; and yet there 
 may be no need for him to crack his fingers as he speaks, 
 nor to pinch his lips with superhuman shrewdness at 
 speech-ends, nor to cover his ear that can hear with his 
 hand, and bring both within an inch of your mouth. Yet 
 Dr. Phinehas did all these things, and Lucinda disliked 
 the last. But she had to shout into his ear for all that. 
 Still she was grateful to him for one thing: he called her 
 boldly by her name, and made no attempts to gloss over 
 
36 AN AFFAIK OF DISHOIS^OR 
 
 her position by any use of lady or ladyship, to which last 
 very surely she had no title. 
 
 " The worshipful Sir Oliver hath had a seizure, Mistress 
 Lucy ? . . . It is I that am asking you. Is that so ? " 
 
 " A sudden malady of a sort, truly enough ! But 
 whether it be a seizure or what, I cannot know, as how 
 should I?" 
 
 " Neither can I, Mistress Lucy, except I see him." 
 
 " What can I do, then, Dr. Phinehas, seeing he is 
 resolved to see no physician, neither to take any 
 remedy ? " 
 
 " Nothing, indeed, Mistress Lucy ! The obstinate man 
 is resolute to his own destruction. But you were present 
 — so said the messenger who summoned me — ^when this 
 convulsion, whatever it might be, came about ? " Dr. 
 Phinehas interlaced his fingers, and forced them down- 
 wards and outwards with a sounding crack. He then 
 brought his left hand suddenly back to its ear, to listen 
 with, as before. 
 
 Lucinda shouted a loud affirmative "Yes!" into it, 
 and then went straight on into a precise account of all 
 that had occurred, beginning with a statement that Sir 
 Oliver, on his return from a short ride before breakfast, 
 had foolishly provoked her cockatoo to scratch his fore- 
 head. The doctor hearkened to her attentively, nodding 
 at intervals as one who has just heard what some previous 
 information had led his insight and experience to expect. 
 AVhen she had reached Sir Oliver's headlong fall on the 
 lawn, the learned man embarked on a succession of rapid 
 nods. He had heard enough, for one of his wide ex- 
 perience. Why listen further to what he could know 
 without telling? 
 
 " Enough, Mistress Lucy ! Now — ^your attention ! Was 
 
AX AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 37 
 
 there any immoderate haemorrhage from this parrot- 
 scratch ? . . . Did it bleed much ? " This was to ac- 
 commodate her lesser understanding. 
 
 '^ Scarcely at all ! " The doctor left a confirmatory 
 shrewd look on his face, to show he had anticipated this 
 answer, with his head atwist to endorse it. But it did 
 not convince Lucinda that he had expected it. 
 
 " Has the worshipful Sir Oliver suffered of late from 
 effusion of any acrid humour? — from crudities of the 
 stomach ? — from melancholic depression of the mind ? " 
 
 " I know of no such thing. He was merry overnight, 
 and slept well, rising early to ride." 
 
 " Now listen ! You tell me, Mistress Lucy, that the 
 patient foamed at the mouth, as a mad dog foams. Tell 
 me this — ^was this convulsion accompanied with a spastic 
 rigidity of the whole body, or was it rather an irregular 
 clonic contraction of the muscles locally ? " 
 
 " Both, to the best of my noting the manner of it. But 
 how can I know that I understand you ? He jerked most 
 horribly, and his eyes went away beneath the lids. And 
 the blood came from his mouth. I could but think, as I 
 heard his cry, that a fiend had entered into him, and 
 that it was ill for me, in an evil day, that there should be 
 no blessed Saviour to cast him out, as our Lord cast out 
 the evil spirits of the Gadarenes and drove them for 
 refuge to the bodies of the swine." 
 
 Dr. Phinehas smiled compassionately at the simplicity 
 that would mix together the belief that was a duty with 
 the knowledge that was a certainty — a confusion of 
 secular with religious truth. What should he know of 
 the casting forth of evil spirits otherwise than by blood- 
 letting and purges ? " There is none such thing now, 
 Mistress Lucy," he said, " unless indeed one should name 
 
38 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 his blessed Majesty, who hath touched for the Evil ^ve 
 hundred persons in one day, whereof a many testify to 
 have received great benefit, and it were treason to his 
 Majesty to doubt it. But it is no treason, neither to 
 his Majesty nor to our blessed Lord and Saviour, to say 
 that no evil spirit is needed to account for a simple case 
 of scrophula fugax, a mere swelling of the conglobate 
 glands of the neck, such as I suppose most of these cases 
 to have been ..." The learned man might have 
 launched into a dissertation on the King's Evil, as scroph- 
 ula was called in those days, but Lucinda interrupted. 
 
 " Leave this now. Master Phinehas — though I may ask 
 you more of it hereafter — to tell me what I seek to know 
 of this malady of Sir Oliver, and what he has bidden me 
 to ask you. Is his ailment what is known to the folk 
 of these parts as the Falling Sickness? and if it be so, 
 what is there that may be a remedy to it, and how should 
 it be employed, seeing that he is untractable, and opposes 
 all advice or help of medicine ? '' 
 
 The doctor shrugged his shoulders, and the bones of 
 them cracked as his hands had done. " For the treat- 
 ment, it must needs be the same as that of any patient 
 who will not be treated, except it may be a child that 
 can be controlled. Leave him alone till he come to a 
 wiser mind, and pray God he may not die in the 
 interim." 
 
 " And for the nature of the malady ? " 
 
 " For its nature, so far as I may pronounce without 
 seeing the patient, it hath all the character of true 
 epilepsia cerehralis, having seized upon him suddenly and 
 without forewarning — without, as I understand, even the 
 slightest vertigo or scotomia — and being accompanied by 
 all the specific symptoms thereof. But in view of the 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOXOK 39 
 
 injury of the parrot's beak, however slight the haemor- 
 rhage, we may hope that the attack belongs rather to the 
 class of epilepsia occasionalis, and may not recur, or but 
 little ; and may vanish altogether with the removal of the 
 irritation that has caused it." 
 
 ^' Is there anything that I can be beforehand with as 
 a precaution, should another attack come? Or any care 
 of his diet or such like, whereby I may influence him un- 
 awares for his good ? " 
 
 In reply the doctor advised a course of treatment that 
 his hearer knew would only exasperate her patient. She 
 could never limit his nourishment to ptisans, which 
 indeed are nothing but barley flour or lentils boiled in 
 water, even though they were prepared from the receipt 
 of Hippocrates, and sanctioned by the practice of Celsus. 
 Still less would she dare to attempt to purge the acrid 
 humours from the inmost recesses of the body by intro- 
 ducing white hellebora surreptitiously into his aliments. 
 Therefore, as it was also out of the question to relieve 
 by bleeding the plethora of the veins, due to the corrup- 
 tion of the blood, whereby (saith Hippocrates) the spirits 
 are denied a passage through them, the worthy doctor 
 was at a loss to make further suggestion. Should an 
 attack recur, it might be well, he said, to thrust a stout 
 cork at the outset between the teeth of the patient, to 
 lessen the danger of their closing on the tongue, and also 
 to lay open the throat and breast to the air. A pail of 
 cold water might be thrown over him at the outset. But 
 from this Lucinda shrank, as from other demonstrative 
 remedies. 
 
 " Then, indeed, mistress," said the doctor upon this, 
 '^ I can be of little service to you, and may as well be 
 jogging ; for there are others that call for my aid, and are 
 
40 AN AFFAIK OF DISHOXOK 
 
 more complaisant in the use of it. But I may say this, 
 from my own experience of this malady — though I know 
 not what the judgment would have been of Hippocrates 
 nor of Praxagoras — that any contradiction to the pa- 
 tient's will, or thwarting of intention, may well lead to 
 an outbreak or convulsion. So my counsel is that he 
 be opposed in nothing, even to the smallest trifle." 
 
 He said this with earnest emphasis; and Lucinda, as 
 he seemed to wait for her assurance that it should be 
 borne in mind, nodded her assent to him ; the more easily 
 that she had very little disposition to oppose Sir Oliver 
 in anything, even could she hope for success in doing so. 
 The doctor then took his leave and his fee and departed, 
 refusing Lucinda's invitation to him to remain and take 
 his midday meal at the family table, for which the bell 
 was at the moment ringing. 
 
 The usage at the Hall had till lately been, as in other 
 great houses in those days, that all the household should 
 eat together, the dishes going first to the upper table — 
 above the salt, as the phrase was. But since her lady- 
 ship's departure, in wrath at Sir Oliver's public neglect 
 of her, and still worse public devotion to others more 
 attractive — though, indeed, she had naught to complain 
 of that was not the lot of other wives in her rank of life — 
 the great dining-room had been left to the household. 
 Sir Oliver and his company of the time being leaning to 
 the privacy of a separate repast in another apartment. 
 This change had not held good when there were guests 
 to the number of more than one or two; and when this 
 was so, her mock headship of the house was not unwel- 
 come to Lucinda, however much she knew the men's 
 courtesy was but a pretext, and the women rarely in a 
 position to cast a stone at her, were it never so small. 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 41 
 
 But on this day, seeing Sir Oliver came not to table, and 
 seemed like to remain away, she was glad of the secluded 
 room, and the eyes of Eachel Anstiss alone, little as she 
 liked them. 
 
 And yet it was grievous enough to her, when she 
 took her seat at the board and awaited the coming of 
 Sir Oliver — for so she might have done another time, 
 not waiting for his escort to table — that this time he came 
 not, but only John Rackham, with a surly message, or 
 one surlily given. 
 
 " The master eats in his room. . . . What wine will 
 'a drink, eh? Why, the old sack of the third bin, with 
 his grandsire's seal on it. Trust un ! " This man made 
 no show of deference, using to Lucinda no name or title 
 of address, and only stopping short with a grin of using 
 her maiden name, that he had known her well by, from 
 childhood. He grinned over the wine, but still surlily. 
 " Why — here be the keys of 'un," said he. " And you 
 be to come to the cellar, for a safeguard I shouldn't help 
 myself ! " Had his grin been all the words in his power 
 to speak, he could not have said more plainly : *^ I should 
 have been the bearer of no such charge had the parson 
 had his say over the two of you at the altar." His 
 thought glared through it, unmistakable. 
 
 " Go on in front, John Rackham," she said ; " I will 
 follow you." For she hated this man and his bluntness 
 less than the mock courtesy of Rachel Anstiss and the 
 others. 
 
 The cellar was old, though the house was new, and 
 dated back to the days of John of Gaunt, when the 
 priory was built, that was cleared away in the early 
 time of Queen Elizabeth to make way for the Hall, only 
 a century old now at most, and the work of Sir Oliver's 
 
42 AN AFFAIE OF DISH0:N^0R 
 
 grandfather. Another century has come and gone since 
 then, and the great house, with its stone fagade and 
 terrace, all moss-grown and stone-cropped, and silvery 
 with lichens, stands at this hour untenanted, and has 
 done so for twenty years past. Of the tales such as are 
 told in plenty of old, deserted houses — ^tales of spectres 
 seen and gruesome voices heard, by night and day — 
 Croxley Hall has more than its fair share; and among 
 these none is better remembered or oftener told than 
 the legend of the murder of the nun Mary, who hid herself 
 away, when her fellows were driven forth from their 
 nunnery near at hand, in the already deserted priory, 
 and met her fate at the hands of certain roysterers, being 
 found dead next day in the very vault where Sir Oliver 
 kept such good store of wine. For in that vault, it was 
 said, so sure as the day of her death came round, might 
 be heard at midnight such disturbance as would tell the 
 manner of it to whoso had the courage to listen alone in 
 the darkness, shortly after the stroke of twelve. For 
 the truth of which story none can vouch, seeing that he 
 who has heard these sounds cannot be got to speak of 
 them, from sheer horror. 
 
 ^N'ow, this Lucinda had no fear of the ^N'un's Cellar, as 
 it was always called ; but some curiosity to see it, which 
 doubtless made her the readier to follow John Rackham's 
 horn lanthorn down the winding stair that led to it. By 
 its light she could make out that it was a spacious crypt, 
 having a good span of arched roof, with here and there 
 some moulded corbel or pendentive or scrap of sculptured 
 imagery, headless or handless, a token of the old foolish 
 faith of her forefathers, of which she took little heed; 
 or carved lettering that would have had no meaning for 
 her could she have deciphered it, being in Latin. 
 
AN AFFAIK 0]P DISHONOR 43 
 
 " So this is where the girl was murdered," said she to 
 Mr. Rackham, as he stooped to a low bin where the cob- 
 webs lay thick on the bottles, all but where some had 
 been removed of late. 
 
 The groom brought out his bottle, and stood wiping 
 the cobweb from it with his hand. He looked at the 
 mark on the cork, opening the lanthorn for more light. 
 Then, seeming satisfied, he closed it up, and answered: 
 ^' Ay — and she walks ! . . . Seen her my own self ? — 
 not I, nor heard her! But they do say she do, Candle- 
 mas night; and ye mun hear her squealin' to un to kill 
 her, for God's mercy ! There's the tale they tell, mistress. 
 I've had no hand in the making of it." He blew the 
 smoky flame out as they left the crypt below them and 
 reached daylight again, and added, as he finally closed 
 the lanthorn: ^^ It's an ugly class of tale, to my thinking." 
 It was, and Lucinda was glad to get back to the sound of 
 the birds. For the stairway opened on a side-garden, and 
 it was a step to the main entry they had come by. 
 
 A rider had come to the forecourt of the house while 
 she was absent on this matter of the wine, and she would 
 have to pass him if she entered by the front door, her 
 nearest way back. For he had entered and was speaking 
 with someone within, while his horse cropped the loo«e 
 herbage scattered here and there, grown through the 
 joints of the brick paving, or on the turf skirting on either 
 side the doorway, his reins hanging unsecured, as thons^h 
 no restraint were in his case needed. Lucinda thought 
 at first to enter by a side-door; but she knew the horse, 
 and could not pass it by without a word, and she called 
 it by name — ^^ Aeolus ! " 
 
 A mouthful of vetch was too good to lose, but the 
 beautiful creature swung his black head round to greet 
 
44 AIT AFFAIR OF DISHO:^OR 
 
 an old friend, and awaited her caress, but munching the 
 while earnestly. And, gigantic as was his head, and like 
 enough by some chance movement to shake her off un- 
 wittingly, Lucinda threw her arms about it as a lover, 
 and took the sweet breath of his nostrils without 
 shrinking. 
 
 " Aeolus, Aeolus," she cried, " I little thought to see 
 you again ... so soon ! " But the ending words were 
 an afterthought, for she would not admit the seeming of 
 her first, that they spoke of a lasting exile from her home. 
 
 At her speech the rider turned and came out, and it 
 was then she heard the voice of Sir Oliver calling aloud 
 from the landing of the great stair above. She heard her 
 own name, and knew she must go, and, indeed, her heart 
 leaped with joy within her that he should call for her at 
 last. But she could not pass the man who stood beneath 
 the porch without a word of greeting, or a pressure of the 
 hand in memory of their old days together, or a word of 
 news of her father and her old home. For he and she had 
 been nursed at the same breast, and had grown up 
 together; so much as brother and sister that neither had 
 ever thought to change that relation to another. 
 
 That which passed, passed quickly; and Lucinda after- 
 wards found it hard to recall in their order the events 
 that followed. And she could not have told them had 
 she tried. 
 
 " Roger ! " she cried, but not over-loud. " Do not look 
 so horror-stricken, for God's love ! Am I not Lucy still ? " 
 For, be it kept in mind, she still had no thought but that 
 her father was alive and well — her father, whom her 
 foster-brother, but two hours since, had left lying dead. 
 
 " Are you still Lucy ? " said he. " Then all the world 
 is wrong, and nothing is left but Death." For, having no 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 45 
 
 conception that she could still be ignorant of the morn- 
 ing's evil work, his reasoning was that she must be 
 changed, or her mind had given way ; else she could never 
 live tearless, as he saw her now, and little visibly touched 
 by grief, having, indeed, fought hard against her melan- 
 choly, to be ready with a cheerful word and a laugh when 
 Oliver should call. And there was his voice now on the 
 stair ! 
 
 " Oh, Roger, Roger ! " she said. " Kiss me still as of 
 old, and be forgiving. Have I never forgiven thee, dear 
 boy ? " For this girl was besotted with a false notion 
 that a woman's sin was but as a man's, and a thing to 
 be as lightly overlooked. Yet she lived in a day when 
 women condemned women and applauded men, even as 
 in our own. 
 
 " What is all this talk below ? Why cannot the wench 
 come when I call her ? " So Sir Oliver, impatient on the 
 stair. Whereupon the young man's breath caught up, as 
 though he might have spoken, but would not; and then 
 he closed his teeth as though he needed a help to keep 
 silence. 
 
 " I am coming, dearest Oliver — I am coming. Let me 
 have but a word with Roger, my brother. Dost thou not 
 know he is my brother ? " She tried a laugh, but it came 
 awkwardly. She could do no better, harassed as she had 
 been, and not knowing what next to doubt or fear. 
 
 ^^ Has he anything to say to me, that he comes here 
 now?" 
 
 Then the young man found his voice; but it was little 
 like the voice Lucinda remembered in the old days, and 
 it grated on her. 
 
 " I have a word to say to you. Sir Oliver, or it may be 
 two. But I would soonest say it outside, and alone." 
 
46 A^^ AFFAIE OF DISHOIJ^OR 
 
 Then Sir Oliver said : " Be it so ! But mark yon, 
 Eoger Locke, the fault has been none of mine through- 
 out ! " And in all this Lucinda could guess nothing — ^f or 
 how should she? — of her father's death, and the weight 
 on Roger's heart, and his purpose. 
 
 She went scarlet with anger and shame that Sir Oliver 
 should speak thus, as she thought, of herself and her part 
 in a drama of ill-regulated passion, that she was full of 
 willingness to accept her share of blame for, but no more. 
 Yet so loyal was she to her love that she choked back 
 resentful speech, but broke into passionate tears, crying: 
 ^^ Yes — the fault has been mine — been mine — ^been mine ! '' 
 and fell, hiding her head on the cushion of a great settee, 
 or couch, that had stood in the entry since the days of 
 Sir Oliver's mother. 
 
 It seemed then to go thus, but Lucinda did not see how 
 it came about. Sir Oliver comes storming down the stairs 
 in half-undress, and is faced in the lower hall by the 
 young man, mad with the knowledge of the day's mur- 
 der — for so he counted it — and wroth that Lucinda, 
 whom he thought to know all, should bear her father's 
 death in such seeming calm, all her thought dwelling on 
 her own misdeed. And this wrath burst out past all rea- 
 son or control when there before his eyes was the mur- 
 derer, face to face. Thereupon he, Roger Locke, cries 
 out upon him for the miscreant he is. " Thou damnedest 
 scoundrel, darest thou answer for thy crime to a man that 
 is thy proper match ? " 
 
 To whom Oliver answers : " Thou art a stripling, Roger 
 Locke, but thy whim shall be met. Here and now, or 
 later ? " The young man makes no other answer than to 
 dash the leather riding-glove he draws off full in the face 
 of his opponent 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHO^'OK 47! 
 
 Then Lucinda starts up from her sofa, and flings her 
 arms round Sir Oliver, crying out to him not to add 
 murder to his other delicts. But he will none of her 
 obstacle-making, and all but strikes her from him — 
 would have done so but for some change that has seized 
 him. His colour goes, and his face is drawn awry, and 
 his eyes vanish beneath the lids, leaving the whites they 
 stint of closing over, and from his lips again comes the 
 awful cry she dreads, as he falls headlong forward, 
 foaming at the mouth. 
 
 Thereon the young man thrusts back in the scabbard 
 his half-drawn sword. " Lucy — Lucy ! '' he cries. " It 
 is God's judgment. Leave him, and come away." 
 
 But she, kneeling by the man whose vile deed has made 
 her his own, caresses his evil head as the convulsion rends 
 him, and the blood comes again from his lips. " Begone 
 yourself, Roger ! " she cries, an agony of anger in her 
 voice. " Begone yourself ! Would you tempt me to 
 desert him now, in his hour of tribulation? Go! — ^go! — r 
 I beg of you to go, and leave me to do what may be done. 
 Oh, Roger, go! You do me no kindness by remaining.'' 
 And there is such force of heartfelt appeal in her voice 
 that the young man does her bidding in silence, and hears 
 as he leaves the house the hurry of servants hastening to 
 help. 
 
 Thus it came about that he rode away under the 
 shadow of a belief that Lucy, whom he had loved well in 
 his own way from childhood, and counted as a sister, 
 was so changed and hardened by her own sin, and the 
 company of the reprobates she now dwelt among, that 
 her love for her old home was dead, and her father's 
 memory no more than a name. Also, that she herself 
 conceived the idea that all those she once loved had now: 
 
48 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 withdrawn from her, and thought only of avenging the 
 dishonor done through her to their family name. All 
 the more, she swore to herself now, that her plain duty 
 lay in devotion to the man whom she looked on as her 
 husband in all but form, as his pledge to her was to 
 become so if by good fortune he should obtain relief from 
 a lawful wife whom he hated, and who returned his hate. 
 But she never dreamed that he had slain her father. 
 And he, for his part, when he came back slowly to con- 
 sciousness, thought rather of how he should conceal the 
 truth from her than of the words in which he shoul4 
 confess his crime. For his plan was to keep her in igno- 
 rance until he should himself know for certain whether 
 he was to be publicly denounced as his opponent's slayer, 
 or whether the one or two who had witnessed the duel 
 would keep their counsel, and the matter be forgotten by 
 the world — as, strange to say, was not uncommonly the 
 case in like matters in those days, so lightly did men 
 hold by life and death. 
 
 Sir Oliver had little need to feel uneasy about his 
 liability for murder, or manslaughter, under a rule of law 
 seldom operative against the survivor of a duel to the 
 death. For the noble old faith that God would see fairly 
 that the man in the wrong was slain — the old confidence 
 in the Ordeal of Battle, fought in appeal to His inexorable 
 Justice — had survived the primitive belief in God Him- 
 self. But even if the usages of that day had countenanced 
 vigorous action against the successful duellist, until time 
 had been allowed for a fair start for the nearest French 
 port, who was there in this case to take such action ? 
 The Sheriff you will say, of course ! Sir Oliver was safe 
 enough there. He was the Sheriff himself. 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 49 
 
 So if the villagers who made up the congregation of 
 the little church buried in the trees, that almost jostled 
 the windows of Croxley Hall, had known three mornings 
 later — for this affair was fought out of a Thursday in 
 mid-June — that Mr. Mauleverer of the Old Hall had been 
 killed in a duel, they would have ascribed the lack of 
 further news that his opponent had been apprehended by 
 the officers of Justice to the fact that, on that very 
 Thursday morning, their Sir Oliver (on whom action 
 w^ould have devolved) had been struck down an hour or 
 so since by an attack of epilepsy. For that news went 
 abroad without reserve — Rackham the groom took good 
 care of that; and each time he told the tale he made the 
 return from a gallop over the turf before breakfast fall 
 earlier, to serve the turn of any lies he might tell later. 
 But even if the whole tale had come out, and thereto the 
 ancestral pew of the Raydons had not stood empty that 
 Sunday morning, the other folk in Church would have 
 troubled but little about the results of one duel more 
 or less. . 
 
CHAPTEE ly 
 
 That summer was remembered long after for its many 
 thunderstorms, and that day was the day of the greatest 
 these islands had experienced within the memory of 
 men then living. But, except for the heat, men had 
 little to complain of in the early part of it, there being 
 no sign of a change till some three hours after midday, 
 when any man who was keen to watch the zenith might 
 have seen a hurlyburly and turmoil of the lesser clouds, 
 floating hither and thither, and swirling about, each one 
 seeming to give chase to its fellow. And from every 
 quarter of the heavens came mutterings of thunder, so 
 that none could say whence would come the first lightning- 
 flash. Then, before ever a single raindrop could be felt, 
 all who were wise in time bestirred themselves to fly for 
 home, to make all windows fast against the coming down- 
 pour. Then he who, high up on the hill-side, looked out 
 across the plain, might see a horseman here and there, 
 alone or with a wench pillioned behind, sparing neither 
 whip nor spur to get with all the speed he might to shelter. 
 Or cattle, smitten with some strange apprehension, bred of 
 foreknowledge of the matter brewing, rushing hither and 
 thitherward in a sort of frenzy, and bellowing till it was 
 pitiful to hear them. And here and there a careful herds- 
 man, judging his beasts would be safest in byre, and 
 sorely put to it to get them under cover in time. 
 
 But this storm took its course as it would, and there 
 was no such need for haste, as it turned out. For it was 
 
 60 
 
AN AFFAIR 0*F DISHONOR 51 
 
 many hours before a drop of rain fell, though through all 
 that interval low peals of thunder were answering each 
 other from cloud to cloud, and telling of the coming time 
 when they should he let loose and have their will. And 
 then a great black wall that had hidden the sun grew 
 blacker still, and spread over the whole land, bringing 
 such swift successions of lightning-flash that good eyes 
 could read by its aid any fair printer's type and scarcely 
 hesitate; and then the great plash-drops of rain came, 
 and the storm grew and grew, till well upon midnight, 
 and raged with such fury that women — ay, and some 
 men, too! — were found timid enough to hide away in 
 cellars that they might not be blinded by the dazzling 
 flashes, nor their hearts made to quake at the appalling 
 thunderclaps. 
 
 Such was that storm which, coming as it did, set 
 Lucinda clinging to the hope that this malady of Sir 
 Oliver was due to the oppression of its gathering only, 
 and would vanish with the perturbations of the atmos- 
 phere. For his part, he must have known but little of 
 its violence ; for after his second fit he fell into a kind of 
 torpor, which lasted on throughout that night and the 
 whole of next day. Of which unconsciousness Lucinda 
 took this advantage, that she watched by his side, he 
 being always insensible of her presence, instead of ab- 
 senting herself any longer from his roof, and imperiously 
 bade John Rackham begone and leave the patient to her 
 care. Which bidding he for his part thought it safest to 
 obey. 
 
 But this torpor had its share in deciding the future of 
 Lucinda. For when Sir Oliver's attack had left him in 
 this condition, and she sat by him as he lay on the bed 
 he had been removed to — that very bed from which he 
 
52 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 had risen to slay her father — or snatched such sleep as 
 she might on a couch near, she was taken with a singular 
 hallucination of her father's voice calling to her. " Lucy 
 — Lucy ! " and was so influenced by it that she schemed 
 forthwith to ride over to her old home, and pray on her 
 knees for his forgiveness, and seek to convince him that 
 constancy to her lover would now be no sin, but rather 
 the reverse, seeing his helpless plight in this disastrous 
 illness that had befallen him. She would do most wisely, 
 so she thought to herself, to go next day after sundown, 
 while it was still safe for a woman to ride alone, and to 
 reach the Old Hall before nightfall. For though her 
 Aunts Araminta and Elsie were there, they would scruple 
 to turn her out of doors to make her way back at night 
 unaccompanied, and could she but live in her old home 
 for a few hours, she would bring her father to her way 
 of thinking. 
 
 But from this purpose she was turned by the sudden 
 outbreak of the storm. For she was already mounting 
 her horse to ride without escort through the twilight 
 when it burst overhead. Whereupon she, thinking from 
 its violence it might be a short passing tempest, such as 
 had been so many times that summer, remained awhile; 
 and then, seeing its fury and persistence, gave up her 
 intention for that night, but looked to carry it out the 
 following morning; the more readily that her night of 
 unrest had unfitted her for action of any sort. 
 
 She had much ado to bring herself to lie down to sleep, 
 for the heavy breathing of her bedfellow was a terror to 
 her. And when a slow subsidence of its stertorousness 
 left it more sweet and regular, and she had overcome the 
 worst of her repugnance, and crept into the bed as far as 
 might be from its object, she fancied at first that she and 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOXOE 63 
 
 sleep must be strangers to one another for that night. 
 For it was hard to tell which was the worse lullaby — the 
 wind and rain, or the thunderclaps that came to shake 
 the house, each getting swiftly away into other lands, to 
 give place to a successor that had even more to say, and 
 said it louder. She could only bury her eyes from the 
 glare beneath the thickness of the coverlid, and now and 
 then look forth to see the lightning pierce the shutter- 
 joints, and square them out in dazzling lines. And then 
 to shrink back terrified, and picture to herself the ruined 
 garden she would have to see when the storm had done 
 its worst. 
 
 Thus she lay, wide awake, yet barely moving, and 
 holding her ears to keep out the noises, until — it might 
 be about four in the morning — there came a sudden pos- 
 sibility of sleep, then sleep itself; as a guest we watch for 
 at the portal enters unawares by some postern, and 
 touches us, for a sign of his presence. And then Lucinda, 
 rescued from herself, dreamed in Paradise, with the 
 world gone from her. 
 
 How long, who can say? — that is, if those are right 
 who contend that dreams hang about the Palace of Sleep 
 on either side, exit or entrance, but are not allowed in 
 beyond the forecourts. To her own thinking, the dream 
 she woke on had lasted many days, when a voice without 
 mixed into one within it, and she started up to find the 
 day well on, the storm at rest, and — oh, joy! — her lover 
 dressed as though he purposed to go out riding as usual, 
 and not to any seeming the worse for his double attack 
 of the falling sickness. And it was his voice that she 
 had heard in her dream, and she heard it now, but some- 
 what thick of speech, his bitten tongue being, as it were, 
 the only record of his malady. Otherwise, he spoke like 
 
54 AN AFFAIR OF DISHOISTOR 
 
 enough to himself — the self of their colloquy of forty- 
 eight hours since in the garden below the terrace. 
 
 " The beauty of Lucinda will be the greater that she 
 hath outslept the foul weather, and awaited the greeting 
 of the sunshine. What did you dream, mistress mine, 
 that your eyes should not smile upon the daylight, though 
 only for an hour ? " His words were full of the artificial 
 warmth which had ceased to please; but better that than 
 sullenness, with no apparent cause. It was enough that 
 he was himself again. 
 
 " I was dreaming a happy dream, sweetheart, when 
 your dear voice woke me. Shall I tell it you ? " 
 
 " So it be not another marriage to the hangman, and 
 twins. ..." 
 
 She interrupted him, making believe to strike him, 
 jestingly : " Silly Oliver 1 Did I not say this was a 
 happy dream ? What happiness would my darling Amy's 
 have been, wedded to her hangman ? " 
 
 " Great joy, belike, wise Lucy ! A man and his calling 
 are twain. Even if he was a bad hangman, he may have 
 made a good lover. Except he had had to hang an old 
 flame of hers, and hanged him ill. She might have sought 
 to be put asunder from him for that. But tell me thine 
 own dreams, my Lucy." 
 
 "Mine own dream in mine own time, good plague 
 Oliver! Get you gone now, while I dress. If I forget 
 not the dream, it shall be told you at breakfast." She 
 seized on the rich black hair he was caressing, dragging 
 it from him, and again bade him begone. 
 
 This morning was no time for breakfast under the cedar- 
 trees. For all the underfoot, where grass grew, was no 
 better than a sponge. And news had come that the 
 Abbey meadows, beyond the Park, were all under water; 
 
AN AFFAIE 01" DISH0:N^0R 65 
 
 and the hill the Old Hall stood on seemed a distant 
 island in the sea, and the Abbey on the shore thereof, 
 close down to the water^s edge. News came, too, of 
 farmsteads washed bodily away, and their tenantry 
 homeless; of giant trees stripped of leaf and bough, or 
 blown down outright, or cleft by the lightning. And of 
 one great oak, near the New Hall, in Sir Oliver's own 
 Park, simply riven to small shreds by a thunderbolt, 
 that had fired a hayrick near by ; but the torrents of rain 
 quenched the flames, and left it smoking, as might be 
 seen from the windows that looked over the lawn to the 
 Park. And there Lucinda, joining Sir Oliver at the 
 breakfast-table, could smell the burning hay, and feel 
 her eyes smart from the stinging of its fumes. Then she 
 thought of the uncut grass in the Abbey meadows, and 
 spoke of it to Sir Oliver. 
 
 He grinned a little, but as one in pain, for the damage 
 done to his mouth had left it sore. ^' There will be but 
 little more hay cut this year in the Abbey Meadows," 
 said he, meaning thereby that there would be none. 
 Then he added : " But what is to be thought on is the 
 ground for riding, r We shall see by noon.'' Then, as 
 one who casts away careful thoughts, and would turn to 
 trifling: "What was thy notable dream that was to be 
 told me, sweet Lucinda mine ? Tell it me now, and leave 
 the floods to dry as they may." 
 
 She, giving way to him in all things, asked nothing of 
 what riding he spoke of, but set about to tell her dream. 
 (Which, when she began it, seemed to come to little or 
 nothing as a story, however sweet its memory might 
 be in the mind of the teller. For what was it after all 
 but a jumble of recollections of all the Yuletides of her 
 youth, and all the games and festivities and gatherings 
 
66 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 that made the Old Hall famous in those days. But, 
 as might easily be, the dreamer's memory had not served 
 to separate the dead from the living. So that all she 
 had ever known were there present. She found Sir 
 Oliver somewhat hard against the telling of it, or as one 
 who humours a child — chilling, as it were, her joy in the 
 life and warmth of the dreamworld. But he relaxed a 
 little of this when she came to tell him of how it all 
 ended; how in the midst of a dance it came upon her 
 that no one in the dream saw her nor spoke to her, and 
 had not done so since this dream began, which seemed a 
 matter of days, though how Lucinda knew not. And 
 it got to the worst plight for her when she could make 
 none of them feel nor hear; when she kissed the woman- 
 kind and they heeded her not, and played notes upon her 
 sister Amy^s virginal even while Amy^s own hands were 
 on the keys, and yet none took note of it, nor protested. 
 And last of all, her father was calling to her, "Lucy! — 
 where is Lucy 1 " and she all the while close to hand, 
 unheard and unseen. And then the voice of Sir Oliver 
 crossed his in the dream, and she waked, as already 
 told. 
 
 But Lucinda could not guess, neither can we, why 
 Sir Oliver's slight impatience of her dream should vanish 
 when it grew to sheer nonsense. Yet it was so, and be 
 laughed quite good-humouredly when she told of the 
 keys of the virginal, though he said but little of her 
 father's calling unheeded. Indeed, he balked her words 
 curtly at the end of her tale, saying it was now time to 
 speak of their journey. Whereupon says she, " What 
 journey, Oliver mine f I know of no journey." 
 
 " Because I have not told of it, thou fairest of wenches ! 
 I tell thee now, that thou mayst know it. An hour 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISIIONOK 57 
 
 before noon we start to ride for Kips Manor, and your 
 woman Anstiss will do well to have the packing of your 
 wardrobe ready, as I told her, else she may find service 
 with another master as soon as she likes." 
 
 '^ The packing of my wardrobe ! And where is Kips 
 Manor, that I never heard of it in my life, and why 
 should we ride there ? " Then it crossed her mind what 
 the crabbed old medico — whom she could not but trust 
 a little, for all his pomposity — had said about yielding 
 to Sir Oliver's least whim. So she said, as though on a 
 second thought : '^ Yet why should we not ? I will go 
 joyfully, for my part, sweet Oliver mine, wherever you 
 would have me go, so long as I may be beside thee. 
 Which of our household do you mean to have to ride with 
 us ? " But her pleasure was affected, for the news of this 
 journey was unwelcome enough, seeing that it would carry 
 her still farther away from her old home. 
 
 Sir Oliver's laugh was not all secret, but came out in 
 his voice as he replied : " Never a wench of them all, my 
 Lucy, and no man neither, all but John Rackham, and 
 young Kenneth, may be, to bring back the horses. He is 
 but a boy, and no man. But fear nothing for thyself, my 
 girl; you will find a tirewoman, I promise you, and a 
 rare one, at Kips Manor, though there is not another 
 that I know nearer than King's Crawley, nine miles away ; 
 and she belongs to a Duchess, who would not spare her 
 on a light pretext. For the journey there, it is but a 
 three days' ride, and thine own hands may even do at 
 shift for so short a time." 
 
 She answered with a willing acquiescence, saying 
 jestingly: "John Rackham must clear the powder from 
 my hair, if my lord is too lazy for the task." But, indeed, 
 hair-powder was hateful to Lucinda, and in no case, 
 
58 AN AFFAIK OF DISH0:N^0R 
 
 except for some great gala, would she easily consent to 
 the use of it. So she felt the separation from Rachel 
 Anstiss but little, and all the less for her small eyes and 
 large teeth, which she had no love for. 
 
 But what was Kips Manor, and where? Sir Oliver 
 was not slow to tell something of this Manor House she 
 had never heard of, of which he was lord. It lay in the 
 flat country out towards the sea, and the town nearest 
 to it was named strangely to Lucinda's ears, so that she 
 easily forgot it, which might not have been had she ever 
 heard spoken the name of the Saint it was called from. 
 But her youth had heard little of the calendar of Saints; 
 and her desire now was to know what kind of a house 
 was this Manor of Kips, and Sir Oliver was ready enough 
 to answer her. It was an old house, with a four-square 
 wall and a moat of brackish water, kept salt by the sea- 
 springs from below, working through a porous soil of 
 shingle and gravel, whenever there came a spring-tide 
 rising more than common high. Which under-working 
 of the sea-tides had also made all the wells brackish, 
 and unfit to drink, or for any purpose but cooking fish 
 or sousing meat for junk. Also for this cause, and the 
 sea-winds charged with spray, no garden-growth was 
 possible, and nothing grew but tamarisk, or toad-grass, 
 where once were rose and lily in abundance. Then 
 what brought about the change? asked Lucinda. Just 
 a freak of Father E^eptune, said Sir Oliver. For one day 
 the sea, that had never reached at the highest nearer the 
 house than three miles, must needs overrun two miles of 
 meadow that of right belonged to his manor, and now 
 remained, giving no ear to any claim for foreshores from 
 their dispossessed owners. And at the lowest limit of 
 the tides of the full and new moon might be seen, where 
 
AlSr AFFAIE OF DISH0:N^0K 59 
 
 once a village had stood, some remains of a church and 
 almonry, of which the dues were still claimed and enjoyed 
 by successive incumbents, coming once in the year to 
 read prayers and begone, but from a boat if the tide 
 were not low enough. One of whom having been swept 
 out to sea by a fierce land wind, and no more heard of, 
 this duty had ever since been done by a curate. 
 
 But how came it that no one lived in this house now? 
 Because, said Sir Oliver, the house was now no different 
 from what any house would be if it were built in a place 
 where none had asked for it. Once it stood near a small 
 port, with a fishing population and pasturage for cattle 
 round about. !N^ow it was little better than a salt marsh, 
 though there were still a few fisher-folk scattered along 
 the shore, and the house a five-mile ride from the nearest 
 hamlet, and not so much as a homestead left on the land 
 poisoned with the salt. That was quite enough, to his 
 thinking, without a curse, to account for why the house 
 should be tenantless. But what did Sir Oliver mean, 
 asked Lucinda, by that word, " without a curse " ? 
 
 " Why, thus," said he — " gossips tell this tale, at 
 least — that a curse — ^whatever that may be — was spoken 
 upon the house by an ill-wisher, and the spell laid upon 
 it that no drop of rain should fall on it, even though the 
 land about were under flood." 
 
 ^^ But does no rain fall there, then ? " asked Lucinda. 
 
 " Simple Lucinda ! " said Sir Oliver. " It rains at 
 Kips just as it rains elsewhere, and to him who drinks 
 no water, roof-water and well-water are welcome alike. 
 I would wager — but I should find none to take my wager, 
 though I backed it with a round sum — that we shall find 
 every tank and water-butt full to brimming over, and 
 old Madge Hatsell, who keeps house year to year, never 
 
60 AN AFFAIK OF DISHOXOK 
 
 budging outside the gate, ready to swear this is the first 
 time a drop has fallen on the roof since the days of my 
 ancestress, Jean Kaydon, who is held answerable by the 
 tellers of the story for the curse, as well as for many 
 another drawback to the charms of the neighbourhood.'' 
 Sir Oliver held on talking in this slight way, and Lucinda 
 listened, happy to find him cheerful and ready for con- 
 verse, and indeed accepting it all as a token that the 
 whole attack had been caused by the conditions of 
 oppressive heat of the days before, and would now die 
 down and — please God ! — never reappear. 
 
 But the truth was, had she known it, that his amenity 
 was bred of a cunning intent to keep her still in ignorance 
 of her father's death, until all should be in train for their 
 departure to this lonely house in the flats. For now, the 
 storm being over, and the ways less foul hour by hour, 
 folk could be heard coming and going betwixt the Hall 
 and the village, and any of these might chance to be 
 the bearer of the news; and this although the flood had 
 stopped all trafficking for the time between those on 
 either side of it. So long as Sir Oliver held her by his 
 talk, dwelling on this new excursion without giving rea- 
 son for it, there was little chance of her hearing the story 
 of that fatal morning; which news, as time went on, he 
 felt less and less inclination to be the bearer of himself. 
 
 Therefore the talk ran on. Sir Oliver telling some- 
 what more of the legend of the curse on Kips Manor — 
 which tale has no concern for this story, so no pause need 
 be made for it — until, to Lucinda's great surprise, the 
 woman Eachel Anstiss suddenly appeared with the 
 announcement that her mistress's riding-gear awaited 
 her, and that the clothes she had been bidden to pack 
 were also ready. Whereat, though Lucinda felt some- 
 
a:n" affaik of disho:n"Oii ei 
 
 what nettled at this abrupt and masterful treatment, 
 more the due of a child than a grown woman, she — 
 always bearing in mind the injunction of Dr. Phinehas to* 
 oppose Sir Oliver in nothing — gave her assent with only a 
 slight protest; and indeed, being young and full of life, 
 was ready enough to adventure on a new journey. For 
 who could say but it might prove eventful, and at least 
 have interest and excitement in the mere change of 
 scene and arrival at a house so strange and strangely 
 skuate as this one Sir Oliver had described to her. But 
 she would not consent to start except she first wrote a 
 letter to her father, so that he might know of her where- 
 abouts in any case. For she never believed in her heart 
 that the separation between them would be final, build- 
 ing always on the idea that some lucky chance would 
 leave Sir Oliver free to wed, and never doubting he would 
 do so at the first possibility, come what might ! 
 
 The unhappy misconstruction of thought and motive- 
 between herself and her foster-brother, Eoger Locke, had 
 made her apprehensive lest she might be oversanguine 
 in this hopeful view of the case. Was it possible that 
 her lawlessness had proved unpardonable in her father's 
 eyes? Was it the knowledge that this was all the 
 message he could bring to his sister that had hardened 
 Koger's heart against her, and set his face and made his 
 speech cut through her like a knife? 'No — no! — it was 
 nothing but the boy's harsh mis judgment of her dear 
 love, that would have ended in bloodshed; but that, by 
 God's mercy, a thing less hard to bear, though cruel 
 enough, had come between to stop it. Yet the more 
 her mind misgave her of her father's bias against herself, 
 the more resolved she was to let no chance slip to bring 
 him into touch with her again. So she went to her room. 
 
62 'AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 — Sir Oliver, mind you, made sure she did not go about 
 the house — and wrote him a long letter, praying again 
 for his forgiveness, free of the condition she had neither 
 will nor heart to comply with — that of leaving her life 
 of open sin and returning to her home. For that is how 
 he had written to her, saying all might be forgiven; 
 and for his part, could Sir Oliver free himself of his law- 
 ful bond of matrimony, he would receive him as his son 
 as though nothing had happened, villain and traitor as he 
 held him to be. But for a persistence in wrong-doing, 
 which he called hard names enough, as was the fashion 
 in those days, he would none of it. Against all which 
 this letter she wrote him, as he lay dead, was a plea and 
 a protest ; and she was well an hour writing it, sometimes 
 not able to see her words for her tears. 
 
 But that letter never reached the Old Hall. Sir Oliver 
 took good care of that, bearing it away himself with a 
 promise it should go at the earliest, and locking it in a 
 private drawer, in case on his return it should prove of 
 value towards some scheme of his own for ill. For he 
 knew of none other. After which he hastened back to 
 the girl, who was making ready to ride, and escorted her 
 with much show of courtesy to where the horses awaited 
 them; to wit, their own and John Rackham's, and 
 another for the undergroom in charge of two stout nags 
 with pack-saddles, such as one may still see even now 
 in all roadless districts, where no cart or coach may safely 
 pass. And at the saddle-bow of each of the men were 
 great holster pistols for defence. 
 
 This was the way which all young and strong people 
 chose for travelling in the days of this story. For though 
 our forefathers had then used coaches for two generations, 
 and one or two stage-coaches were already running — as 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 63 
 
 between London and Edinburgh — yet these were so 
 cumbrous and heavy and even the main roads so bad that 
 none who could back a horse would endure the jerk and 
 shaking of coach-wheels, which were not even furnished, 
 as now, with suspenders or springs, but on a rigid axle. 
 So that old folk and invalids had much ado to travel at 
 all. And though there was this great advantage, that 
 they were kept in one spot, and unable to move from 
 place to place, in a manner unsettling to themselves and 
 all their belongings, yet when it was matter of life or 
 death to get quickly — for example, from London to 
 Edinboro', as may now be done easily in six days — it was 
 ill for him that was no equestrian. For unless he could 
 cover the distance afoot, he had no choice but to ride with 
 the mail service or in a cart or waggon, going maybe at 
 a speed of five miles an hour at most, over roads often 
 impassable from water, and infested with outlaws and 
 thieves of every sort. So that such slow-going vehicles 
 as these dared not pass through a lonely district without 
 a sufficient armed escort. And even then there was never 
 security that the men engaged in this service would not 
 themselves be in league with malefactors, either turning 
 boldly to ransack the pockets and portmanteaus they had 
 undertaken to protect, or turning tail by arrangement at 
 the approach of accomplices, not to lose the chance of 
 profiting in a like way again. But from such as these 
 Sir Oliver's party had not much to fear, being well armed 
 for resistance; besides not carrying with them goods of 
 value, such as would be thought by marauders to justify; 
 the risk of encountering them. 
 
 The journey to Kips Manor was all but a four days' 
 ride, though had there been no woman of the party a 
 few hours might have been saved, at some cost in 
 
64 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 
 
 fatigue to horse and rider. As it was, the last day was 
 very fatiguing to Lucinda ; for they slept under a roof 
 on the three first nights only, and on this last night lay 
 out on the fern and bracken of an open heath, as gipsies 
 camp even nowadays by the roadside. But though she 
 enjoyed the strangeness and novelty of this free life — 
 for a summer night beneath the moon and stars is no tax 
 on endurance, but rather a luxury — still, .the very new- 
 ness of it all stood between her and sleep. And when 
 they made ready for a start in the early morning, an 
 hour after dawn, this weariness made itself felt of a 
 sudden; and never was a woman gladder at heart than 
 she when Sir Oliver, riding at her side along an upland 
 of smooth pastures skirting a wide plain, said to her 
 that its far horizon was the sea, that could be seen were 
 it not for the mist. But the mist would clear as the sun 
 mounted in the heavens. And when it did so, the gables 
 of the old Manor House stood up above it, and it had 
 the look of a lake or flood rising as high as the dormer 
 windows of the roof. Then came the sun in greater 
 strength, and the mist fell away, and Lucinda rejoiced 
 to see how close at hand the house really was. 
 
 But there was still ground to cover, and at the end of 
 it what seemed best to Lucinda was to drink a cup of 
 milk and lie down; closing door and window, and making 
 it night — or the nearest that might be, with the sounds 
 of the daytime without to testify against it. 
 
 It would be hard to say which weighed most \\jith Sir 
 Oliver in this sudden resolution to withdraw Lucinda 
 from possible communication with her family — ^whether 
 his repugnance to speaking of her father's death to her, 
 or his dread that she should hear of it from someone 
 else. Had he been weary of her, he would not have 
 
AlSr AFFAIK Of DISHONOR 65 
 
 cared a straw — so, at least, he reasoned with himself — 
 where or when or how she came to the knowledge of it. 
 But just for now — perhaps for a few months if all went 
 well — he would not have Lucinda hate him. She would 
 discard her father^s murderer; and lie wanted to discard 
 her, and to choose his time, as a nobleman might then 
 do without blame — nay, may do still, for that matter, 
 not only without shame or remorse, but even with some 
 sense of plume or strut, as for pride of an achievement 
 done. And what could serve his ends better than a couple 
 of months at Kips Manor, where no one would ever follow 
 them ; and where, be sure, if one did, he need never see 
 the inside of the great boundary wall, except he climbed 
 it at night. And in that case, were there not the blood- 
 hounds, bred from the pair his father had brought home 
 from Cuba? He would see to it that they were loosed 
 at night. But at this thought the guilty man broke into 
 a vexed laugh at the restlessness of his own conscience. 
 Fancy begging and borrowing that trouble! Fancy 
 dreaming for a moment that any living creature would 
 ride to Kips Manor to tell a piece of news all would be- 
 lieve to be Well known there already! All, that is to say, 
 who knew of this visit of his to the old house, and of his 
 reason for going there. 
 
 This disturbing thought had found him alone, as he 
 paced to and fro after a repast Lucinda had not shared, 
 she having begged to be left undisturbed, even though 
 she slept the day out. If he got quit of it, it was less 
 that he succeeded in laughing himself out of his absurdity 
 than that another worse than itself came to oust it. He 
 had lighted his pipe filled with the strong Virginian 
 tobacco that was in those days the smoker's only resource. 
 And now the sting of the smoke was painful to his bitten 
 
66 'a:n affaik of disho:n^or 
 
 tongue, that was slow to heal of itself, and the worse that 
 they had fared somewhat roughly on the journey, though 
 their food had been wholesome enough in itself. It 
 brought him to the question: — Why must this accursed 
 malady come on him just now, of all times? Had he 
 ever experienced a symptom of the like before? Never, 
 in his memory; that he could swear to! But was there 
 no nurse's tale he could recall? Had his mother told 
 him nothing? . . . 
 
 There — at the word ! Again that hideous dream of the 
 morning of the duel! Could he never shake free from 
 it? — would this go on for ever? Was he always to be 
 the dupe and slave of his own illusions? 
 
 Then followed one of those strange phases of mind we 
 all knew so well, in which all that is around us seems to 
 have been there before, at some time we cannot fix, try 
 how we may. All men seem to know of this freak of 
 perception, but none to find a pleasure in it, if we may 
 judge by the common speech of those who have experi- 
 enced it. Sir Oliver very surely found none, but rather 
 the pain some say is always present in the mind of de- 
 mented folk. And this all the more that the thing 
 seemed to connect itself with that ugly dream of his, and 
 both with that pause in the duel when the seconds had 
 spoken a moment apart. He knew not which of the three 
 he was thinking of. 
 
 But it passed away in a moment — the whole phantasy! 
 Yet it left behind it a disposition on Sir Oliver's part to 
 allow ideas he would at another time have condemned 
 as mere draff and superstition to take possession of his 
 mind. How if there were truth in the legends of men 
 possessed by evil spirits, whose outward symptoms seemed 
 so disastrously like his own, as Lucinda had described 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 67i 
 
 it to him? Had we not assurance of Holj Writ that 
 demoniacs were so possessed, and that the fiend had been 
 cast out by our Lord Himself, and even by others less 
 than He, whose power might not compare with His ? For 
 this Oliver had been well grounded in his youth in all 
 that was needful for the practice of his ancestors' faith, 
 though, indeed, that faith had only been of service to him 
 thus far, that had he not known it he had been at a sore 
 strait for blasphemy — a thing congenial to him, and very 
 essential to his bearing as a man of fashion. But here 
 in this lonely garden, with no gay companions for inter- 
 change of wit, he fell a prey to nervous and unruly fan- 
 cies ; and the more he dwelt upon and brooded over them 
 the worse they grew, till he was half-minded to go to 
 Lucinda's room, and rouse her, and make her come forth 
 and be merry to please him. But he refrained, wishing 
 her to be at her best when darkness came. For this was 
 the way he treated women, doing all he might, without 
 overmuch trouble to himself, to keep them cheerful, bril- 
 liant, and beautiful, for his own sake. In doing which he 
 no doubt studied in a sense their happiness, just as it 
 might be said that he studied also the happiness of his 
 horse. But when at last his horse failed him, or got 
 spavin or wind-gall, or broke his knees, he would turn 
 him forth to the knacker without remorse, unless he 
 thought there was still service in him for farm-work, or 
 cart, or dray. And the like held good, in its degree, when 
 women were in question, and no lesser beasts of burden. 
 
 So he hung about chafing and finding fault with the 
 old woman, Madge Hatsell, who had charge of the house 
 in his absence, and who, having been nowise prepared for 
 his coming, had been hard put to it to make a show of any 
 reception for Lucinda. But her master rated her soundly; 
 
68 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 
 
 — although, indeed, her success, considering the circum- 
 stances, deserved rather praise than blame — saying it was 
 her duty to keep the house in constant readiness for occu- 
 pation, and that he looked to find it so even if he should 
 come unexpectedly at midnight. It may be this injustice 
 was of small importance, seeing the old woman was all 
 but stone-deaf — at least, seemed well able to affect deaf- 
 ness, if she were not. 
 
 The household, on their arrival, was at its fewest — ^in 
 fact, there was no one in the house but this old woman, 
 a girl, and a gardener. Other servants were at hand, 
 though not in the near neighbourhood, having to be 
 summoned from distances of three or four miles or more 
 to make up such a retinue as becomes a gentleman's 
 house in the country; but these were wanted only during 
 the occasional visits of Sir Oliver, the house being at 
 other times unused. It was not from want of will to 
 have it tenanted, " and bringing a good rent, that Sir 
 Oliver Lad acquiesced in its present condition, he having, 
 as well as his father before him, sought to find an occupant. 
 But one would not close his bargain for one reason, 
 another for another. For one it was too large, for 
 another too low down. Another would have it built 
 with the side now to the east looking to the south, and 
 yet another, who would not at the last moment sign a 
 lease that had been prepared with much disputation, 
 having deferred his signature till he had made trial of 
 the house by living in it for a week, decided that the 
 easterly wind off the sea blew too strong o' nights, and 
 no sleep could be in it for the howling thereof and the 
 sound of waves confronted by a long breastwork of 
 shingle less than a mile away. Also, he made complaint 
 of certain birds that would not be content to fly across 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 69 
 
 the flats without a strange cry that gave him discomfort, 
 as he judged it by the sound to betoken pain. Which 
 made Lucinda wonder how folk can differ so in their 
 conceits of this and that, for this same cry became so 
 great a joy to her ears that she would listen for it in the 
 solitude, and was ill-pleased that Sir Oliver had not the 
 same love for it, calling it a tuneless screech, and the bird 
 a sea-cob, and condemning it as useless for food, except 
 it were for the eggs. But it was otherwise with the 
 little terns, or sea-swallows, that were plentiful on these 
 coasts, for the flesh of these he accounted a delicacy. 
 
CHAPTEE V 
 
 In those days the General Post Office had but recently 
 been established, and its operations were confined to the 
 delivery of letters in market-towns at the most. Those 
 who dwelt in remote villages, or, worse still, in isolated 
 houses, very far from any town, like Kips Manor, could 
 only hope to receive letters by special messenger, unless 
 they expected nothing better than the slow delivery by 
 carriers, whose cumbrous waggons crawled from village 
 to village over roads that often proved impassable from 
 stress of weather, even in the summer months causing 
 delay of days, or even weeks. Sometimes, however, in 
 case of such extreme delay, a horseman would be found 
 who for a prospect of reward would carry the lighter mails 
 on and deliver them at places off the route or at known 
 houses of call by the way. 
 
 At the end of the third week of her life at Kips Manor 
 Lucinda began to watch for a letter from her father, and 
 to wonder none came. Surely, she thought, her fault — 
 grievous as she was ready to think it — ^was not such that 
 it should cancel all love of a father such as hers for any 
 daughter, however much she were to blame. And see! 
 — she had loved him well. Was it not so? ^o — it was 
 impossible that he should not write — ^mere silence would 
 be cruel. She could not believe, try how she might, that 
 that letter of hers could remain unanswered. And yet — 
 no answer came ! 
 
 So long as the shortness of the time forbade any answer 
 but one borne by a special messenger, she was at peace; 
 
 70 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOE 71 
 
 even more so that the distance between them had marked 
 out a period in which no letter could come, miracle apart. 
 But when this time had lapsed, and thereto such as might 
 reasonably have been needed for a letter to reach her 
 through the existing channels of communication, her 
 restlessness grew and grew. And though she knew how 
 ill it would be for her to give offence to the man on 
 whom she knew herself to be so terribly dependent, yet 
 she must either risk speech with him about this or go 
 mad. For who else was there, with whom she could 
 speak ? 
 
 It was then in the fifth week of this strange lonely 
 residence in what was to all intents and purposes a 
 wilderness — at least, so far as almost total privation of 
 human intercourse can make a wilderness — that Lucinda 
 resolved, even should she risk his anger, to speak of this 
 uneasiness of hers to Sir Oliver. The place was the sea- 
 beach, over a mile from the house, and the hour was 
 after sundown. For the great heat had kept them 
 within doors through the day, and now the evening was 
 cool, and the air off the sea sweet in the lungs, and the 
 plash of little waves sweet to hear, whereof each one 
 seemed to be the last, and a fit herald of perfect silence. 
 " Sweetheart Oliver," said she, ^^ my father writes not." 
 Sir Oliver cleared his voice to make way for his words ; 
 then in his artificial way, speaking as of some third per- 
 son, answered thus : ^^ What matters it to my Lucinda 
 that her father writes not to scold his wanton little daugh- 
 ter, and to summon her away, from the side of her lawless 
 lover ? " For this was the gay way of Sir Oliver, a light- 
 some affectation of acknowledgment of wrong-doing that 
 would be candid about it were the offence never so trivial. 
 'But his levity sat ill upon him to-night, and his eyes never 
 
T2 AN AFFAIK OF DISHOXOR 
 
 met Lucinda's, that were fixed on him there in the moon- 
 light, watching how white he grew. 
 
 Then she, noting that he had failed to achieve a 
 would-be carelessness of manner, but loth to ascribe an ill 
 motive to him, cried out aloud : " Oh, Oliver, tell me 
 truth ! Has a letter come from him that you are keeping 
 back from me? If that be so, tell me of it, and let me 
 read it, even if I wince in the reading. Give it me, 
 Oliver — give it me ! " 
 
 When lies are afoot it is sweet to have a word or two 
 of truth to speak, and a mighty ease to the conscience. 
 Sir Oliver's voice came forth freely to say : " Xo, Lucinda 
 mine! I give thee my honour for it, there has been no 
 letter." Then, for a moment, the taste of truth was in 
 his mouth; but it was all the truth he had to tell. He 
 would not spoil it by a lie, and was silent. 
 
 " Oliver, there has been something ! You are keeping 
 something from me. Tell it me now — now ! " 
 
 " What ails the wench that she should cry out so of a 
 sudden? No, Lucy Crazypate, there has been neither 
 letter nor aught else to tell you of. Leave your in- 
 tractable parent to himself to come round as he may, and 
 be at peace ! " For though he thought to himself, " Shall 
 I speak fairly and tell her all ? " — there was that in his 
 heart which said : " Try to speak. Thou canst not ! " 
 So he was forced back on the blank stupidity of blind 
 falsehood. Yet he had but little difficulty to speak it. 
 He had sealed his pact with the Devil, and looked to 
 him for help. 
 
 She answered his lie with her truth. " I will be at 
 peace, dear love, even though no letter comes. I will 
 be all thou would'st have me be. But will you not tell 
 me more ? Is there no word of my father to be told that 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 73 
 
 vou know, and are keeping back ? " Then, always in fear 
 that she might somehow ruffle Sir Oliver's temper, and 
 so provoke a return of his malady, she kissed him tenderly, 
 drawing his face to her lips, as she readily might. For he 
 was a man of no great stature, though built strongly, and 
 broad, while she was of a full height for a woman of 
 twenty, but slender, and in all things gracious and deli- 
 cate; so that anyone would have said who saw them that 
 it was their unlikeness had brought them together. But 
 such a one w^ould have wondered at the roughness of his 
 speech in reply, seeing no cause for it. 
 
 ^^ Have I not told thee, silly girl ? What reason, think 
 you, should I have to speak untruthfully ? " Then, with 
 the thought in his mind that each word he said made it 
 harder to be truthful in the end : ^^Your father may well 
 have written, and his letter be lost on the way. Let be, 
 and be patient till a letter comes. How can it be known, 
 I ask you, that he has not written ? " And in this, 
 though, of couri:»j, she could not understand it so, he was, 
 as it were, pleading with empty air for a right to false- 
 hood. He resented the invasion of his secrecy by the 
 pert readiness of a mere girl. Who else had told the 
 facts, that suspicion should touch the mind of Lucinda? 
 Only he himself knew them, for John Rackham would be 
 silent ; and had he not a right to his reserve ? 
 
 But she, catching this half-resentment in his voice, and 
 all alive to her fear of his terrible disorder, pressed him 
 for no further answer. Her arm was in his or about his 
 neck as they lingered easily on the smooth footways of 
 flat sea-sand, though now and again they walked apart 
 on the shingly intervals, crushing the pebbles underfoot. 
 *^ What an accursed noise these stones make ! " said Sir 
 Oliver. 
 
Yi a:n affair of dishonor 
 
 But Lucinda was on the side of the stones. What 
 could Sir Discontent ask better than such a pretty music 
 to be made by his great clumsy feet? And look, too, at 
 the little sparks of frayed moonlight that the foam had 
 churned, and that had floated away into the dark water. 
 They would stick on one's hands, and gleam in the dark. 
 But Sir Oliver, though he laughed about his heavy tread, 
 and was less morose, would have it these were nothing 
 but the corruption of a dead fish, and not over-wholesome 
 to be handled. He desired that Lucinda should not stoop 
 at the water's edge to catch up the foam and run it 
 through her fingers, for there might be danger therein. 
 At which she laughed merrily, and did it all the more. 
 For it had been an ease to her mind only to have spoken 
 aloud about her father, even though what she said and 
 what he answered had left her none the wiser. 
 
 But this talk affected him otherwise, as he knew now 
 that the gloom of a constant secrecy must settle on him. 
 Every hour that passed must make it harder to tell 
 Lucinda of her father's death. He reproached himself 
 that he had not had the courage to speak at first that 
 day in the garden. He might then have confessed all, 
 affecting a keen remorse for the outcome of a challenge 
 he, as a man of honour, had no choice but to accept. 
 He might have laid the whole thing to an accident, say- 
 ing that he had never dreamed that a man so much older 
 than himself could make such indomitable sword-play 
 that it should be difficult for him, past-master that he 
 was of swordsmanship, to disarm such an opponent, or 
 disable him by some slight wound, or end the quarrel on 
 some technical pretext of satisfied honour. But the 
 chance was gone now — the chance there was then for a 
 show of uncontrollable grief — of an affectation which 
 
'AN AFFAIR OP DISHONOR 75 
 
 would have given it to him to mix his tears with hers 
 over a father's grave. It had come to this now — ^that 
 all that was left him was to cling to the hope that he 
 might cease to care about this woman in any way before 
 the news of the misadventure — as his speech to himself 
 began to call it — should reach her ears. That he should 
 be able, in short, to keep her in ignorance until he had 
 wearied of her, and another might fill her place. Then 
 he would do her no wrong, but would act as any other 
 man of fashion and spirit would do — pass her on to a 
 friend the richer by a profuse outlay on jewellery for her 
 person. Oh no! — there should be no injustice to Lucinda 
 through him. 
 
 But how the thought we choose and fancy ojir own 
 hates the intrusion of the thought we have no choice in! 
 Through all that was articulate in this speech of his mind 
 there would come creeping, creeping, a something . . . 
 was it a misgiving, or was it a conviction ? . . . a thing 
 ambiguous in all but that it was a discomfort. He had 
 never heard it so plainly, seen it or felt it so clearly, as 
 on this evening when he stood watching the girFs figure 
 against the restless silver of the sea below the moon. 
 The music of her laugh, slighting his injunction ; its rich 
 and joyous expansion as she sprang back, drenched, from 
 a rush the sea made to embrace her feet, till the sweet 
 night air seemed the sweeter for it as for a nightingale's 
 in its hour of joy, had such power over him that he in a 
 manner feared or resented its mastery. Often had he 
 said to himself that hers was a sameness he should not 
 weary of lightly, but he had always taken the period of 
 her charm for granted. And there was in this new phase 
 of — suppose we call it — his interest in Lucinda at least a 
 doubt whether it might not outlast his power or his 
 
76 AlSr AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 chances of keeping her in ignorance of her father's death. 
 It was strange that it should be so. Think how soon 
 Jess and Kate and Sue had given all they had to give, 
 and he had tired of them and flung them away, much as 
 a child discards the toy it cares to possess no longer! 
 
 So the days passed, and no letter came. Then one day, 
 when a driving small rain kept them within doors, and 
 there was sad lack of employment or pastime, this Sir 
 Oliver, more for an easement to his own conscience, or it 
 may be to convince him of his power over the part he had 
 to play, than from any gracious pity for Lucinda, must 
 needs say : " Never look so sad, sweet Lucy ; for I tell 
 thee this — I am of the mind to think that letter never 
 reached the Old Hall, nor your father. So hearten up, 
 my lass, and write him another, and John Rackham shall 
 ride with it to the Cobbler with Two Wives, where the 
 post calls towards the end of the month for letters. '' 
 
 " Why, sweetheart, should not the letter I wrote reach 
 the Old Hall?" 
 
 " Because, my Lucy, the floods would be slow to dry, 
 and it was said the bridge was wrecked. Many a slip 
 'twixt cup and lip may be for wayfarers across a flooded 
 country, — take my word for it ! So sit thee down, wench, 
 and write another, and may it have better luck ! " 
 
 " Lend me your little knife that cuts so well, to make 
 a new nib for my letter to my father.'' That was what she 
 said in reply ; and her voice was happy to Sir Oliver's ear, 
 though it was gall and wormwood to his heart. But he 
 must play his part out now — not spoil all by sickly 
 cowardice. There was the knife, and there a new quill, 
 and though there was no ink in the stand, it was to hand 
 in the little bottle on the shelf. For however few folk 
 dwelt in this house, it was well furnished in all needs of a 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOlsTOR 77 
 
 household from cellar to garret. There was paper, too, 
 of divers sorts in plenty, and dust of puff-balls to drink 
 up the ink, and chaff-wax. 
 
 " Thou canst make a new pen better than I, good 
 Oliver, that I may write plain and clear my letter to my 
 father. Take the knife and the quill, and God speed th;^ 
 cutting ! " 
 
 But the cutting prospered ill. Why should Sir Oliver's 
 hand be thus awkward ? Lucinda wondered ; then feared 
 this was a part of the malady. Had he not rather prided 
 himself once — at her father's house when she knew him 
 first — on his skill from a schoolboy in this art of pen- 
 cutting? Indeed, Lucinda had wondered that he made 
 no proffer of his services at the outset. ISTow his hand 
 was awkward, though it shook not; and he muttered 
 impatiently — ^muttered the beginnings of curses. Then 
 in the end he flung the spoiled quill away, irritably, and 
 bade Lucinda try her fortune on a new one. From which 
 task she, looking up furtively, could see his face white and 
 hard and fixed; and once a twitching of the lips and 
 mouth, though he covered it with a contrived laugh as he 
 met her eye. 
 
 But she was by then keen upon her letter, and gave the 
 less attention to things of this sort; though she still 
 feared they might be a part of the affliction that had fallen 
 upon him. So she settled down to write, gaining in 
 beauty as her face grew in earnestness from the words 
 she wrote; and so on through page after page, Sir Oliver 
 watching her askant from where he sat apart, sidelong on 
 a chair that had a low back to it, with a hand restless 
 on the carvings thereof. Only the scratching of the busy 
 pen, that seemed to know no cause for hesitation, broke 
 in upon the silence. 
 
78 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 Sir Oliver sat and watched the writer, but glancing 
 round at her, as though he flinched from an honest gaze, 
 untn he saw by some chance that a tear ran bright on her 
 writing hand, and she brushed it off with the other. Then 
 it seemed as though she drew breath with a shiver, and 
 thereto bit back a sob, AVhereupon, rising and wrapping 
 closer round him the silk-embroidered morning-gown he 
 wore, as was his custom, he went away silently to the 
 window, to look forth on the squally weather and the 
 rain-drift. And she, being deep in the wording of her 
 tale, took no notice of his doing so; but thought hard, 
 her face being bright through all her tears as though what 
 she had succeeded in saying pleased her. But had she 
 seen him more closely, she might have shuddered to note 
 the new twitching of his lips, and how he closed his teeth 
 on his thumb as though he would have crushed it. He was 
 close shaven, and his hair, no longer cropped short for ac- 
 commodation of his peruke, which he was not wearing 
 now, was all in disorder; also his face was discoloured, 
 the pallor of it coming and going, in patches. So he 
 looked not his best as he turned to take the letter from 
 Lucinda, when he heard her finish it. 
 
 " Give me the letter, sweetest Lucy," said he — and his 
 voice had a mock ring of false courtesy, such that none 
 but a woman besotted with her passion for him could 
 have loved him through it. But Lucinda's ears heard 
 it, and no fault found! 
 
 " It has not the seal yet, Oliver ; and I cannot have 
 you read it, good man ! It would make thee vainer than 
 thou art already, to know what I have written in this 
 letter. I am in earnest, dear love ! " But she trusted him 
 with the letter, too, kissing him as she gave it. The truth 
 is she had little choice but to hand it to him open; for 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 79 
 
 though the wax was there, and a taper, it was no matter of 
 a moment, nor the raising of a finger, to get a taper 
 lighted in those days. 
 
 Sir Oliver, however, was complaisant, giving his word 
 that he would not read a line of the letter, since she 
 wished it, and saying he would see to the proper sealing 
 of it. And thereon he carried it away, taking also with 
 him the chaff-wax as though to do it promptly in the 
 kitchen, or elsewhere where there was fire. But after a 
 short absence he returned with the letter still unsealed, 
 saying he had told old Madge to bring a light forthwith, 
 and what need had the old sluggard to dawdle by the 
 way? But she came at the moment, bearing a hand- 
 lamp for oil, and much concerned that it should not be 
 blown out by the wind, which came in great gusts, and 
 seemed in no difiiculty to find its way into the house. 
 But she had no mishap in lighting the little red wax taper 
 on the writing-table, and went her way with her lamp, 
 which was a slovenly and dirty affair, not fitted for the 
 use of gentlefolk. 
 
 Then says Sir Oliver to Lucinda, that she was to im- 
 print the seal on the melted wax, as soon as he should have 
 made a careful pool of it ; yet not until he should give the 
 signal. And so it was done, and her hand was lovely in 
 the doing of it, and sweetly tender to the touch as it met 
 his by chance. Then again he felt that doubt of how, or 
 when, or where he should tire of this woman, and be ready 
 to thrust her from him. 
 
 But she gives him little time to think this over. For, 
 being now in great spirits that she has written her letter, 
 and it is to go, she is clamouring aloud that she herself 
 shall use the taper and the wax for the second seal, and 
 will have her way. Nor does her villain gainsay her, for 
 
80 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 he knows the one seal has closed the letter heyond reopen- 
 ing; and he has a reason to be glad of this, as shall soon 
 be told in this story. 
 
 So Lucinda burns the wax liberally, heedless of its 
 cost — ^for it was not cheap in those days as now — and 
 more from undue haste than any mere unsteadiness of 
 hand she drops it at random on the paper, so that more 
 than one spot lies outside the seal it should have been a 
 part of. At this Lucinda is well satisfied, saying these 
 blots of red wax be kisses she sends her father, for all 
 they look so like drops of blood. But she then looks up, 
 saying, " What ails thee, my Oliver ? " For a gasp had 
 come from him as of a man caught by a sudden pain, but 
 one that stays not; catching him unawares, else he had 
 been silent on it. 
 
 " What should ail me ? '' is all he says, but peevishly. 
 Then he takes the letter from her, and goes forth to give 
 it to John Rackham, who is to ride with it to the place 
 of call. But this groom's training has made of him a 
 perfect servant; for when he looks — as all do who are 
 charged to carry letters — at the direction on the cover, and 
 knows that he is bearing a letter to a dead man, his face 
 says no more of his thought than the back of your tomb- 
 stone or mine will one day say, whatever be incised upon 
 the front. And Sir Oliver felt the stronger to the end 
 of his own concealments, from the strength of this man's 
 example. If only he, too, could keep as free of gesture 
 or expression as some great fish in a tank, all would go 
 well for his own needs ! So thought Sir Oliver ; and then 
 he would have been glad to ease himself of an unwelcome 
 association. For this trope of the fish had brought back 
 a thing he hoped to have forgotten, and he had again to 
 fight against a memory of that unearthly dream — the 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHOIN^OR 81* 
 
 dream this story told at the outset — and its intrusion 
 into other agonizing memories that were actual, until he 
 felt as though he scarce knew which was which, nor true 
 from false. And this doubt was amazingly more painful 
 than any memory taken alone. For nothing is more 
 painful to the mind than a doubt of its own soundness. 
 
 And then, going back to Lucinda, and coming once more 
 within the range of her sweet life, sweet although he was 
 part of it, he was again face to face with that other 
 perplexity, the knowledge that that life of hers wove 
 itself, at every hour of the day, more closely into his 
 own; and yet that when the moment came that she 
 should know him for her father's slayer, the warp and 
 woof of the fabric must be rent asunder, at what cost to 
 either who could guess ? For Love has no more business 
 in a heart choked with sensuality and sin than blush-rose 
 and honeysuckle in a garden choked by an undergrowth 
 of poisonous weeds. 
 
 Why was it this Oliver felt glad that this first seal was 
 safe against reopening? Because, wishing that the letter 
 should seem to be despatched, but also that none of her 
 people should know Lucinda's whereabouts, he had hit 
 upon a device to attain both ends. Having secured the 
 letter under pretext that he would seal it elsewhere, he 
 had borne it away out of sight, and quickly finding that 
 nothing written within the covering sheet would tell where 
 it had been written, had removed all the letter itself, 
 substicutiiig a like number of blank sheets, and had then 
 carried it back to its unsuspicious writer to be sealed and 
 sent. Wherefore he felt at ease that her father's death 
 was likely to remain unknown to Lucinda for a long time 
 to come, although in the end it must needs be known. 
 But that might be far off yet. 
 
CHAPTEE VI 
 
 The young undergroom, who had accompanied the party 
 from Croxley Hall, rode back two days later, taking with 
 him the packhorses laden with sundry goods Sir Oliver 
 desired to send there, and leaving Lucinda's wardrobe ; for 
 the carriage of which on her return other horses would be 
 purchased, such useful beasts being cheap in this district, 
 but very easy to sell at a good price near Sir Oliver's 
 home. There had been no man at Kips Manor on their 
 arrival, the old gardener having fallen ill, and gone to live 
 at his daughter's, five miles away, where the air was good 
 for rheumatism. In fact, there was no one at all in the 
 house but the old woman, Martha Hatsell, and a girl 
 Elspeth, who did what rough work there was ; there being 
 indeed but little in the way of scouring and cleaning to 
 be done, owing to the freedom from dust and dirt, for 
 both were nearly unknown. This girl left in the course 
 of a day or two, to give help at the farm of Dame Hatsell's 
 son-in-law, some seven miles off, as a substitute for the 
 old woman's daughter, Susan Trant, whom Sir Oliver had 
 spoken of when he said Lucinda should be at no loss for 
 a tirewoman. Susan was not so attached to her life with 
 this yeoman farmer as to scruple at any time to come 
 away from home to help in the household of Kips Manor 
 when Sir Oliver came on a visit. She had been a beauty, 
 as a girl ; so at least thought Lucinda, as she watched the 
 face mirrored above her own during her time of hair- 
 dressing. She guessed its age at about thirty-six, 
 
 82 
 
A:N" AFFAIK of DISHOISTOK 83 
 
 " Has your mother always been so deaf as now ? " 
 Thus Lucinda one day to this Susan, just to make talk, 
 as she sat and enjoyed the combing of her own great 
 length of rich black hair before the mirror, noting idly 
 that the hand that holds the comb is not unlike her own, 
 some allowance being made for age and rougher use in 
 life. 
 
 " Yes, my lady ! Ever as deaf as now." 
 
 "From childhood?" 
 
 " She hath told me so herself." 
 
 " And how should you know otherwise, Susan Trant ? 
 How indeed ? But your mother is not deaf alike through- 
 out the day. She heard my words yesterday, though I 
 had not raised my voice." 
 
 " Somewhiles that is so, my lady. Was this in early 
 morning ? " 
 
 "Indeed no! — and yet, for a very great exactness, yes! 
 It was after midnight, by the clock, when Sir Oliver and 
 I came in last night. And that was early morning of 
 to-day. But for the true sense of your question, I take 
 the answer to be — no ! " 
 
 " I meant that, my lady. Mother hears at her 
 best in the hours of the real morning, that come 
 after sleep. Otherwhile, she may be stone-deaf but for 
 a chance." 
 
 " It was such a chance last night, then. How else came 
 she to hear my words to Sir Oliver ? " 
 
 " Is your ladyship sure ? " 
 
 " Most certain ! " Lucinda turned her head about to 
 tell it. " I said to Sir Oliver, at the stair-foot, as we 
 lighted tapers for bed, that I woidd swear that John 
 Kackham had spared himself a ride in the rain three 
 weeks since, and had never carried the letter to meet the 
 
84 AN APFAIE OF DISH0:N'0K 
 
 post-cart. Then, as Sir Oliver went upstairs, your mother 
 turns to me, saying Mr. Rackham would be main sure 
 to see the letter had its best chance, for think how my 
 ladyship's father must be longing for a letter ! " For 
 Lucinda's wording would often note little oddments of 
 country-speech, or passing catchwords of the villagers, 
 whenever she had to repeat what they had said. 
 
 Then she, not sorry to talk of her father, though only 
 to her tirewoman, made more of a tale of the matter than 
 any need was. " So I made inquiry of your mother what 
 Mr. Rackham had said touching the letter, and she made 
 answer that she had but now used his own words to me. 
 But he had said, too, that my father and I were a rare 
 father and daughter, and he for his part would carry the 
 letter as far as he might ; then if it reached not, he would 
 not be the one to blame. I said to your mother then, that 
 John Rackham was an honest man. Did she not think 
 so herself ? But on a sudden it seemed she heard not my 
 words, and I had to shout. Even then she caught not 
 all I said, to my thinking, and answered wide of the 
 mark." 
 
 To which Mrs. Trant said, combing always, that that 
 was the way with her mother, whose hearing would come 
 by starts, and be gone! But that was so with all deaf 
 folk, to the best of her knowledge and belief, though 
 there might be wiser foll^ than she, she being no book- 
 scholar. Then Lucinda said there needed no bookish 
 reading to tell this much, that deafness might be hard 
 and fast, and never vary. For see how old Dr. Phinehas, 
 whom she had known from childhood, could hear naught 
 except to put up his hand to listen; and never missed to 
 do so, having finished speaking, as he must have done had 
 his hearing ever come back, even for a moment. To 
 
'AN AFFAIK OF DISHOI^OR 85 
 
 ■which Mrs. Trant answered in an odd little phrase, 
 " That, my lady ! " meaning thereby, was that so, not as 
 a question, but as an assent. 
 
 All this household called its mistress my lady without 
 grudging, either because of a belief that she was truly the 
 wife of Sir Oliver, or because some like experience in 
 former years had taught discretion. How should any 
 member of it know one Lady Raydon from another, or 
 be so daring as dub a new one mere madam on the strength 
 of a memory of eight months past? — or be able to swear 
 to a new face and hands; while, as for figure, is not a 
 figure a dress? Sir Oliver knew best who was Lady 
 Raydon; or, at least, could make the man who gainsaid 
 him pay the penalty of his speech. It was otherwise at 
 the Leasowes — that was the JSTew HalFs old name — 
 where all the servants had lived three years or more in 
 the house in the days of its lawful mistress, and each 
 grudged her style and title to a substitute. ISTow Kips 
 Manor had always been a strange unknown land to this 
 lady, whither she had resolutely refused to accompany 
 her husband, seeing that it was near the sea, and it had 
 never been a practice in her family to dwell near the sea. 
 But it had been to break her of this prejudice that such 
 great expense had been incurred in new furnishings and 
 luxuries at the Manor, and these had stood Sir Oliver in 
 good stead for many purposes — that is to say, whenever 
 occasion arose for a quiet retreat after a season of gaiety, 
 or for any reason. 
 
 Let it be said at once that Lucinda wondered not a 
 little now and again that Sir Oliver should be contented 
 to dwell so long in this solitude. All the more so that 
 his manner was not that of a man at ease with his sur- 
 roundings, and finding pleasure in them. Rather, it was 
 
86 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 that of a dissatisfied connoisseur, who has paid heavily 
 for some bijouterie or knick-knack, and loves not the 
 sight of it, knowing he was cheated in the purchase. 
 But she accounted to herself for this strange readiness of 
 his to dwell in what he called a damnable wilderness, a 
 God-forsaken hole — though why its having been forsaken 
 of God should make it damnable in his eyes was hard to 
 say — by supposing that it was through his love for her 
 that he endured it. And the more she thought this, the 
 more she praised the place and spoke of her joy in it, 
 thereby to cause him to dwell there longer alone in her 
 society. For his was what she coveted in her infatua- 
 tion, strange to say; or, rather, a thing that would have 
 been strange were it not so common a story — ^this heart- 
 whole devotion of youth and beauty, and a soul that 
 rises, as it were, above its contamination, to a creature 
 so foul at heart, so sunk in sensuality and selfhood, that 
 it seems a hard task to Faith itself to think no ill of his 
 Maker. Such was Lucinda's blind love for this miserable 
 blotch on the light of Heaven, and so long as he dwelt 
 contented, save and except for free curse and execration 
 — even of the sound of the sea! — she was not the one to 
 say him nay, and seek to go elsewhere. 
 
 But no news came of Lucinda's father, nor of any thing 
 or person belonging to her family, and this was a grave 
 disquiet to her. But she bore her burden in silence, 
 saying nothing to Sir Oliver. Still, she was able to say 
 to herself for consolation that no news was good news — 
 as a many have said before and since, and lived to know 
 the falsehood of it. For her idea was that, were any- 
 thing badly amiss with her father, she would have been 
 sure to get some answer to her letter — indeed, she had 
 supplicated him, if he wrote not himself, at least to 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHON^OR 87 
 
 charge some old friend to write in his stead — as, for 
 instance, the Very Reverend the Dean, Amy as Tunstall, 
 her godfather, who knew all their affairs — only that she 
 might know that all went well with him. Little did she 
 think, as she lay miserable in the small hours of the night- 
 time, wondering should she ever again see the Old Hall, 
 and hear her father's voice, that there, within two or 
 three yards of her, had she but known it, was her letter, 
 all but what was written on the sealed wrapper, on which 
 was the direction and the dropped wax. For the sly fox, 
 her deceiver in all things, had put it under lock and key 
 in the black ebony cabinet that held a mass of his own 
 correspondence; mighty little of which was fit, for very- 
 shame, to be brought out into open day. And there it 
 lay, as it might be a stray violet in the spring-time, fallen 
 by misadventure in a sumph or cesspit. 
 
 She had lain thus one night, brooding over her own life 
 and the way she had flung all her wealth to the winds for 
 the sake of the thing beside her, until between three and 
 four in the morning, and was just becoming drowsy, and 
 her pulse hushing sleepwards, when she was roused with 
 a shock and a start by Sir Oliver's voice exclaiming 
 suddenly beside her : ^^ There is something in the room 
 with us ! " 
 
 She had been too near sleep to feel sure, seeing the 
 start it gave her, that the words were no dream, but really 
 Sir Oliver's. When she found her own voice, what she 
 said was, " Was it you that spoke ? " and then, when he 
 said, but speaking articulately, something quite unin- 
 telligible about John Rackham, said further: "You 
 were dreaming, dear! Wake up! Why — the door is 
 locked I What thing should there be in the room ' with 
 us?" 
 
88 AN AFFAIK OF DISHOISTOK 
 
 He replied : " Hold thy peace, silly wench, and listen.'' 
 And thereupon she listened with a beating heart, but 
 heard nothing. 
 
 Then she said : " It was the owl, Oliver. Lie down 
 and sleep." For there was an especial owl, whose hoot 
 was familiar to them, whose rest was in a distant corner 
 of the roof. 
 
 He said again as before : " Be still and listen." And 
 then later : "It was no owl. It was that thing John 
 Rackham wots of. Thou knowest, too — a thing with 
 flaps." And then she, seeing he was still half -dreaming — 
 for all he had seemed so wakeful ! — took him by the arm 
 and shook him, saying : " Wake up, Oliver mine ! Dost 
 thou not know thou art talking nonsense ? " 
 
 Upon this he seemed to shake off his sleep, saying 
 foolishly : " What did I say — just now ? " And she re- 
 peated it just as he had said it, laughing at him, or affect- 
 ing to laugh. For she could not get clear of an eerie 
 feeling that is ever at hand where sleep and waking meet 
 and cross. Then he, coming fully out of his sleep, says 
 clearly, " What it all was I know not now, but it seemed 
 all good faith at the time," and then lay down again to 
 sleep, which she, too, was not sorry to do also, and this 
 time was soon in a sound slumber. 
 
 All this is told, not for any place the thing, a trifle in 
 itself, has in this story, but only that those interested in 
 these strange phenomena of sleep should be better able 
 to judge of what followed within two or three hours that 
 Bame night. 
 
 For Lucinda was not left to enjoy to the full the deep 
 sleep that was her due after so long waiting. She was 
 awaked again, as she thought, very soon after she closed 
 her eyes, but over two hours certainly, feeling chilled. 0£ 
 
'AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 89 
 
 which the cause was soon found, the coverlid being thrown 
 off, and her bed-fellow gone some time, to judge by the 
 coldness of the bed where he had lain. This was matter 
 for alarm, for might he not have fallen in a fit elsewhere, 
 and so lie helpless? As she listens, she hears that he is 
 close at hand, and moving about — and it is a glad hearing, 
 for she has had no relish for her awakening, so deep was 
 her slumber and so enjoyable, and so little loves she com- 
 pulsion to be moving about in the cool of the morning. 
 Sir Oliver has gone — this she thinks — either to note down 
 something he would remember, or to refresh some halting 
 memory that had crossed his mind in a wakeful moment. 
 For either of these things would have been like him, and 
 had happened before; and now she can hear him shifting 
 papers at his desk. For it is in this little cabinet, next 
 the bedroom, that Sir Oliver writes despatches to his 
 steward Durrell; not numerous, nor of great length, but 
 often calling for much thought, and giving Sir Oliver 
 provocations to impatience, either from doubt what to 
 write and how, or from defect of writing-gear. 
 
 Now Lucinda, hearing the rustle of papers, and know- 
 ing John Rackham was to ride in the very early morning 
 of that day to catch the postal carrier at the Cobbler 
 with Two Wives, seven miles away, settled it in her mind 
 that Sir Oliver had desired to correct some instruction to 
 Durrell, and had feared he might be pressed for time, or 
 cause John Rackham to miss the post; so had decided to 
 alter his letter straightway, as there was already ample 
 daylight in his writing-room, although the bedroom 
 windows, where she was, were darkened. So she would 
 not meddle with him, or disturb him, but having first 
 made good the derangement of the coverlid, she turns 
 over to sleep again, taking his return presently for 
 
90 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 granted. Yet not so sound but she can still catch the 
 move of the writing-paper in the next room. 
 
 Then, this being prolonged a great while, and sleep 
 checked bj starts from the sound of it, she at last calls to 
 him aloud : " Oliver ! — art thou writing a book, good 
 man ? " But no answer comes, and a sudden fear she 
 cannot understand is on her. She must know what this 
 means, and, rising, steals to the door and peeps in at the 
 writer. 
 
 There sits Sir Oliver, in his flowered dressing-robe, to 
 all seeming busy with a letter. She, calling to mind a 
 thing that made a chance word easy — ^namely, that he 
 had complained, but the night before, of want of ink — 
 says to him : " So you have found the ink, sweetheart ! " 
 But no answer comes, only the scratching of the pen. 
 
 She, in a sort of alarm, steals in, and goes close beside 
 him, looking over his shoulder. But this is some new 
 distraction, and her heart goes quick over it. For never 
 a drop- of ink is in his pen, as it travels on the paper, and 
 though the writer may dip it in the inkpot, it is a dry 
 errand he sends it on. But he still goes on, heeding 
 nothing, and seems unconscious of the woman standing at 
 his shoulder, all in an apprehension of she knows not 
 what. 
 
 Then she finds her voice. " Oliver, dearest love, thou 
 art doing nothing. Thy pen is dry! What a craze is 
 this, for this hour in the morning! Come back to bed." 
 But he still writes on, and she was too frightened to 
 waken him roughly, for fear it might harm him. 
 
 For she could see now, very plain, that this was a 
 state of sleep-walking, a thing all know and talk of, but 
 few see; and fortunately, for no sleep-walker can be left 
 safely to himself, lest he do himself some mischief; 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISH0:N^0K 91 
 
 neither can he be with safety abruptly awakened, the 
 shock of awakening being often unsettling to the reason. 
 So Lucinda, who had heard speak of this thing, yet never 
 seen it, dared not attempt to rouse Sir Oliver, but 
 stepped back from him, watching him well, yet keeping 
 out of close touch with him, not to guide or affect him 
 in any way. In which, to our thinking, she acted most 
 judiciously. 
 
 After a very little, though to her it was longer, he 
 seemed to mutter to himself, though what he said she 
 could only guess at. But she was deceived by it into 
 fancying he must be awake, and forgot her better judg- 
 ment, catching him by the arm, and thinking to assure 
 him of her presence. But no! — he was still sound asleep, 
 though his eyes stood open, and the way they saw 
 nothing, and she could know of it, brought a chill to her 
 heart, and tried her courage sorely. Yet she dared not 
 call aloud for help, even could she have thought of any- 
 one of the household whose presence would have been 
 welcome. So she could only wait to see what he would 
 do next. 
 
 As for what he said or muttered, it was just inco- 
 herency, so far as her hearing of it went. He seemed to 
 be speaking of some man, God knows whom, who had 
 turned against him. " This is an obstinate fellow, but I 
 will have him down yet ! " And then presently : " What 
 a mercy dost thou, man, to cry out against me! Bully- 
 boy, bully-boy, lower thy point, and down upon thy 
 marrowbones ! " — and other like rubbish, to which she 
 could attach no more meaning than to his other formless 
 mumblings as he woke from his deeper sleep. There was 
 more of it, meaing nothing, until at last he spoke out 
 quite plainly, saying, " He were best keep his own coun- 
 
92 A-N AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 sel, this man," and then of a sudden his proper speech 
 came back to him, most easy to distinguish from his sleep- 
 ridden gibberish, and a boon to her to hear. And as she 
 looked in his eyes, the cloud went off them, and they 
 moved again naturally. 
 
 " What is all this pother ? What dost thou here, 
 Mistress Lucy? This is not thy place. Get thee back 
 to bed, wench! — and make an end of it." To which she 
 answered, '^ Gladly — for my part ! " and was returning to 
 the bedroom — thinking it safest to thwart him in nothing 
 — when he called after her harshly : " What am I doing 
 here? How came I here? Answer me that!" But 
 then, before she could reply, he caught her up with, " Get 
 thee gone, mistress — and no more words ! " Whereupon 
 she, trembling alike with cold and terror, got back to bed. 
 
 She heard Sir Oliver making some noise over opening 
 and closing drawers impatiently, then that he thrust 
 papers away into them, locking them in with a snap. 
 Then comes he back to bed, not over-thoughtful on her 
 behalf, nor caring a straw that he should run the risk 
 of waking her again for no cause. She heard him say 
 some words, seeming of little coherency, but this she put 
 down to her own failing senses, for sleep was coming apaco 
 to her, and welcome. 
 
CHAPTER YII 
 
 Next morning Lucinda was rejoiced to find how light 
 an impression all this disturbance of the night had made 
 on the person who might reasonably have been most af- 
 fected by it — that is, Sir Oliver himself. For it is hard 
 to reconcile such a suspension of the common rule and 
 order of life with a steadfast continuance of its functions. 
 Yet, except that he broke his fast before he rose from 
 his bed, he gave no sign of suffering from any unusual 
 perturbation, either mental or physical. Whereas Lu- 
 cinda felt all weary and stiff, and almost as though she 
 had been beaten with rods, and her eyes sore and heavy- 
 lidded. For which her remedy was to get out as soon 
 as might be into the sunshine and sweet warm air, leav- 
 ing breakfast to wait till she should have shaken off the 
 memory of so many sleepless hours of waking nightmare. 
 Till that was done, how should she think of food ? Still, 
 she could take a little cup of coffee, made as in Turkey; 
 for in those days the practice of making coffee with much 
 milk, as now, was not yet conmaon. And tea was a rarity, 
 especially now that there was war with Holland, and no 
 trade with the Dutch, who had brought the leaf first to 
 England, some three or four years since. 
 
 It was no surprise to her to find on her return that Sir 
 Oliver was still abed, having eaten well ; for this was no 
 uncommon occurrence that he should, simply from an 
 idle indulgence of laziness, lie sluggard-wise till near mid- 
 day, now, and then bidding Lucinda play some tune on a 
 
 93 
 
94 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 clavichord that stood in his apartment adjoining. For 
 he had a pretty taste in music, though himself but a poor 
 proficient in execution. And he would have her do so 
 now, asking a tune he knew by the name of " Joan in the 
 Cherry-Orchard " — a merry tune. But Lucinda would 
 not indulge this lazy whim, and his mere sloth. 
 
 ^^ Thou idle loon ! " said she, and he only laughed when 
 her speech was so plain with him. " Why, sweetheart, 
 Oliver mine, what ails thee to lie simmering there in the 
 sheets, letting the day spoil? For shame, thou foolish 
 man! Get thee up, and come out in the sunshine, and 
 see the great fisher-fleet that is out on the waters." But 
 then her mind misgave her that the night's disturbance 
 had left him ill, and she said her thought, asking him 
 anxiously how he fared. But he made light of the 
 matter, saying he had many a time walked in his sleep 
 as a boy, and never been a penny the worse. But what 
 was this tale of hers of a great fisher-fleet? Then says 
 she, ^^ Come out and see for yourself. Master Lie-abed," 
 and is off to seek breakfast, for a bell had rung below as 
 they were talking. 
 
 But when she, being ready to go out again, went to 
 seek for Sir Oliver, he was no longer in his room; and 
 Mrs. Trant and her mother were busying themselves over 
 making beds and setting things in order for the day, and 
 they were very sure he had gone up on the roof, having 
 taken his spy-glass and walked away down the long 
 gallery, which only led thither. It was a foursquare 
 open gallery or gazebo, with a wooden rail, topping a 
 gable that rose in the centre well above the surrounding 
 roofs, and giving a fine view seawards. There he stood 
 when Lucinda found him, spying through his glass, which 
 he held against a little flagstaff at the corner. 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 95 
 
 " Are they not easy to see, Oliver mine — the fisher- 
 boats beyond the bay ? '' 
 
 " None so easy, Mistress Lucy ! I can see none, look 
 as I may. Thine eyes are cleverer than mine to see 
 fishing-boats on yonder sea. If there be any, better for 
 them to be ashore as fast as may be. So say I, and so wilt 
 thou say soon.'' N^ow this made Lucinda look again, and 
 then she saw that what she had thought fisher-boats were, 
 in nearer sight, great ships with canvas spread and hulls 
 rising high above the sea, story on story. 
 
 " What do they do here, to come so near the coast ? " 
 Sir Oliver spoke to himself, but then afterwards he spoke 
 to Lucinda, answering a question ; " What are they, 
 wench? Why, I take it they be the Dutch fleet, under 
 Admiral de Ruyter. That big one in the middle may 
 well be his flagship. Why do they come to these parts? 
 That I know not, but Haarlem is but a two days' sail with 
 a fair wind, and so far as I know there be none strong 
 enough to hinder them, now there is no Admiral Blake." 
 
 " Oh, see, Oliver — see how the white sails flap in the 
 wind and fall ! How beautiful she is in the sunlight ! 
 But there is no wind, and the sea is glass." 
 
 That year (1665) was the beginning of the second war 
 between England and Holland, and at the time of this 
 story either had been for a long time building up a fleet, 
 each in hope to drive the other permanently off the seas; 
 for nations could be fools then as now, even as samples 
 from them, chosen now, may be fools as great as any 
 among them then. But these two fleets were both kept 
 in port for some reason which he who cares for the reading 
 of History may find for himself, until May of that year, 
 when the English Admiral, the Duke of York, the brother 
 of King Charles, hoisted his flag in the Channel. The 
 
96 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 Dutch were not so forward, or awaited the return of their 
 Admiral de Ruyter from the Mediterranean. Who, how- 
 ever, came not. Therefore, this fleet, under Admiral 
 Opdam, had delayed taking the sea some two months, 
 and no doubt his ship was the one seen bj Sir Oliver and 
 Lucinda from the roof-top. 
 
 And Lucinda thought many a time long after, and 
 would tell it to young children in her old age, how sweet 
 that great ship had looked as she lay on the water, 
 motionless for the dead calm; how sweet some sort of 
 bugles, blown for sig-nalling, were across the sea, when a 
 little wind set inwards to the coast, and let the music 
 come, too. And how the roll of certain drums that rose 
 and fell with the wind, and seemed in all the ships, had 
 threat or terror in it, though she knew not fully why till 
 after. And it was sweet, too, to hear, as might be heard 
 for all the distance was so great, the long sweep of oars 
 that struck the water in certain boats that went from 
 ship to ship. Concerning which boats, Sir Oliver said, 
 they were carrying officers to and fro to take instruction 
 from the Admiral. But it may be he knew not. 
 
 In his own time Sir Oliver surrendered the spy-glass, 
 that Lucinda might try her luck at seeing. But the sight- 
 hole had a trick of closing, and Lucinda was never sure 
 whether she saw anything or not. But she thought she 
 saw a ship once, only she had to look outside to see which. 
 So in the end she gave the glass back to Sir Oliver. 
 
 Presently says he, looking through it : "I thought as 
 much." But just as if he thought aloud, and his hearer 
 Kvas not worth the making out a further tale to. And 
 then : " Use thine eyes, fairest Lucy, and look beyond 
 the ships, and say what thou seest." Whereupon she, 
 Btraining her eyes into the distance, sees the offing of the 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHON^OR 9f 
 
 blue sea beyond dotted with yet more white sails, and 
 yet more. Then she, going nearer to Sir Oliver that her 
 arm may be about his neck, says, a little in fear and 
 much in wonder : " What is it all, Oliver dearest ? Do 
 tell me what you know." 
 
 " Thus much I know, sweet Lucy, that the ships 
 nearest us are Dutch. And thus much I suspect, that 
 the others out beyond are our own fleet. And thus much 
 I believe, that every man aboard them, one as much as 
 the other, is praying for a breeze that he may be brought 
 within gunshot of his enemy." 
 
 " Oh, merciful Heaven ! Pray rather, pray with me, 
 that the wind may grow even less than now, and that 
 they may be kept apart, despite their wicked prayers ! " 
 
 " Thou silly chit ! Shall there be no more glory of 
 war and battles, to please a silly chit ? But I can tell 
 thee a thing will change thy note. Mistress Lucy ; so pay 
 attention to what I say. I was in two minds, till I caught 
 sight of yonder fleet on the oflSng . . . ay, I am pretty 
 sure it is English — for I can make out a flag ... I 
 was in two minds if it would not be wisest to pack off 
 straight way, before a boat's crew or two of Dutchmen 
 should come ashore for plunder. This house would not 
 be amiss to sack. That might well have been, but now it 
 will not." 
 
 " How can you say for certain ? Shall we not make 
 ready to start, should we see the boats on the way ? " 
 
 " Aha — my mistress ! — ^what did I say ? Now shall 
 we rejoice together for the coming of the British fleet, 
 and pray for the wind to hasten it hither? Say fare- 
 well to thy prayers for a calm sea, and listen for the 
 guns 1 " 
 
 " I would rather a thousand times this house were 
 
98 AN AFFAIR OF DISH0:N^0R 
 
 sacked and we should fly than that all these men God 
 made should turn to and slay each other in my sight. 
 And so wouldst thou, sweet Oliver mine, for thy heart 
 is surely good, for all thy conceits and phantasies that 
 none believes in." 
 
 *^ Faith, I know not if my heart be bad or good. But 
 I do know that I bought not this house for any Dutch- 
 men, but only for myself. Were it thy house, silly Lucy, 
 wouldst be so ready to hand it over to pillage? To my 
 thought, scarcely! And as for these men that will slay 
 each other shortly, I know not whether they were made 
 by God or by the Devil. In any case, they will fight, 
 lest they be flung dead in the sea or alive in a foreign 
 prison. ... Is it not nearly time for meat ? " But 
 there was still the best part of an hour, and Lucinda, 
 though she felt sick with dread of what might come, was 
 in no humour yet to leave the sight of the beautiful ships, 
 now especially that the sailors were spreading out upon 
 the yards, unreefing every sail and setting it to catch 
 the first wind that should come. And each new sail that 
 they spread seemed whiter in the sun than the last. 
 
 Then it began to be clear that the further fleet was 
 nearing the other steadily, but slowly. The ships were, 
 as the phrase is, bringing the wind with them. This does 
 not mean that the wind and ship are travelling at the 
 same rate, but only that the ship is moving athwart the 
 wind, as the area of wind increases sideways. So that 
 a ship that awaits the wind may also await a ship. And 
 it may come slow or quick, as the wind spreads. 
 
 This fleet was coming slowly, but surely. And the 
 Dutchmen had no choice but to wait the pleasure of the 
 breeze. 
 
 Now, though the hour was close at hand for the mid- 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOE'OR 99 
 
 day meal, there seemed every chance it would be delayed. 
 For all the household had been out watching this sight 
 upon the sea, and each member of it neglecting his or 
 her work to do so. But an end came to these delays, 
 and Sir Oliver and Lucinda were summoned by a cus- 
 tomary bell, now near an hour late. He, for his part, 
 was not pleased to leave watching the ships, yet neither 
 would he have been pleased had his food been brought 
 to him in the gallery he watched them from. He was 
 morose and silent at table, while Lucinda did what she 
 might to make him less so, with little or no success. So 
 the meal passed almost in silence, for Susan Trant, who 
 attended at table, responded but little to such chance 
 words as her mistress addressed to her, she being either 
 too respectful or too scant of language to converse 
 freely. 
 
 Her own lost hours of the night before were beginning 
 to tell on Lucinda, and a drowsiness was taking slow 
 possession of her that taxed all her resolves to keep clear 
 of the gates of sleep. So strong was it that even as she 
 sat at table her head must needs nod and her eyes close, 
 and the world slip from her by fits and starts, leaving her 
 on the threshold of oblivion. 
 
 " God in Heaven ! — ^what was that ? '' The words were 
 Lucinda's as she started to her feet, broad awake. Sir 
 Oliver was on his feet. 
 
 " Already ! " he cried. " Why, how the Devil ? . . . " 
 He left his words unfinished, and ran for the stairway to 
 the roof. 
 
 Lucinda had barely time to gasp again, " What was 
 it ? — oh, what ? " to see the woman Trant run, mad with 
 terror, beating her hands together, tearing her hair — 
 
100 AlSr AFFAIK OF DISHOISTOK 
 
 crying aloud, " O God, have mercy ! God have mercy ! " — 
 when it came again, and yet again. And the windows 
 shook and rattled with the crash upon crash, and the 
 birds that lived in the ivy without were all in panic, and 
 the great bloodhounds in the court bayed a deep response 
 to each new word of terror as it came across the water. 
 For Hell had broken loose without, in what had been the 
 sweet silence of the morning, and the voice that had 
 startled Lucinda from her momentary sleep had come 
 from the throat of a gun. 
 
 Then she ran, as well as she could run, for terror of 
 what she might see; and although she felt the while she 
 should have liked to hide her head and die, she felt, too, 
 that she would be best beside the man she loved. He 
 could bear it — true ! But was he not a man ? And were 
 not the world and its ways, its gains and its glories — and 
 its women — for men? 
 
 He was there before her, in the little gallery upon the 
 roof, and his eye was at the glass, looking out seaward. 
 " God's wounds ; don't shake so, wench ! " was what he 
 said when she laid a timid hand upon him to help her 
 strength from his. 
 
 What she said was, " Thank God! — they have stopped." 
 For the smoke of the guns fired was drifting away across 
 the bay, and a lull had come for a moment. 
 
 " Not they ! " said Sir Oliver, watching still through 
 his glass. But still Lucinda had courage in her to hope 
 that he was wrong — for a moment. 
 
 Only for a moment ! For a flash came sharp from the 
 great ship in the centre of the new fleet, and sharp upon 
 the heels of it another, and another, and yet another, 
 before the sound could reach them of the first. And then 
 it came. But even before the next had time to follow — 
 
a:^ affair of disho:nor loi 
 
 and none gave its fore-runner's echoes time to die — 
 Lucinda had time to think of the man the shot struck, 
 and the wife, maybe, that thought him living still. Could 
 she but have known the thing she herself was ignorant 
 of — the tale of the man slain by the arm she held but 
 now! At least, the murderer that put the linstock to 
 yonder gun had never eaten with the man it slew, nor 
 touched his hand in friendship. 
 
 Truly, Lucinda was no more fit for a world where 
 slaughter is thought so light of than the woman who 
 wept that our Lord Christ was not born before the world 
 was made, to stay for pity's sake the handiwork of His 
 Father. For when the great thunder came that made 
 these first shots seem as nothing, the stunning intolerable 
 roar of broadside on broadside, in which no one gun's 
 voice spoke alone, but was lost in the Devil's chorus of 
 its fellows; when all the ships of either fleet were hidden 
 in an evil cloud of smoke, with evil flashes in the heart 
 of it; when strange new sounds were bred in the pauses 
 of a moment that even now came from time to time — 
 sounds of splintering timber or the rattle of small arms 
 — then Lucinda, though she stood spell-bound at first, 
 must in the end give way, and run and hide her head in 
 her pillow, and stop her ears, as she used to do when a 
 child, that she might not hear the cries of her brother 
 when his tutor beat him for his slowness at his tasks. 
 But it was of no avail now, for in the murmur of her 
 ears, as her fingers pressed them, she could hear the 
 mufiled thud of every gun sound ; and she had no courage 
 in her to slacken the pressure of her fingers, but rather 
 sought in terror to make it closer still, and this even 
 though her finger-nails, however duly trimmed, must 
 needs cut and give pain within the ear they could not 
 
102 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 shield from the sound without. But in truth this suffo- 
 cated clamour of the battle was in her pillow and in the 
 timbers of the house — nay! in the very earth itself, that 
 had it from the sea. And no ear escaped it, and none but 
 a babe could hear it and be deaf to the truth of its boasted 
 messages of death. For not a gun was fired that day 
 (nor is in any battle) but had it in its heart to do murder, 
 and a Devil's confidence in its success. 
 
 He who reads this may know that one who falls asleep 
 in any steady continuity of sound may easily awaken 
 suddenly if this sound is suddenly checked, and will most 
 likely do so to a certainty if a new sound unlike it come 
 instead. Thus it was with Lucinda, who for all the 
 horror of the gun-thuds in her ears, mixing with the 
 throbbing of her heart, could not find it in her to say 
 nay to oblivion when it came hand-in-hand with sleep. 
 Indeed, it would have been wonderful had she not slept, 
 seeing how great had been the stress of her wakefulness 
 the night before in the proper hours of sleep. So, when 
 she huddled down and crouched, as it were, into her 
 pillow to shut out only a little more of the intolerable 
 sound, a welcome sleep came on her unawares, and the 
 monotonous persistence of the guns, from an evil, became 
 a lullaby, and she slept on, still deeper and deeper. 
 Until, well on towards sundown, there came a change 
 and a great lull. Then slow, intermittent, dropping fire 
 of guns large and small. Then a sense of greater distance, 
 to Lucinda's ears, in the sounds that remained. 
 
 For wheix that lull came at last she moved uneasily, 
 as though towards awakening; and then, when sudden 
 voices near at hand grew loud, as of exultation, and 
 above all the voice of Sir Oliver making great laughter 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 103 
 
 and rejoicing, she started up from her sleep broad awake, 
 crying out : " What is this — ^where am I ? " And then, 
 casting about to find the story of it, presently remem- 
 bered all, and dreaded to go up to her lover on the roof 
 for pure fear of what she might hear had come about 
 while she lay sleeping. 
 
 But that is soon settled for her. For the servant, 
 Susan Trant, coming a-tiptoe to see if her mistress were 
 awake, or like to be, finds her moving, and calls out to 
 her master above, that he may know. Whereupon he, 
 coming quickly down the stairway or ladder that led to 
 the roof, runs to her room with great acclamation and 
 rejoicing, calling out to her what a grievous miss she has 
 had of a great and glorious sight ! 
 
 To all which she only says : " I pray God neither hath 
 had the better ! " And he replies : " Thou art a silly fool, 
 Lucy! 'Tis a victory for his blessed Majesty, King 
 Charles. And if his gallant Admiral be not carrion al- 
 ready, there will be a coronet for him and a fat endow- 
 ment thereto. Maybe, though, the fish are sharing him ! — 
 even now ! " 
 
 " Oh, Oliver mine ! how can you be so horrible ? For 
 God^s love, stint in such horrible talk! But thou dost 
 not mean it, dear love! 'Tis only that thou knowest not 
 of slaughter, and all thy dream is of stage-play that 
 means nothing." For Lucinda had in her heart the 
 thought of the smooth ship's decks all slippery with 
 blood, and the corners where men, wounded to the death 
 past hope, had crawled to die. For she had seen, at 
 Tilbury Fort a ship such as these largest were, out on the 
 water yonder. 
 
 But Oliver winced at her words, as well he might, even 
 had the last blood he shed not been her father's. But 
 
104 A-N AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 
 
 he made believe to laugh — ho, ho 1 " Come along, mis- 
 tress,'' said he, " and see the Lord High Admiral of the 
 States General, and what our gunners have brought him 
 to ! Faith, I have seen a sight this day that, had I missed 
 it, would have left me sorrowing. Come along, wench! 
 JSTo more talk ! " 
 
 Then Lucinda goes with him, if it must be so, and 
 shudders to look out seaward. And well is she justified 
 in her fear. For what sees she next on the water where 
 the ships of either fleet, so few hours since, were afloat in 
 all their bravery of white sail and flowing pennon? 
 English are they, or Dutch, those scattered, shattered 
 hulks, half-hidden in the smoke of their own conflagra- 
 tion, through which she scarcely can distinguish, gaze as 
 she may, their fellows out beyond, now making for the 
 oflSng, pursuers and pursued? 
 
 But Sir Oliver would have her look at one, the largest, 
 and rejoice with him at her plight. " Oho, Lucy mine I " 
 quoth he. " Where is he now, your swan-bird on the 
 water ? Dost thou know him again, silly lass ? " And 
 Lucinda gave a cry of pain to see how sorely the battle 
 had maimed her sweet ship of the morning, lying mastless 
 in a cloud of smoke fed by some burning fire in her own 
 heart. For it was vomiting black vapour out, thick but 
 flameless, from two or three low-lying ports amidships. 
 And a party of the crew, who looked but spots as they 
 climbed over a great cumber of fallen mast afloat against 
 the bulwarks, must have had a sore time of it with this 
 smoke. At which Sir Oliver saw cause to be mightily 
 amused. " They think to cut free," said he, " but some 
 of them will choke first, I warrant.'' 
 
 Then Lucinda, all pity for these few she might see 
 saved, and keen with interest awakened, watched for 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHO:^^OE 105 
 
 them, as the smoke-blast wavered for a moment, plying 
 axes and hand-saws to cleai* the entangled wreck. And 
 one indomitable man she could make out who hung 
 working to the rigging almost in the very smoke itself. 
 Whom she so loved for his valour that she would have 
 Sir Oliver tell her how this man prospered in his work, 
 noting it through his spy-glass that made it plain to be 
 seen by him, though she herself saw dimly. 
 
 " I can see the knave,'' said he, with his eye at the 
 lens. " He is bare to the waist, and strong as a bull. 
 But he won't do it — he won't do it ! " Sir Oliver 
 chuckled. ^^ Ho, ho ! There goes his chopper now — 
 now — ^now! See the chips fly as he strikes! But . ,. .. 
 ho, ho ! , , . . the smoke is too hard on him. He won't 
 doit!" 
 
 " Oh, but keep the glass on him, Oliver sweet, and tell 
 me how comes it he gives not up — choking, poor fellow ! " 
 
 " I^ot yet awhile, Lucy lass ! For he swings back, and 
 hangs by his legs till the smoke passes, and then to it 
 again! But he won't do it! " 
 
 " Oh, but if he might, and I might know it ! " And 
 then, indeed, one could have thought her prayer had 
 been heard, for a dim cheering came from the distance, 
 and then the seamen on the wreck were climbing up the 
 bulwarks above them, and the mast and wreckage seemed 
 to float free. But the smoke poured thick from the ports, 
 never slacking. Then Lucinda heard again the sweet 
 bugle-sound, as she had heard it in the still morning. 
 
 Just what happened it was hard to see, and the causes 
 of it harder still. This, however, was sure, that the great 
 ship, free of the wreck, swung slowly round so that the 
 smoking ports were hidden out of sight, and the whole 
 ship clearer to be seen. Then, too, could Lucinda see 
 
lOG AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 certain boats with oarsmen, but packed full of others 
 abaft; and even in the bows, so that they were weighted 
 almost to danger point. And these boats were creeping 
 slowly, slowly towards the great ship; nearer and nearer, 
 as she, now unencumbered by wreckage, though too inert 
 upon the water to answer to her rudder, floated, a listless 
 hulk, to await their coming. 
 
 " O the luck of it ! " shouted Sir Oliver joyously. " To 
 see it all and miss none! And all the smoke clean gone! 
 Which wilt thou wager on, Mistress Lucy? Our men or 
 the Dutchmen ? " 
 
 But Lucinda clapped her hands on her heart. " O 
 Gcfti, have mercy ! '' she cries. " I see you mean they 
 will fight. Oh, Heaven avert it ! I had but thought they 
 were coming to give help.'' 
 
 Then Sir Oliver laughed poisonously ; but the girl could 
 not see he was a devil, because she loved him, as is the 
 way with women. And his answer was : " Help enough ! 
 Help to put the fire out, and get what's left of the ship 
 to Plymouth port, or where not, to share prize money on. 
 But they'll have to pay toll to the Dutchmen, if I see 
 right, in blood or broken bones." For his eye was at the 
 telescope. 
 
 Then Lucinda would have run, as she did before. But 
 Sir Oliver shouts to her to come back, in a harsh voice." 
 "Don't be a fool, girl; come you back! I should have 
 thought thou wert a woman by now." But though she 
 obeyed him, she gasped and shuddered at what was to 
 come. And it was an ill business for a woman with a 
 tender heart to watch, even from afar. For though the 
 burst of cheering, as the boat's crews, with a terrible deter- 
 mination, stormed the sides of the helpless ship, had in 
 it what stirred for a moment a sympathy in Lucinda's 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 107 
 
 heart ; yet when the sound of cheering gave place to what 
 she knew were broken cries of agony, and rage, and curses, 
 she went utterly sick at heart, and prayed that she might 
 die. But none the less must she remain spell-bound, while 
 the horror is enacted before her eyes; while her lover, 
 exultant in his glee, exclaims aloud on all he sees, that 
 she too may know the glory of war, and have done with 
 her puling terrors. 
 
 " Have an eye for the man with the hatchet ! " shouts 
 he in his excitement, forgetting that she has no spy-glass, 
 as he has. " He'll make some play for us, that fellow will 
 — damn him ! " And then presently : " I have him now — 
 I have him! . . . he's down, but he's up again! . . . 
 he's met his match though, this time. . . . No — he 
 hasn't! . . . Yes! — he has. . . . By God, they're 
 at the grips for it . . . have at the throat of him, boy, 
 have at the throat! . . . 'ware the open gangway, ye 
 stark fools . . . 'tis bad alike for both . . . there ye 
 go — over — over — over ! " . . . 
 "Oh, Oliver! — where are they?" 
 " Gone to feed the fishes, chuck, I take it." 
 Then Lucinda, faint and fainter in her despair, saw 
 but dimly how the British crew, beaten back and beaten 
 back, were in the end triumphant and swarming over the 
 gunwale of the great ship. Nor did she note at all how 
 in the lessening light — for time had run quick, and the 
 day had waned — the dead-light ports showing more and 
 more a lurid glare of untamed fire below the decks. Nor 
 how the crippled British man-ofwar the crews had left 
 was settling down upon the water, and would surely soon 
 go under. 
 
 For in that very moment of the boarders' triumph the 
 creeping fires below reached the powder magazines. And 
 
108 a:^ affaie of dishoxok 
 
 the last image on her eyes was of a great flame shooting 
 straight up, to all seeming from the very bowels of the 
 vessel; from which, as from a centre radiating upwards 
 and outwards, expanding on every hand and covering all 
 upon the sea, came ridge on ridge and fold on fold of 
 vapour, black, white, and flaming, casting forth beyond 
 its vortex of destruction shattered fragments of what had 
 been the ship, and what one shuddered to think had been 
 the living bodies of its crew. 
 
 For such time as her heart could beat in, her tongue 
 feel for speech to ask what was it that had happened, this 
 image was an image and no more. And then the world 
 shook, and the house shook, and the air was full of cries 
 and the sound of shivered glass — for not a window-pane 
 towards the sea but was broken — and the awful crash had 
 come that was the answer to the question she would have 
 asked, and found no voice for. 
 
 All the world, and the sunset light, and the image of 
 her lover as he turned and spoke, swam in her failing 
 vision. She just heard Sir Oliver's words, " A brave 
 finish ! 'No more to-night ! " and then, as he shut his 
 telescope, she fell like a stone, and knew no more. 
 
CHAPTEE VIII 
 
 Truly all hearts should be of a tenderness for those of 
 this world who have to live in it to be able to bear its 
 cruelties alike. Or at the worst there should be none so 
 great a difference betwixt any two of us as now, when 
 what seems but a passing jest to one may wrench the soul 
 of his neighbour near to death; when the ear of one may 
 hear but a stave of merry music in what sounds Hell's 
 discord to another, and when the cramping of the rack 
 wrests a cry of pain from one unwillingly compelled to 
 see its victim^s torture; while another, glutted with the 
 sweet sight, greets the sounds with the chuckle of a Devil. 
 
 In Sir Oliver's world there should have been no heart 
 more callous to a fellow-creature's agony than must needs 
 be where the butcher has perforce to slay the lamb — nay, 
 where its Maker has in His Divine Wisdom ordained that 
 none shall live except at the price of his mother's torment. 
 In such a world it goes hard with those who are dis- 
 quieted by every manly sport; to whom the sound of the 
 sportsman's gun tells of the stricken bird escaping with a 
 broken wing, that wonders why it cannot fly, and looks 
 for its mate in vain; who pray that the happy fish, deep 
 in the still cool water, may be shrewd enough to bilk the 
 angler, and send him supperless to bed. To such as these 
 the thought that all suffering has been wisely ordained 
 brings little ease of heart, and the reflection that all 
 things are the result of an inevitable Divine Law is of 
 small comfort, in the minds of many even causing ques- 
 
 109 
 
110 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 tion of the Omnipotence of the Lawgiver, or of His solici- 
 tude for His creatures. 
 
 But Lucinda was not among those who would push 
 their puny indictments to the throne of the Most High, 
 and sit in judgment on Him by the light of the reasoning 
 He Himself created. She bore the pain she knew must 
 foe, at the sight of the ruined plumage of the blood- 
 stained bird, the sodd-en glitter of the murdered fish, but 
 spoke no blame of rod or gun, only holding him the truest 
 sportsman who kills outright; and that he who will not 
 leave his fish to gasp to death in the sun, for mercy and 
 tenderness of heart, is neither the worser angler nor the 
 greater fool thereby. But for these men that had slain 
 each other in their valour but now, the voice of their 
 blood was going up to Heaven from the sea that had en- 
 gulfed them, as the voice of Abel went up from the ground ; 
 and, for her, the brand of Cain was on every man of them, 
 or his memory. 
 
 So it fell out now on the morning after this great 
 battle of Solebay, as its name is, that Lucinda shrank 
 from the seashore where it had but yesterday been a joy 
 to her to walk, for sheer dread of looking out on the wa- 
 ters where the fight had been; and this, however Oliver 
 might mock at her, saying there was never a sail now left 
 in sight, though one should scour the whole offing in search 
 of one. But she must listen to his bidding, for had he not 
 risen early that he might walk out along the beach with 
 lier to see what of jettison or castaway had drifted shore- 
 ward, as might well be, or even the body of some drowned 
 seaman or marine. But he spoke nothing of such a 
 possibility to Lucinda, having already much ado to per- 
 suade her to his will, she praying always to be allowed to 
 jemain within doors, until the very sun in Heaven that 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOXOK 111 
 
 had shone on the evil deeds of yesterday should cease to 
 be a horror to her, and the sweet world become itself 
 again. 
 
 Kow this desire that Lucinda should never be absent 
 from his side seems to us the one green shrub in the arid 
 desert of a wicked soul; its one redemption, that may by 
 God's grace yet stand between it and its final fall into 
 the black gulf that yawns for him who of his own evil will 
 becomes a Devil outright. Let those beware, who, being 
 misled by words, would tear asunder sinners each of 
 whom has but one nourishment for good, the love each 
 bears the other; and substitute for it the fruitless bitter- 
 ness of Repentance. 
 
 But this is a tale, not a homily; and it dwells upon 
 Oliver's actual Love for Lucinda's self, apart from such. 
 impulses as Man shares with goat and monkey — and there 
 was little taint of either now in the continuous memory 
 he carried with him of her sweet, soft dark eyes, her sweet, 
 soft dark hair, and the feel of it — because it is a solace to 
 thought to dream of any seed in such a soul that may 
 grow, in the seons, to be other than a tree of Damnation. 
 Measure this man's crime against that of fighting men 
 who slay their kind at the bidding of a War Lord, who 
 half persuade themselves their act is right; and then say 
 if it is not well this little spark of light should live and 
 grow. It has the better chance that even now it is a 
 shrewd discomfort to him to think that could she know 
 whose sword pierced her father, he might have to give her 
 up before he should be well weary of her, and ready to cast 
 her away. 
 
 Therefore, when he rose early to wander out along the 
 coast, hoping that the relics of the fray might not all have 
 been swept away by the tide, he would not be content 
 
112 'AN AFFAIE OF DISHO:>^OK 
 
 except Lucinda put aside her hatred of the memories of 
 yesterday, and came in his company to make him merry. 
 And he bade her leave her sour looks at home for the next 
 grey sky she should awaken to, and not waste them on 
 so fair a dawning. For the sun shone as joyously for 
 three hours past, when they came again to the shore and 
 the little waves that hurried on to kiss it and die, as though 
 all the story of slaughter could be forgotten in a night. 
 And the lark was singing in heaven about other things, 
 above the land ; while the sea-bird's cry said never a word 
 of the blood that had defiled its waters. Had it not been 
 for the masts of a sunken ship well out to sea near where 
 she had been afloat in all her pride the evening before, all 
 the stretch of ocean would have been bare beneath the 
 blue, dappled a little overhead with serried cloudlets span- 
 ning half its vault, telling rather of wind to come than 
 rain. 
 
 But Lucinda's eyes, sore with tears, could scarcely 
 bear the dazzle of the light, and the flashing whiteness 
 of the foam, with its millions of diamonds in the sun, that 
 would at another time have filled her heart with joy. 
 How dared the world be so resplendent with the glory 
 of a day, so hard upon the heels of one that had made her 
 soul in its despair cry out alone for the solitude of mourn? 
 ing, and for silence ? But for Sir Oliver, he was in high 
 glee at the end of the fray, and in no concern for the 
 dead or wounded, even of his own countrymen. " Where 
 be the knaves and their noise now, my Lucy? " said he. 
 ^', . . Where be they? . . . Why — ^well on their way 
 to pay a visit to the Thames, those that are not gone 
 on a visit to the fishes." 
 
 " Which are the happier, Oliver mine ? " 
 
 '' Of the Dutch, or of the English, wench ? Of the 
 
AlSr AFFAIK OF DISHOl^OK 113 
 
 English, I take it those still above water are best off, 
 having prize-money to share and a merry time to spend 
 it in. Of the Dutch I know not, except it be such as have 
 long purses, and can buy their freedom to the benefit of 
 his Majesty's exchequer. For prisoners have but a 
 wearisome time of it, in jail or at work on a chain- 
 gang. Better be a bellyful for a school of dogfish ! — if you 
 ask me." 
 
 " Will they release none ? Will all go to prison ? " 
 
 " Those that pay will pack off back, and so might some 
 of the others if there were any captive among the Dutch 
 to exchange for — ^granting such were sound and fit to 
 serve again. Else they might draw their prize-money to 
 tempt the Dutchmen's greed, or wait for their families to 
 scrape up a meal for it. But the sea gives up none for 
 ransom, be it never so freely paid." 
 
 " Have you ever seen a man in a prison, Oliver mine ? " 
 
 " Of a surety ! — and one like to remain a prisoner, 
 many a long year, if he lives to enjoy his irons. And 
 they do live, the jail-birds in their cages. I wonder they 
 die not oftener." 
 
 *' Was this one in chains ? Oh, tell me of him — ^poor 
 creature ! " 
 
 " He was a pirate whose time on the high seas, as I 
 take it, had come to an end for good. He was on the far 
 side of a grating, in the within court of the debtor's jail 
 in Southwark — what do they call it? — the Marshalsea. 
 And my friend I went to see there, for curiosity. ..." 
 
 " Was he, too, a prisoner ? " 
 
 " Ay — of a sort. He was a debtor, and a good friend 
 of mine, for he paid me his losses at quadrille, when he 
 might have used his money for a sop to his creditors. 
 But he would not be off a debt of honour, so I went to see 
 
114 A:^r AFFAIR OF DISHOIS^OR 
 
 him in jail. . . . Well, I was telling thee, wench, and 
 you must be at your questioning ! . . . This Sackvill — 
 that was his name — being merry with wine I had given 
 to drink, must needs thrust at this prisoner with my walk- 
 ing cane, through the bars of his den, to see his mad 
 rage at him, he being all the while in safety, t'other side 
 of a strong grating. But he got little sport of him, for 
 the fellow but opens his eyes and says, ^ Curse thee, ass ! 
 Thou hast spoilt me a dream of the sea. . . .' What's 
 out yonder ? " So spoke Sir Oliver, stopping in his speech 
 to gaze out seawards, and reaching with his hand the while 
 to take from Lucinda his spy-glass, which she had been 
 carrying. 
 
 Then she, following his eyes with hers as she handed 
 him the glass, saw something afloat out towards the sunken 
 wreck that was not a boat, yet was altogether still upon 
 the water ; seeming to lean and move with a motion of its 
 own, more than would come of the mere chopping of the 
 sea beneath a freshening wind. But she could not see the 
 cause of this movement. 
 
 Sir Oliver, taking from her the glass with a slight im- 
 patience that she should not have thought to remove the 
 brass cap or lid, looked through it awhile, resting it on 
 the post of a groin or breakwater for steadiness. Lucinda, 
 longing to hear, must wait till he should choose to speak. 
 But he made no great haste to do so, though he must have 
 known well all the time how she was listening for his 
 voice. 
 
 " Is that scoundrel John Rackham anywhere in sight ? " 
 he said at last, not taking his eye from the telescope. For 
 he had told the groom to follow at an easy distance, to be 
 at hand if needed. 
 
 " Oh, Oliver, what have you seen ? — ^what have you 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 115 
 
 found? . . . Yes, I can see Rackham, on the little 
 bridge. Shall I sign to him ? " 
 
 But her lord was not minded yet awhile to tell what he 
 saw, but only said, still watching : '" Sound twice on my 
 dog- whistle, and disturb me not." IS'ow, the dog-whistle 
 hung loose to his watch-chain; and Lucinda, stooping to 
 take it, followed his bidding, not without fault found that 
 she had shaken him. " Can'st thou not blow a whistle, 
 and not make a pother about it," says he. But truly the 
 girFs hand had been both gentle and skilful, failing only 
 where success seemed almost impossible, the whistle being 
 betwixt Sir Oliver^s breast-pocket and the wooden groin. 
 
 l^ow, John Rackham, who would never go afoot except 
 under compulsion, was making use of this attendance on 
 Sir Oliver to finish the breaking in of a young colt that 
 strained at the rein overmuch to be good for a lady's 
 riding. So when the whistle sounded, he could make 
 short work of coming. Then Sir Oliver took his eye from 
 the glass and spoke to him, never caring that Lucinda 
 was waiting on his words; though, of course, she might 
 hear them — that he granted! That she noticed these 
 little slights to herself scarcely at all, or found excuses for 
 them, was a part of her love for him, just as much as her 
 blindness to his greater torts. She was one who gave not 
 her heart by halves. 
 
 " Get you off to old Ben ThurkilFs, as quick as you 
 may, and find what ails the man that he has not seen 
 yonder fellow left on the wreck. . . . You see him not ? 
 The worse for your eyesight, John Rackham! Wake old 
 Ben up if he sleeps ; souse a pail of water over him, and 
 make him get his boat out and bring the knave ashore, 
 Dutch or English. Tell him to bring him straight away 
 here, where we sit now — not to his own God-forgotten 
 
116 AN AFFAIK OF DISHOISrOK 
 
 midden. Be off sharp, and no words ! " On which the 
 groom turned back whither he had come, for there was no 
 bridle road by the beach to the little fisher-village two 
 miles off, the nearest place for a boat; seeing that the 
 inroad of the sea had eaten up the old coast-road, and the 
 new beach had chosen an ill place for the natural growth 
 of a fresh track, and it had been no man's profit to put 
 labour into the making of one. So there would be the best 
 part of half-an-hour to wait before a boat could be 
 despatched to the succour of that lonely survivor, whoever 
 he was, upon the floating wreck. 
 
 " Oh, but, Oliver, can you see him ? Are you sure ? 
 For look as I may, I see no man." 
 
 " Look once more, Lucy sharp-eyes, Lucy bat's-eyes ! 
 Look once more, and see if you see not a pair of them. 
 for there be two, to my judgment. And either both are 
 Dutch, or both English." 
 
 " Now, dearest man, be reasonable. Treat me not like 
 a fool, because I am a woman. How can you tell that 
 both alike are of one nation, and yet not see enough to say 
 which ? " 
 
 " He would have a pretty wit to tell if a man were 
 Dutch or English, except he could see his clothes, or hear 
 his lingo. And yet I know this, that both are alike, and 
 no sworn enemies, and thou mayst even spend our 
 waiting-time in making a guess why. Guess now, 
 shrewdly ! " 
 
 " I cannot guess. How should I ? Tell me, Oli- 
 ver." For Lucinda thought, as she knew nothing of 
 Holland, this was something she must be in the dark 
 about. 
 
 Sir Oliver, at his glass again, laughed as at a little 
 triumph. " Then I will take pity on thee. Mistress Lucy, 
 
AN AFFAIE OE DISHOKOK 117 
 
 and tell the riddle. Easy enough! You saw the wreck 
 move^ but now ? " 
 
 " While you looked through the glass ? As I got the 
 whistle ? I saw it." 
 
 " That was when the one of them, of whom I see 
 naked shoulders, and no more, helped the other, who 
 seems little better than crippled, to a firm place on the 
 wreckage, himself keeping always in the water beside him. 
 Is it like he would do so if they were enemies ? " 
 
 " I know not," said Lucinda ; and thereat, at the doubt 
 in her voice. Sir Oliver laughed in scorn. 
 
 " What! — to fight with a man one hour, and give place 
 to him the next. Why, that fellow yonder could have 
 sent his mate to feed the fishes, and got a good secure 
 hold for himself, any time! Depend on't, he's his senior 
 officer, and there's money in it for him. . . . What's 
 he after, next?" And Sir Oliver remained silent, 
 watching. 
 
 Lucinda, also watching, thought she saw something on 
 the water, moving from the wreck and giving back the 
 sunlight, but in the turmoil of the little wave-crests, 
 for the wind was rising, she could not have said if the 
 flashing were not the wing of a gull perched on some 
 drift, and blown by the wind. Her other thought, that 
 it was the white flesh of a swimmer, caught by the light, 
 she put no store by; for why should either man swim 
 away from his place of safety? Yet she was mistaken, 
 for presently Sir Oliver, who had kept all he saw to 
 himself, and what he thought of it, takes a swimmer for 
 granted in his speech, saying : " The rogue will be a fine 
 swimmer if he passes the Scrimbles," and then was 
 silent, intent upon his telescope. K^ow, " the Scrimbles " 
 was the name given by the folk on that coast to a scour 
 
118 a:^ affaie of dishonor 
 
 or current a mile off shore, of no great width, but of a 
 dangerous swiftness; such that fisher-boats, returning to 
 Shelving Creek, where was their usual anchorage, would 
 make for Thorney Point, or Stowe — that is to say, three 
 miles either way, according to the run of the tide — to 
 fetch the Creek with any security. Therefore, Lucinda, 
 hearing that yonder spot out to sea was a living man 
 fighting for his life, could scarcely draw breath for the 
 intentness of her watching him. And every time he 
 vanished, and was not seen again on the instant, she 
 had to choke back a cry, scarcely able to wait for his 
 return. 
 
 But Sir Oliver, with more grin on his face than one 
 could set down to the mere twist of an eye at a telescope, 
 was watching the swimmer as the true sportsman watches 
 the coursers and the hare ; not quite without a feeling for 
 the one he has no wager on. For this man, afloat there 
 two miles off shore, caught in the sweep of the terrible 
 current, was in his indomitable fight for life making sport 
 for Sir Oliver, and deserved well of him, as the heart- 
 stricken hare that leaves its fur in the fangs of the grey- 
 hound deserves well of the dog's owner — who will eat 
 him, when tender for the cook. At one time it seemed 
 the swimmer would have the better of the sea, and touch 
 land over by Stowe Pound, as they call the wall that 
 shows four-square at the lowest tides. And then 
 Lucinda was all triumph on his behalf, seeing that he 
 had swum so well, and would have Oliver promise that 
 this man should be found at Stowe, and made much of, 
 and sent back to his own country with money in his 
 pocket. 
 
 Then Sir Oliver, his eye ever at the glass, spoke 
 chuckle-wise, making Lucinda shudder. ^' One thing I 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 119 
 
 will promise, fairest Lucy mine," said he : " that if you 
 will find your man at Stowe and bring him alive to the 
 Manor, he shall be fed like a king, and not packed off 
 empty-handed. Further, he shall have a suit of my 
 clothes, seeing he will come ashore bare enough, if he 
 be not too big to get inside them. Wilt thou be happy 
 with that pledge, Lucy mine ? " And then he snickered 
 again over it, and Lucinda knew what he meant. 
 
 ^^ Oh, Oliver, Oliver ! You mean he will not reach the 
 shore! Is there no boat can save him? Will he not be 
 seen from Stowe? Oh, let me go, Oliver, that I may 
 rouse them up. They do not see him — oh, they do not 
 see him ! " 
 
 ^^ Eun, Lucy mine, if you are minded to run. It will 
 take an hour by the road to get speech of them at Stowe. 
 Unless you have a fancy to wade the creek, which you 
 may do in a quarter of an hour less. But your man will 
 be drifted well out to sea by then, if he keep above water 
 at all. Try it, Lucy mine, try it ! " Then the girl saw 
 how hopeless was this poor swimmer's case, and hid her 
 face and her tears and her terror, while Sir Oliver, still 
 on the watch to see the very last of him, said now and 
 again, " He's gone ! ... no, there he is still ! . . . 
 how the knave fights for his life ! . . . now he's gone 
 ... no, he floats on his back. But he'll never reach 
 shore that way, you may swear to that, Lucy ! " and so on. 
 However, the end was to come, and presently he clapped 
 to his telescope with " Od's my life! — he's done his best. 
 Come out of thy head-wrap and look round for him, 
 Mistress Lucy — ho, ho ! " And Lucinda could love him, 
 strange to say, for all this laugh; for she thought him 
 not in earnest, but making a kind of show, as of manhood, 
 and pardoned what seemed to her an excusable humour 
 
120 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOIS^OE 
 
 of his, just to plague her for her weakness, and urge her 
 to greater strength. So besotted was she with her blind 
 belief in his real wealth of heart. 
 
 " Oh, Oliver, Oliver ! I dare not look on the empty 
 sea. I am sick to think of it." 
 
 " Silly wench ! As though the sea had never choked 
 a man to death before! Next time you look on it for 
 pleasure, think of all the dead men it hath in keeping, 
 and the bones of 'em all, among the fishes. Now, when 
 are those lazy loons going to turn out with that boat of 
 theirs ? " On which he drew out his glass again, turning 
 it the other way of the shore-line, to where he looked for 
 the boat to come. And shortly after, at sight of some- 
 thing, closed it again, saying now we should know if the 
 other fellow were living or dead. Lucinda then, follow- 
 ing his sight, saw a small boat pushed off from the land, 
 that lifted merrily on the waves. And then that the 
 two rowers paused to hoist a white sail on the bare mast, 
 that took the wind and sent the little boat ascud across 
 the sparkling sea. So joyous was it in the sunlight as it 
 heeled over to the breeze, she almost found it in her 
 heart to forget death, and think of the sweetness of life 
 alone. 
 
 The boat made straight for the wreckage, dropping the 
 sail as it neared; and then the floating timbers hid both 
 boat and rowers, but their movement told of the shifting 
 of the derelict man upon them into the boat. Which 
 being done, the boat came clear of the wreck, and the 
 little sail was up again so quick, hiding those in the boat, 
 that Lucinda had hardly time to see that now it held 
 three men, not two. 
 
 " Why do they not come hitherward straight ? " she 
 asked. " Has not John Eackham told them ? " 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOXOK 121 
 
 " How should they come straight in the eye of the 
 wind, foolish wench? They must make tacks to reach 
 us here. You will see them shift round the sail and turn 
 directly." 
 
 " They are not turning, Oliver. Mine eyes have the 
 best of it, for all your telescope. They are heading 
 straight for Stowe. I know — I know! They are on the 
 track of the man that swam. Oh, pray Heaven they 
 find him ! " 
 
 " They are on a f ooFs errand, then ; only for the chance 
 of giving him Christian burial, if they care for that. 
 However, he is English — -that much I know." 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 " As I told thee ; they were of one nation, else had 
 this one not helped the other." 
 
 " But both may be Dutch." 
 
 " A blessing on thy pretty understanding ! If they 
 were Dutch, how should old Thurkill know of the man 
 that swam ? " 
 
 " It may be the other spoke English." 
 
 " No English old Ben would ever be the wiser for ! 
 Trust him for that! Besides, the old fox would never 
 go out of his way to pick up a Dutchman. Depend upon 
 it, both of our own side — none of the enemy's." 
 
 And so the talk went on as they watched the little 
 white sail fly over the waters, to and fro; for Lucinda 
 was in the right of it, and the boat was searching for 
 a thing hard to find in any sea not flat as a mirror — a 
 dead body just afloat and no more, all but flush with the 
 water. She could see one of the seamen stand as high 
 as he might, to look down upon the sea as the boat 
 lifted. But, as Sir Oliver had said, they had their 
 errand for nothing, though to Lucinda's thought it was 
 
122 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 hard they should be called fools for all the pains they 
 were at. Still, she shrank not from him, accounting his 
 roughness but a phase of speech, and no more. 
 
 An hour passed, and still they sat watching, while the 
 little boat still shot to and fro, searching the waters near 
 and far. Then, just as Sir Oliver, beginning to be im- 
 patient for food, would return to the house — for he was 
 always well disposed for a draught of wine or ale half- 
 an-hour before the midday meal — it looked as though the 
 searchers had wearied of their search, for the boat turned 
 and made straight for where they sat, getting the best 
 of the south-west wind, now freshening off the shore. 
 So they waited there, and Lucinda's heart beat hard to 
 see the man who was saved. If only he were English, 
 as her lover thought, and might tell them the story of 
 the fight, and what man he was whom they had seen 
 drown ! 
 
 Scattered folk of the sparse fishing population, or 
 cottagers from a little way inland, whom the report had 
 reached of someone saved from the ships, were gathering 
 along the beach by now, waiting for the boat to come 
 ashore from its search. As she came nearer, the sprinkling 
 of spectators, converging to the spot where they thought 
 her surest to touch land, grew to a little crowd, abiding 
 the result in silence, or speaking among themselves; 
 for they knew of the man who had just gone under, and 
 as they lived ever in the presence of death by drowning, 
 as must be where there are fisher-folk, they could not 
 make light of it, as one may who lives far away inland, 
 out of hearing of the sea. 
 
 The little boat ran swiftly, well nigh gunwale under as 
 she lurched to the wind, for it freshened still, blowing off 
 shore; then struck her sail close inland, to make way for 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 123 
 
 the rowers to work their oars again for the few yards 
 still needed to beach her. And so she came in, though 
 in less time she might have run slantwise on to the 
 shingle, had she carried no disabled man. But there 
 was need for thought how this man should be least shaken 
 in the landing of him ; and for this the men ashore could 
 lift her easiest and run her up clear of the sea, if she 
 lay straight in at the last. 
 
 On which Lucinda, running ahead of Sir Oliver — for 
 the boat made her landing a short half-furlong, at a 
 guess, from where they had been sitting — went close up 
 to the stern, following her as she was half-dragged, half- 
 lifted, out of reach of the rising tide. Then says she to 
 the man left in her, who has slipped down on the loose 
 planking for more steadiness, and lies to all seeming help- 
 less : ^^ God save you, friend ! Are you English or 
 Dutch?" 
 
 But whether his answer is in English or Dutch she 
 eannot tell, so little voice has he left in him to answer 
 with. But Reuben Thurkill, who was with his father, 
 Ben Thurkill, will answer for him. He's a New Eng- 
 lander, back from America. He had told them that much 
 on the boat. 
 
 Then says his father : "I took him for a Portugal. 
 But thy hearing is better than mine, boy." 
 
 " Is his eyesight hurt, that he has a bandage over his 
 €yes ? " Thus Lucinda. And Sir Oliver, coming up, 
 having taken his time, not to show too keen a curiosity 
 about this man, would have had this bandage removed, 
 to see his face the better. But Lucinda besought him 
 against this so earnestly that he gave it up; for it may 
 be he wished to stand well with those dwelling round 
 about, and there were many present. " Have him to 
 
124: 'AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 
 
 the house, dearest Sir Oliver/' said she, " and there I 
 will take it off with mine own hands, so he may come to 
 no harm in the removal of it." And she turned her mind 
 to the recalling of all the remedies she had heard of for 
 injury to the eyes, as the injection of the gum of cedar 
 of Libanus, or a poultice of bramble-leaves boiled in 
 water. For in those days all women prided themselves 
 on their knowledge of simple remedies that came ready 
 to hand; seeing it would often chance no doctor could 
 be found within a day's ride; and there was none such 
 that she had heard spoken of near Kips Manor, few 
 resources of civilisation being within reach now, since 
 the sea swallowed up the township of which it was a 
 suburb in ^ the days of Elizabeth. 
 
 But for the moment it was clearly best to leave his 
 face protected by the handkerchief the boatmen had 
 bound it with, and to bear him up to the house as soon 
 as might be. It took but little time — for seafaring folk 
 are quick-handed at such work — to make a litter with a 
 pair of oars and some cross-battens from the flooring of 
 the boat; Sir Oliver promising, as though he would have 
 all see how great was his liberality in so doing, to make 
 good the sail-sheet of good hemp cordage that was cut 
 in short lengths to tie the framework across and across 
 at the angles, spoiling it for all other use. And thereto 
 the sail-canvas was folded to a sort of bed, against the 
 hardness of the battens, and the man placed thereon, 
 seeming near insensible, and borne up to the house on 
 the shoulders of four young men, Lucinda having placed 
 her own light scarf to shelter his head and neck from the 
 sun-blaze, now at its hottest. For by now it was mid- 
 day, and Sir Oliver was impatient for food and drink, 
 as his wont was. 
 
AK AFFAIK OF DISHOE^OR 12'5 
 
 " What said he to you in the boat, Master Thurkill ? ^' 
 said Lueinda to the old fisherman. 
 
 " I was slow to catch his words, mistress ; and thejr 
 might have been another tongue than English of these 
 parts, to my hearing. But my son's ears are younger 
 than mine, and he made out another man had been on the 
 wreck and had swummen away for the shore, for assist- 
 ance, if he could light on it. But he'd have had to be a 
 rare swimmer to get this side of the Scrimbles in a full 
 tide. It was him we started out to seek. But we found 
 nowt of him, and he's past help now." 
 
 The young man Reuben, at his corner of the litter, 
 turned his head to say : " He was a Dutchman, by name 
 Yanhelst. This one is English, but I couldn't be sure 
 to say the name of him right. . . . What did you make 
 it out to be, father? ..." 
 
 " A Spaniard sort of name. Malovra — ^Maloovra — ■ 
 Vincent. ..." 
 
 " There you have it ! Vincent Malloovara. ..." 
 
 " [N"ever Vincent Mauleverer ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, mistress ! You speak it better than I 
 do." 
 
 " What has my lady found so good to laugh at ? " says 
 Sir Oliver, coming within hearing, having hung behind 
 some paces to speak with John Rackham, who had just 
 ridden back from his errand, and to rate him for being so 
 long behindhand. 
 
 " Listen to this, now, Oliver ! " cries Lueinda. " Or 
 come hither and guess the name of the man off the 
 wreck. Thou wilt never guess it, that's certain ! " And 
 then she fell back to join him, and they spoke apart, 
 out of hearing of the rest. John Rackham, being nearest, 
 heard surprise in his master's voice, and that he said: 
 
126 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 ^^ What, your brother's name, in Virginia ! Od's my 
 life! — two of the same name, and you knew it not." 
 
 But the groom was a taciturn man and glum, who kept 
 all his chance hearings back, to use them to his advantage 
 as he best might. So none knew, but himself and Sir 
 Oliver, why the Lady of the Manor, as Lucinda was 
 called by the fisher-folk, should laugh out in her surprise 
 at the name of the disabled man on the litter. And when 
 Mrs. Trant, at the Manor, after asked it of him, his reply 
 was that the fellow was some Dutch shellum, that being 
 a cant epithet, derived from a Dutch word, current at 
 that date, and meaning a scoundrel — a worthless fellow. 
 Eut as for his name, he had had enough ado to keep a 
 hand on his horse, which would not give in to the rein, 
 without listening to gibberish. For all tongues not his 
 own were gibberish, according to John Rackham. 
 
CHAPTEE IX 
 
 " If his ejes be out, and he knows not thy voice, nor my 
 name never came to his ears till now, plague take me if I 
 see any good to come of his enlightenment ! " Thus Sir 
 Oliver, at his wine, to Lucinda. She for her part is all 
 tears, and in great distress at something lately come to her 
 knowledge. Her tirewoman has done her work but ill, or 
 she herself has dishevelled her hair with a careless hand ; 
 and she has sent away more dishes than one untasted ; not 
 caring, she says, for supper on so hot and close an evening. 
 
 F.or the afternoon of the day has gone by, and she knows 
 now who the man is whom a strange chance has brought 
 beneath the roof of her lover. 
 
 " But oh, Oliver, is it not hard to bear ? Think, 
 sweetheart, think! My dear father's son, whom you 
 never saw ! Think of the cruelty, that I cannot take him 
 in my arms and kiss him as I kissed him for farewell eight 
 years ago when he went off to cross the great sea alone! 
 Eight long years ago! A boy, not twenty! And there 
 was I, and there was Amy, and there was my mother! 
 And none of us could kiss him enough for such a parting. 
 And now . . . and now . . . ! '^ 
 
 ^ And now thou wilt be a fool, girl ! But kiss him, if 
 you are minded to do so; only tell him not your name. 
 Say 'tis a new fashion, now the King has come to his own 
 again. Or, look you, kiss him as he sleeps; and, if he 
 wakes — ho, ho ! — put it off on Susan Trant. She'll never 
 be the worse by it ! " 
 
 127 
 
128 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 " You will always have your jest, Oliver mine ! But I 
 know well the pity there is in your heart for me, for all you 
 turn everything to a merriment. Never fear, though, that 
 yincent shall know me again for his sister; it shall be 
 as you say, sweetheart. But if his sight come to him 
 again of a sudden, and he sees me . :. . how then, 
 Oliver?" 
 
 " Keep thine own counsel, girl ! What ! — a little maid 
 of twelve — a buxom wench of twenty! How should thy 
 brother know thee in the face of a firm denial? But it 
 must be none of your half strokes — none of your timorous 
 will-say won't-says ! A good honest lie. Mistress Lucy ! " 
 And here her lover's face all but made Lucinda doubt him, 
 so dark was his look. " He will ask thee thy maiden 
 name, and thou must be ready with one, that there may 
 be no spluttering over it, good-lack! Else it would be a 
 safer game by far to tell him out the whole, and then if 
 he is minded to cross swords with me over what he will 
 call — ho, ho! — his sister's honour, why — there be swords 
 in the house . . . what ails thee, wench? . r.. r. As 
 white as thy handkerchief ! '' 
 
 But though she was white, and feeling sick and des- 
 perate, Lucinda was strong to face the position. She 
 could see reason in Sir Oliver's words; and, worst of all, 
 that should this brother of hers come to a knowledge of 
 the truth, his first aim when his sight returned would be 
 to avenge the wrong done to an honoured name, even 
 though she should pray him on her knees to think of her 
 as in truth Oliver's wife in the eyes of God, and to spare 
 to her a lover dearer than her life. 
 
 Of all confession of sin is any so hard to make as that 
 of the sister who has to speak it to her brother? So 
 Lucinda asked herself, and was gjad to leave the question 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOISTOK 129 
 
 unanswered; trying to believe that all her motive for 
 counterfeiting was in reality her horror of bloodshed; all 
 the stronger that, in the fray that might come about, the 
 victor's sword — whichever he were — must needs pierce 
 her own heart. She could persuade herself that, but for 
 this, she would have no hesitation in laying bare her soul 
 to her brother, and challenging him to answer another 
 question she asked herself again and again. " If this be 
 sin, how comes it that I feel no guilt ? " For she would 
 have it in her heart of hearts that she who marries without 
 love is a greater sinner than she who loves without 
 marriage. And yet, if this be a truth, it must be true 
 also that one of the Holiest of the Church's Sacraments is 
 no more than a mockery, being of no avail to make right 
 a thing wrong in itself. But this headstrong girl is young 
 still, and there is no Divine at hand to make her see how 
 the power of God is manifested in these His Sacraments, 
 whereof this one of holy wedlock can make acceptable to 
 Him a thing His Wisdom would else hold damnable, 
 however much He in His mercy may welcome the sinner 
 who repenteth. But why need we look so curiously into 
 the errors of a wilful girl ? Enough for the moment that 
 she could deceive herself with the thought that she would 
 be consulting her brother's welfare as much as her own, 
 in lending herself to the acting of a falsehood, as her 
 lover in his cunning had suggested. 
 
 " What name would you have me say was mine, if I 
 must play the liar, Oliver ? " said she. 
 
 " Zounds, girl, what can it matter ? Any name you 
 will! Pepys — Oliphant — no! — say, if he asks for it, as 
 he may never do, that your name was Asmondeham; that 
 is, look you, the name of the wife I am wedded to and 
 cannot be quit of. You have her place, so it is no great 
 
130 AIS' AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 
 
 wrong to borrow her name. And then, seeing I have told 
 you of this thing and that about her, you may amuse 
 his lordship, should he press for more particulars, with 
 the like tales about thyself. So shall we be safeguarded 
 from contradiction of each other's stories. . . . How, 
 silly lass? Why, thus — that if he asks me privily what 
 part of the country your kindred are natives of, and I say 
 Shropshire, we shall be both of a tale. And there again 
 an advantage ! As thou knowest nothing of the Salopians, 
 nor of Church Stretton, whence her folk came, neither 
 will he, in all likelihood. So be wise and do as I tell 
 thee." 
 
 Then Lucinda thought to herself how clever a man was 
 this lover of hers, and being blind from love of him, found 
 it an easy task to palliate his counsel of duplicity ; and all 
 the easier that she would thereby be safer in her inter- 
 course with her brother, and not compelled to be al- 
 ways inventing. That would have been very little to 
 her liking; nor was she confident, as some are, that 
 she could make any false history of her own devising 
 plausible. 
 
 The way of her coming to the recognition of her brother 
 was thus. He was brought to the door on his litter, always 
 unconscious, as though he slept; and then, the oars that 
 flanked it being overlong to pass up the stairway, was 
 carried upstairs on the shoulders of Reuben Thurkill, 
 roused and crying out from pain of an injury to his right 
 thigh. Being then placed with all care and gentleness, 
 but much difficulty, on a bed in a room of an upper floor, 
 Lucinda set herself to remove the bandage from his eyes — 
 a thing that called for a light hand, for the face was 
 scorched over all, and the eyebrows and lashes burnt to 
 
AlSr AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 131 
 
 mere black stubble, and all the hair over his brows burnt. 
 But his chin and lips were close shaven, and not so long 
 since. Lucinda did what she might to ease the pain of 
 his burns; applying an unguent of spermaceti, and cover- 
 ing them from the air with cool applications of linen 
 dipped in water with a little vinegar. But for his eyes, 
 they appeared to be in no worse plight than any eyes that 
 seem to see, and see not, or very imperfectly: otherwise, 
 except for the injury to his limb, as aforesaid, and a 
 cutlass-wound in the forearm, of no great seriousness, and 
 a fair allowance of bruises, he seemed to have a sound 
 skin, and indeed to have come very fortunately through a 
 fray such as that of the previous day. 
 
 The nearest surgical help being at Bury Market, seven 
 miles away, John Rackham was despatched to find it, if 
 he might; and seeing that, even if he made the distance 
 over the heath in half-an-hour, it would none the less be a 
 matter of time to find the man he sought, who might be 
 miles away with another patient, and to bring him along 
 on some slow ambling pad to Kips Manor, there would 
 certainly be three hours of waiting until the broken or 
 dislocated thigh-bone could have proper attention. So 
 when the patient had drunk and eaten, and all that was 
 possible had been done towards setting him at ease, 
 Lucinda put herself to find who he was and whence, 
 never then suspecting the truth, and that too in spite of 
 her knowledge that his name was also her brother's. To 
 her this was but a proof that another man had her 
 brother's name. And why not? — seeing that her brother 
 was in America. 
 
 Says she to him then : " Can you, sir, now talk without 
 pain, to tell us who you are, and what we may do best to 
 find your belongings; whether they be kin, or wife, or 
 
132 'AN AFFAIK OF DISHOI^OR 
 
 friends ? Think what rejoicing there will be among them, 
 to hear you have escaped with life." 
 
 To which he makes answer : " I would I could know 
 first before I tell of myself what has befallen mine enemy. 
 Make me but certain that he has come ashore sound and 
 well, and I shall be in all the better trim for the telling of 
 a long story. Until I know of his safety I have no heart 
 for talking of my own affairs. Tell me, mistress, is there 
 no news come to hand of him ? '^ 
 
 " You speak of the man who was with you on the 
 wreck, who swam away before the boat came — ^why, I 
 know not. There is no news of him yet. But he may get 
 ashore if he can keep afloat till the slack of the tide." 
 
 " What a fool was I that I could not keep my wits an 
 hour longer! If I could have but spoken the words to 
 keep your fellows to the search, we should have found 
 him. Or, in default of that, we should have sought till 
 the night fell. But I pray Heaven he has saved himself 
 by now." 
 
 '^ Did you not say to the rowers this man was a Dutch- 
 man?" 
 
 " He was a Dutchman, and mine enemy. But he was 
 my good friend and brother for all that, and I owe him 
 my life, and would give it gladly for his, or to do him 
 a good turn. You, mistress, are the lady of this house, 
 as I take it, but I can only see you dimly — ^more^s the 
 pity! — as one sees through a fog. Something has gone 
 amiss with my eyesight, since the great ship blew up over 
 yonder. ..." 
 
 " She was the Dutch Admiral ? " 
 
 " Ay — ^the flagship. I was aboard the Cadmus frigate 
 of fifty guns, gone to the bottom now, a mile farther out 
 to sea. Our commander was Captain Askew. We had 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHQI^OR 133 
 
 just joined the fleet from cruising in the Channel, and 
 were short-handed, having sent home such a many men in 
 prizes to Harwich/' 
 
 ^' Had there been other fights then, before ? " 
 " Not a gun fired, that I saw. For the Dutch fleet were 
 safe in the Texel. These were just merchantmen, home 
 from the Indies, who never had a thought that war was 
 declared till we sent marines aboard to tell 'em they were 
 the lawful prisoners of His Gracious Majesty King 
 Charles. I was sorry for the poor devils — after years 
 away maybe ! — all of 'em hungry for a meal at home, and 
 a welcome from their wives." 
 
 Then it was that the thought crossed Lucinda's mind 
 that this man's voice was not altogether strange to her, 
 but only as a passing wonderment; for, did she not know 
 her brother was in Virginia ? Knowing it for a certainty, 
 she imputed what was really a recognition of him, in the 
 bud, to an influence, akin to witchery, of the knowledge 
 that her brother's name was this man's also. Her mind 
 was not at its best, said she to herself, to judge of any- 
 thing. See what the tension of the last two days had 
 been! She was the victim of nervous fancies— the sport 
 of the moment. Why, no sooner had this illusion of his 
 voice taken possession of her, than another must needs 
 come sharp on the heels of it, that his hand as it lay on 
 the coverlid was such a hand as Vincent's might have 
 grown to be, given a life of exposure such as his, and con- 
 tinual warfare against the red men his letters had told of, 
 ill their own forests. So strong was what she as yet 
 counted a mere distemper of a brain overstrung, that as 
 he lay there speaking through the linen cloth she had 
 thrown over his eyes to veil them from the light, a long- 
 ing came on her to raise it and look again on his face, 
 
134 AN AFFAIR OF DISHOIS^OK 
 
 that she might be sure it was not Vincent's. But she 
 struggled against it as a childish fancy, and set herself 
 to getting from him the story of the fight of yesterday. 
 
 " Is it great pain to you to talk ? " said she. " If so, 
 let me hear all these things from you another time." 
 
 " It is no worse pain to talk than to lie still. Indeed, 
 talking suits me the better of the two, despite the trouble 
 of a bruised limb. But I would I knew what has befallen 
 my good friend of the wreck, whom I owe my life to.'' 
 
 " We may hear of him soon. He was a strong swimmer, 
 and may have landed at some far point on the coast, and 
 though he may have chanced on help and a shelter, there 
 may easily have been none to send with the news of his 
 safety. And further, how, I ask you, would his message 
 be sent here, rather than to the nearest town ? It may be 
 the tidings will come from Caistorbury, when John Back- 
 ham arrives with the surgeon." But Lucinda only said 
 this to soothe him, for she knew that the folk at Kips 
 Manor would have the story long before it could reach 
 Caistorbury, seven miles inland. She said more to the 
 same end, and then : ^' Tell me, did this man save your 
 life? Was it in the battle? But no! — how could that 
 be ? Was he not your enemy ? " 
 
 The man laughed, and his voice caught with the pain 
 his laugh gave him. " God's my life ! " said he. " He 
 was my enemy, but one to be proud of. If ever I live to 
 face a better sword-stroke, I shall not live to tell of it. 
 That was a good fight on the ship's deck, and might have 
 ended amiss for either, but for a rare piece of luck." 
 
 " Friend, you may have been spared the guilt of mur- 
 der. But how ? " 
 
 " Am I sure that I know ? It came about, somehow ! 
 I can't say how, but either of us was doing the best he 
 
AlSr AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 135 
 
 might to strangle the other, or break his ribs, when we 
 went overboard in a heap — just a tangle, tight-locked! — 
 and, to my thinking, this leg of mine struck the muzzle of 
 a carronade, outside its port. So when I reached the 
 water, I was at a loss how to swim. I could keep afloat, 
 but I could not move on the water for the life of me. I 
 saw some timber afloat I could have reached in a moment, 
 else. Then a hand caught my hair from behind, and I felt 
 myself dragged by a strong swimmer. As soon as I got 
 a firm grip of my floating timber, I could see the man I 
 owed my life to. He was my friend — mine enemy ! I^ow 
 you know, mistress, why my best prayer is that he may 
 come ashore safe, and live to be my friend." 
 
 Then it was that Lucinda said to this man : " Praise 
 God for your deliverance, dear sir, and that He may 
 reward the man who saved you. But tell me now more 
 of yourself, and of your family and belongings, if such 
 there be, in England, that we may lose no time in com- 
 municating with them, and giving them news of your 
 safety. Think of the great joy of your wife, when she 
 hears that you are not among the slain in this wicked 
 encounter.'' She paused at some disclaimer or dissent 
 from her hearer, then went on, speaking with warmth. 
 " Yes — but has it not been vdcked, when not a man is 
 living of all those who fought, who has dyed his hand in 
 his brother's blood, but might have called his enemy his 
 friend — even as you so readily call this man friend who 
 saved you — and loved him with a like love ? " 
 
 " You take my meaning wrongly," he replied. " I only 
 meant that I have neither wife nor sweetheart ; though for 
 that matter, long as I have been away beyond the seas, 
 I will stake my life upon it my little sister has not for- 
 gotten me. And as for the wickedness of him who fights 
 
136 AN AFFAIK OF DISH0:N^0K 
 
 for his country wlien he is called upon, he has mighty 
 little choice about doing so when he is impressed into tha 
 service. He has to serve the King, will he nill he ! And 
 he does best who acquits himself well and honourably, 
 rather than turn traitor to his country at a pinch. Is it 
 not a like chance for all ? " 
 
 " A like chance and a deadly one ! " said Lucinda. 
 " Only believe me, dear sir, I meant no blame for you. 
 But his guilt is great who forces another to do murder 
 against his will — even greater, to my thought, than that 
 of the honest assassin who uses knife or poison to avenge 
 a private wrong." She hesitated a moment, and finished 
 her speech with : " Do not let us talk of it. Let me ask 
 of you instead a great kindness to myself. You are not 
 in trim for letter-writing, and may not be perhaps for 
 days; when, as I hope, your sight will return to you. 
 For this I see, that the eye itself is uninjured, and this 
 blindness is no true blindness, but a thing of the moment, 
 bred of the mere sudden shock. . . ." 
 
 " That I think also, and hope. But what was it 
 you said of letter-writing, and what kindness can 
 one in my plight do in token of his gratitude. E"ame 
 it, mistress, and it is yours, if it be within my reach to 
 grant it." 
 
 " It seems to me much to ask, because I am unknown 
 to you. ..." She paused, remembering he did not even 
 know her name; then, without more ado, supplied it: 
 "I am Lady Kay don, and my husband is Sir Oliver 
 Raydon, and this house is Kips Manor, where you now 
 are * . . what? . . . yes, I will tell you. This I 
 have to ask you is that I may get pen and paper here 
 and now, and write straight away at your dictation to this 
 little sister of yours, that she may know of your escape, 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHO^OE 137 
 
 and come to be beside you here, if indeed the distance be 
 not too great." But his interruption had been because 
 because it crossed his mind that her name was not 
 altogether strange to him. The pain of his leg made slight 
 thoughts lapse easily, and he answered her last speech with 
 almost a laugh. 
 
 ^^ Is that the whole of it, Lady Ray don ? Shall I 
 score yet a little more to my account of gratitude to 
 yourself, and then make believe I am your benefactor? 
 But who so glad as I that the little wench should know 
 her brother is living? Only this, dear lady, shall be a 
 condition, before I tell aught of me or mine — ^that no tale 
 of this action shall be written, either to her nor to my 
 father, over and above what I dictate myself. For I 
 would not have them think me crippled — only in hospital 
 for a week at most. For it will be so, and no worse, I 
 wager ! " 
 
 So it was settled. Lucinda gets pens, ink, and paper 
 with great joy, and seats herself at a table by the bed- 
 side with all in readiness for a start. But first she will 
 write the date, both of time and place, and then she says : 
 " Begin now. But not over-quick. For I write but 
 slowly," 
 
 And then this man has begun to dictate his letter. 
 But why does not Lucinda write? Why does she sit as 
 one dumbfounded, and all agape, at the first words he 
 utters? He, for his part, hearing no scrawling of the 
 pen on the paper, thinks that maybe she is puzzled by the 
 pet name he has addressed this sister by — for he knows 
 it may sound strange — and, after a moment, repeats it: 
 *^ Dearest little Mayjune! It is Lucy's nickname from 
 a baby. 'Tis as though one should join the names of 
 two months in one — ^May and June." 
 
138 AN AFFAIK OF DISHOXOK 
 
 It was a strange and perilous freak of chance that, for 
 Lucinda! To be forced to know, in a single moment, a 
 truth her mind had till then refused to receive, in the 
 face of a hundred little things, any one of which might 
 have shown it to her had she been — so she thought now 
 — but duly shrewd of observation! To have no alterna- 
 tive but to make, alone and unassisted, her choice of two 
 courses, either one as full of pitfalls as the other. Should 
 she obey her heart, and say at once to this man — ^who 
 surely was her brother Vincent, and no other, somehow 
 returned without warning from his strange home beyond 
 the seas — " I — I am Lucinda. I am Mayjune, whom 
 you left eight years ago almost a baby — just clear of the 
 nursery — a wilful scrap of innocence — and now a woman 
 with a dire experience of life and its treacheries " ? Or 
 should she choose the course which shame and fear and 
 prudence seemed in league to dictate, and leave him in 
 his ignorance, knowing that he need never guess that 
 his sister is beside him, could she but command her 
 tongue ? 
 
 But can it be truly said that in the first shock of her 
 hearing who this man was these thoughts passed through 
 her mind ? Rather, it would be true to say that she felt 
 sick with the foreknowledge that they would do so soon, 
 and that an answer would have to be found for the ques- 
 tion, Which shall it be, confession or silence ? Stunned 
 and dazed, but compelled to act that she might keep tlie 
 choice an open one, she just found voice to say, " I see," 
 in answer to his explanation of her own old name in 
 childhood, and to write it with a shaking hand and a 
 beating heart, glad that he could not see the unsteady, 
 ill-shaped lettering, nor what she knew must be her face 
 as she wrote. 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 139 
 
 And she must hear him, too, as he continues, each word 
 harder for her to bear than the last: — 
 
 " * Dearest little May June ' . . . Have you that, 
 Lady Raydon ? — all o' one word, you know, not two . , . 
 ^ Where dost thou think, little pet, I write this ? ' . . . 
 Ah, but stop now; it is not I that write. How shall I 
 say it ? . . . Yes, I see ! Go on thus. ... ^ It is 
 not I that write, as is plain by the handwriting, but a 
 friend that you shall one day know and love, if I can 
 compass it, and she deny me not. For my right hand is 
 in a sling — a slight hurt — it will be sound again in a 
 week, and I shall be good for a ride across country to 
 my old home and my dear father and my little May June. 
 For it is in England that I write this, and very like, ex- 
 cept the post travel quicker than I think, I shall reach 
 my little pet the sooner of the two.' "... Then he 
 paused a moment to say : " What a shame is this. Lady 
 Raydon, that I should ask you to pen such a false tale, 
 and like enough all the while a week's nursing will set 
 me on my legs again, and give me eyes to see what my 
 little maid has grown to. For I can only think of her 
 still as the bonny little maid she was eight years ago, 
 riding of her pony Jezebel with all her black locks loose 
 in the wind. ..." 
 
 Then Lucinda tried to speak, but her voice would not 
 come. Her brother suspected nothing wrong, for he still 
 heard the scratching of her pen, and put her silence down 
 to the claim of her writing on her attention, outweighing 
 his chat about a child she had no interest in. If he could 
 have known how this memory of her little horse and its 
 name had cut her to the heart! 
 
 But the strain of it all is not to climax now. Her pre- 
 tence of writing — for it is little else; just an excuse for 
 
140 AK AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 silence and to make her seem preoccupied — is made need- 
 less by the arrival of the surgeon. Yet she will not rutt 
 — ^not she!-^to be out of sight and hearing even of her, 
 brother's pain. She stays by the surgeon with a strong 
 hand and ready eye, to kelp at a pinch. And all her 
 strength is wanted, as well as John Rackham's, to draw 
 the limb into position, while the surgeon — an original 
 who loves his own way of doing things^ — seated on the 
 bed, uses his foot to effect the reduction of the thigh- 
 bone to its socket. Which being done, and the patient 
 helped against the reaction of the pain with a strong 
 draught of rosa soils, he is left to sleep, being by this time 
 quite unfit for any further talk; and Lucinda is off to 
 seek for rest and silence awhile, to think it all over, but 
 with the knowledge strong on her that this is her brother 
 Vincent, and that he can neither see her nor dream that 
 it is she. 
 
 !N"either can he ; for, just as she had once held it impos- 
 sible his name should be her brother's other than by H 
 chance, a hazard, so he held his own certainty that she 
 could not be his si^er reason sufficient to confute a 
 strange sense of Lucy's voice in hers, th^t just touched Lifl 
 mind and died. 
 
CHAPTEK X 
 
 There are women whose comeliness of face strikes no 
 man at first sight; but, coming on him later, grows and 
 grows until he wonders at the blindness that saw it not 
 at the outset. 
 
 Susan Trant, the farmer's wife, was one such; her 
 eyes, that a premature decision pronounced too green, 
 growing daily in fascination, the more from her silent 
 manner, having often the force of speech. For she was 
 one who saw much and said little. 
 
 Betwixt her and John Rackham it was a question, 
 though neither had ever admitted it to the other, which 
 should see most or say least. But whereas the groom 
 was glum and taciturn solely from inherent vice of blood, 
 and of a demeanour importing neither malice nor good- 
 will to his employer, the tirewoman's reserve had a 
 motive behind it, one mixed up with an old grudge and 
 a longing to avenge it that meant to die hard, if it ever 
 died at all. So far, a resentment of which this tale may 
 speak, to give colour to her conduct later, had lost little 
 if any of its vigour of twenty years back, when this same 
 Sir Oliver, then no more than a boy in years, though a 
 man in wickedness, had made light of the vows of love 
 and constancy he had employed for the betrayal of this 
 same Susan, then a village beauty on a farm near by. 
 For whenever her husband, Jonah Trant, went back on 
 the terms of his marriage with her; taunting her with it 
 and reproaching himself that he had not driven a better 
 
 141 
 
142 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 bargain; saying, what was two hundred pounds that it 
 should saddle a man with a shrew for life? — and what 
 a fool had he been not to throw it back in the young 
 squire's face ! — when he did this, and it was often enough, 
 Susan, though she found it .pleased her to vex him still 
 more by flinging it at him that he had been outwitted, 
 and to her knowledge the two liundred might well have 
 been five, seeing it was -Sir Oliver's mother, not himself, 
 would find the money, yet at each skirmish of this kind 
 more fuel was heaped on the fire of concealed anger that 
 she kept burning in her secret heart against her former 
 lover and betrayer. 
 
 Therefore this woman, for all ^he seemed smooth and 
 complaisant, was never off the watch for a good chance 
 to clear scores with Sir Oliver, more for the slight he had 
 put upon her in shifting her off on a stupid clown than 
 for what most would have counted .a greater wrong. 
 Still, in despite of this treasured prospect of revenge, so 
 little of reason was there, or coherency of either love or 
 hatred in her feelings towards him, that at a slight word 
 of kindness, a rough kiss in jest — rany little lover-like 
 token — -she would be all his own again ; and yet, when 
 he forsook this attitude for that of a child sick of a toy 
 that pleased him once, or that of a master with a rig-ht 
 to obedience, she would bid farewell to any thought of 
 tenderness for him, and make way for her old brooding 
 over a day of retribution to come, when he should expiate 
 the wrong he had done her. She half cherished even 
 then a thought behind — that it would be sweet for 
 her to hold a jurisdiction of pardon, a right of clemency, 
 that, being exercised, would bring him to her feet in 
 repentance. 
 
 But this thought waned, and that of her desired 
 
AJS" AFFAIE OF DISHOXOE 143 
 
 revenge grew, in the dajs that followed Lmciiida's arrival 
 at Kips Manor. Susadi Trant's jealou-sy of each, new 
 victim of her former lover was alwajs tempered by the 
 thought, that this one, too, would be flLung aaide in her 
 turn, as her predecessors were, as she herself had been. 
 Flumg aside-, too-, without the chances she herself enjoyed 
 of returning now, and again to favour, as she had been in 
 times' past, and might be* agai% for all her husband might 
 have- to say of it — for was not Farmer Trant the squire's 
 tenansty and was; he not safest from the harm a landlord 
 might d©i, and securest of the boons a landlord naJght 
 confe«> if he kept his eyes closed to what, he could not 
 help*? But Lueinda had not been long at th« Manor 
 feefeare; this, womsan's shrewd eye saw danger ahead. 
 CoiJtM Sir Oliver be trusted to tire of this new favourite, 
 .witk her xich beauty and her maicvellous^ grace, her voice 
 the palate ol the ear could drink like wine, hex sweet 
 hands whose warmth struck life into- the one: they 
 touched ? 
 
 As^^ the datys were on, Susan watched stealthily foar the 
 dawn of his weariness of Lucinda^ and watched in vain. 
 All the stronger was the life ef her resentment against 
 Sir Oliver as she saw, each day more plainly, a future of 
 entire neglect. She cast about, so far as might be with- 
 out raising suspicion, to find the story of this last Lady 
 Eaydoa; whence she came, and o£ what stock. For she 
 knew Bi04hing but by hearsay of Sir Oliver's belongings 
 elsewhere, having lived all her life at her parents' farm 
 or her husband's, and having no notion; of any town 
 larger in the world than Caistorbury. 
 
 ISiow Jdm Eackham, the groom, wa& the only one at 
 Kips Manor who knew more of the Old Hall and Sir 
 Olivejr's lawful wife than the bare fact of their existence. 
 
144 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOE 
 
 So Susan Trant plotted continually to get behind the 
 barrier of this man's stolid silence, and had the best of 
 him in the end. For she found from him all she wanted 
 to know concerning Lucinda, and put her knowledge by 
 to use on occasion shown. 
 
 The way of it was this: Mr. Rackham, having it on 
 hand to prepare a hot fomentation for a young horse 
 suffering from the strangles, found his way into the 
 kitchen in search of hot water, having no fire in the 
 stables since the great heat of the weather. Now, his 
 manner of life was that of a recluse, sleeping in the loft 
 above the horses, on the sacking of a truckle-bed, wrapped 
 in a horse-cloth, and rarely coming near the other mem- 
 bers of the household; who, for their part, were content, 
 none coveting the society of this man, who was always 
 morose, and when at his best merely silent. So that his 
 appearance in the kitchen, where Mrs. Trant was alone, 
 knitting of a pair of hose, was a thing to speak some 
 apology for. Or it may be Mr. Rackham's meaning 
 merely was that it was none of his own choice that he 
 came, and always mixed unwillingly with his kind, when 
 he said : " I'll be here to trouble you. Mistress Susan, no 
 longer time than for the kettle to run. You may take 
 my word for it." 
 
 " Do you look to have the water boiling. Master Rack- 
 ham ? " says Susan to him then. " If you're content with 
 just the bare heat to hold your hand in, you won't need 
 to bide any longer than you say." 
 
 " It will have to be on the boil, for my money, 
 mistress." 
 
 " Then you may turn to and blow the fire. Master 
 Rackham, or wait for its burning. It will burn of itself, 
 one day, if you have the patience to wait." Whereupon 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 145 
 
 the groom took the bellows, and got a flame from the 
 dead wood, making the kettle sing. 
 
 The less need, with a kettle singing, for a grudging or 
 hostile tone in negotiating so simple a matter. At least, 
 Mrs. Trant may have thought so, for as soon as the water 
 seemed like to boil she spoke conciliatorily. " It's warm 
 work, a day like this, to blow a fire up," said she. 
 
 " Dry, mistress ! " That was all, but it was expressive. 
 She took the hint, and went out, returning shortly with 
 a pottle-pot with a crest of foam, at the sight of which 
 Mr. Rackham softened. This was the way to his heart. 
 " I was thinking it was about time,'' said he graciously. 
 
 " You don't get a glass of ale like that at Croxley 
 Thorpe, Master Rackham." 
 
 The groom had swallowed it at a draught, and it was 
 getting at his vitals. It was not a moment to disparage 
 it. " It don't go down amiss," said he. It was a con- 
 cession, for him. But he qualified it in a moment after. 
 " It's a poor ale, too, to compare with the old Squire's 
 brew. None o' that in these days! Young Oliver, he's 
 all for French wines, and old malt's forgotten." This 
 man was well over sixty, but not much unlike himself 
 at twenty-six. The days of Oliver's father were fresh in 
 his memory. 
 
 " I suppose you knew the old lady well. Master Rack- 
 ham?" said Mrs. Trant, w^orking cleverly round to what 
 she wanted. She worded her question nicely with a 
 purpose. 
 
 " Sir Oliver's mother ? Ah — I knew her well ! Old 
 Dot-and-go-one, we called her. Dead of a broken heart, 
 they said. Just on fifteen years ago." 
 
 " The poor soul — think of it ! But she was not the old 
 lady I spoke of. The former Lady Raydon, I should 
 
146 AK AFFAIB OF DISHONOK 
 
 have said." But it ivas only a make-believe of Mistress 
 Susan that she thought Sir Oliver a v^ddower. She knew 
 better than to think that. Then she would know what 
 Mr, Kackham could see to laugh at. W3iereupon he 
 laughed more. 
 
 "TheTe be but one Lady Kaydon/' said he. ^^And 
 she's alive and merry in London Town, and may make 
 free at her will. 'Tis a knot Master Oliver will be slow 
 to unloose, I take it, even if she gives him a handle. '^ 
 
 '' Then this is no wife of his, but just a woman? " 
 
 " Just a woman, Mistress Susan. She's no better than 
 'ere a one of ye." 
 
 Then Mrs. Trant, beir^ a wedded wife, and very 
 lenient to herself in her own conscience for any lapse her 
 htasband chose to shut his eyes to, ^ept her ifcongue irom 
 saying that Lticinda might well do penance in the market- 
 place, and from using other choice phrases that would 
 ^ing — fis, iar example, that favourite resource 'of ^eech, 
 the word shame, so good to employ in like cases. 
 She did this as caring more to get :at the story of her 
 mistress, wife or no, than to sit in the proud seat of 
 offended virtue. Moreover, she felt unsure of what 
 the groom's last words meant. Did he know her o^vn 
 story ? 
 
 What did it matteT ? He would keep silence about it, 
 except, indeed, she asked liun to do so, which would be 
 givdng him an incentive to speech. Her object now was 
 to find somewhat of Lucinda's story, of her family, and 
 the like. Was she, too, married — ^a deserter of her proper 
 mate!? Mrs. Susan's comely presence and placid mien 
 went well with a seeming unconcern ^s she sat knitting 
 for a full minute before asking: "What was the ;girl's 
 name you said ? Tell jne it again." 
 
AJ^ AFFAJ!K OF DISHONOR Uf 
 
 " The name of hei! ? I said nowt " 
 
 " It. was my mistaking!, Mr. Kackham. And, after all, 
 'tis none of your business, nor mine.'' Having said this, 
 she in her cunning knew no more would he needed, 
 judging rightly that, the groom would tell her before the 
 kettle, which still only sang, should boil up. She knew, 
 too, that the less she seemed to wish to hear the more 
 likely, he would, be to tell, and knitted as one contented. 
 But her ears were on the watch. 
 
 Then he, vexed perhaps that he should haye no pleasure 
 in the withholding of information from one keen to obtain 
 it, thought to egg his questioner on to asking more. 
 "Maybe none of yours,, misitress,'' said he. "But I 
 have no need to ask about it, seeing I've known, her 
 from a child. They can tell you the tal'e anywheres near 
 the Old Hall." 
 
 "In Shropshire?" 
 
 " Who said a word of Shropshire ? '' 
 
 " That's where she came from. I've heard her tell it 
 herself. So ha& my mother. Church Stretton, in Shrop- 
 shire." This was- said with assured conviction, for it was 
 true. Lucinda had followed her lover's advice, and had 
 given herself the name, and other style and title, of his 
 actual wife still living. She had done this in the presence 
 of Mrs. Hatsell, Susan Trant's mother, relying, oil the old 
 woman's deafness. 
 
 This- conversation of the maid and groom, you, see, 
 came about some time after the landing of her brother 
 Vincent; but while, as shall be shown later, he was still 
 too blind to recognise her face. Keep, in mind that he 
 was then still bed-ridden, with the slow healing of the 
 leg, and that Rackham, the groom, had not, so far, come 
 to know anything of his name or belongings,. Indeed, 
 
148 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 the patient had spoken of them to none but Lucinia, 
 and been overheard by none but Mrs. Trant, who kept 
 her counsel, or her mother. 
 
 Mr. Rackham's pale eyes were not made to open wide, 
 but they did their best. Under the strain, each came 
 out near the shape of his mouth, puckered up for a 
 whistle. But he changed his mind suddenly, and re- 
 covered his stolidity. Instead of putting his surprise 
 into words, he said only : '^ Belike you got her name at 
 the same time ? " 
 
 " I might have, had I not scrupled to listen closely. 
 For the name of the place, it was spoken loud. But her 
 own name, as I heard it, can never have reached me 
 right. The sound of it was Ass Mundham." 
 
 Mr. Rackham's whistle came, after all. This was too 
 much. " Why, mistress," said he, '' that's the name of 
 the wife's family — she that's out at grass in London. 
 And there's where she came from — Church Stretton, in 
 Shropshire." 
 
 Mrs. Trant preferred not to show surprise. " Of course, 
 this would explain it," she said. '^ Madam Lucinda " — 
 no ^ Lady Raydon ' now ! — " was speaking of the Church 
 Stretton lady, his lawful wedded wife — out at grass, 
 did you say ? . . . But come now, Mr. Rackham, what 
 was her real name ? " Thus pressed, the groom gave 
 Lucinda her name grudgingly. She was just little Lucy 
 Mauleverer at the Old Hall, that he could remember from 
 a child. She was always a wild young filly — never made 
 for harness. 
 
 " Is her mother living ? " The knowledge that the 
 name was that of Vincent, inexplicably, had discom- 
 posed Mrs. Trant, and she wished to conceal the fact. 
 This question did to ask, as well as another. No — her 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 149 
 
 mother was not living. Was her father ? But the kettle 
 boiled suddenly, and no answer came. Not so suddenly, 
 though, hut that Mrs. Susan could see that the informa- 
 tion would have been withheld or evaded. There was 
 something to be learned there, she was convinced. 
 
 So, as we now know from this talk of the groom and 
 the tire-woman, Lucinda had done as Sir Oliver bade her, 
 and had clothed herself with a false identity that she 
 might remain unknown to the brother who had come 
 upon her so strangely. How gladly, a few weeks later, 
 would she have gone back and unsaid her tale! For 
 the torment of misapprehensions, bred of his continual 
 reference to his home and family, always unknowing to 
 whom he spoke, kept her in constant fear of a knife 
 through her heart. Indeed, it was little less, especially 
 when he went back on the tales of their old days together, 
 when all her longing was to strike in upon his memories, 
 and compare them with her own. 
 
 It was ill enough for her to listen to all this Vincent's 
 speculation as to what his old home looked like; or 
 should he find the old man strong and well; or, of all the 
 girls he knew in old days, would there be one left for him, 
 neither betrothed nor wedded ? As when, for instance, 
 he spoke of Phyllis Kettering, saying how he wondered 
 what sort of woman Phyllis had grown to be, seeing 
 she was the sort after his own heart. For then Lucinda's 
 leapt to tell how when Vincent said farewell eight years 
 ago, Phyllis, being then fourteen, had told her with a 
 many tears that she would surely lead apes in Hell, 
 except Vincent came back to marry her. She did not 
 know if Phyllis were wed or not, but what joy it would 
 have been to tell this little tale, half for a joke! And 
 it was she herself that had padlocked her lips thus, aU 
 
150 KN AFPAIE OF DISHQiNrOE 
 
 of her Q-wiL evil choice^ and who could say tkej woidd ever 
 be free- to speak againi 
 
 It was worse still when, his talk ran on herself, he being 
 all in ignorance whose were the ears that heard him. 
 For then he would teU of their freaks of childhood 
 together, that she could have told him, word by word, 
 seeing she reanembered them all as yesterday. It huxt 
 her keenly to hear his narrative of a particular incident 
 that was always kaown to him and his little sisters as 
 " The QnarreV which lasted two whole days ; and 
 when he related it at a request from her — ^which was in 
 itself a lie — she could scarcely suppress her correction of 
 an error in his version of the story, and refrain from stop- 
 ping him witk — " Oh, but Vincey, it was me that was to 
 be^ the Ghost, and not Amy at all. It was a shame f 
 But this, like a hundred other things,, she had to choke 
 bajck,. though she felt sick with silence. 
 
 He, for his part, mended apace, and could soon stand 
 erect on his feet again, and shift for himself. When this 
 time came, each day saw him move further afoot; and 
 hard his eyesight returned as quickly, he might safely 
 have given way to his own impatience and started across 
 country for his father's residence. There, had his dream 
 of the place as it wa« been tme^ he would have found 
 his old father, all hale and hearty, only the least bit 
 m<3re grizzled since his last sight of him, and that little 
 treasured pet of a sister — a woman now, of course ; that 
 couldn't be helped! And even, for his imagination 
 shrank from killing them, the dear old dogs and horses 
 of the old time. Amy, he kn€W, was dead, and their 
 mother, two years ago now. 
 
 But his fancies were throughout at fault. The old 
 Hall was silent aa the grave that held aE a m-nrd^er's 
 
KN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 151 
 
 swDrd iaad left him of Lis father; and that IMe sister, 
 the jewel of his memory, was the woman beside him now, 
 whom i^ began to see dimly, but without a thought 
 that she was other than a stranger — 'good, sweet, and. 
 hospitable to a chance victim of ill-luck — hist stiE a 
 stranger! And that same genial host of Ms — -for who 
 could be more gracious than Oliver when he chose ? — that 
 polished gentleman he w^ould have accounted it disloyalty 
 to question or mistrust, that careless, generous votary of 
 pardonable pleasures, but withal that faithful husband 
 of an adored wife — he, even he, was his father's murderer. 
 
 But why should Vincent have suspected anything 
 amiss? He might have done so — granted! — -had his 
 eyesight come more quickly to his help, A thousand 
 little things happened that a shreivd eye might hav-e read 
 danger into, but that no accompaniment of speech be- 
 trayed the nature of. The very slowness iof his Tecovery 
 helped the firmness of his belief that this sweet hostess 
 of his, whom he, of course, adored, was rnone other than 
 she had described herself — ^namely, Lucinda Asmonde- 
 ham, married to a neighbour of his father's whom he 
 had never chanced to see himself. The tale served for 
 unsuspicion such as his. But it was ivith much misgiving 
 that she had said Lucinda in place of the true Lady 
 Raydon's christened name, Arbella. Yet the risk would 
 have been greater on the other tack, for aU the household 
 and folk about had come to know her name and could 
 have called her by it, but for respect of station. Now, 
 none of them all knew that the lawful Lady Raydon's 
 name was not Lncinda; unless, perhaps, J^Dhn Kackham, 
 and he spoke to a!i<me. 
 
 Having given her own name, it was safest to cfhallenge 
 it as it were, wlien it came again in his first narrative 
 
152 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 of herself, and to say what a strange chance was this 
 that had given one name to his sister and herself! Thus 
 more was made of it than needed, for talk's sake; and 
 each knowing this, the matter passed easily by, and was 
 easily forgotten — the more so that the name was not 
 uncommon in those days. 
 
 Which was the greater grief to Lucinda it would have 
 been hard to say — to have her brother thus near her, and 
 yet held away from him at arm's length, or to have to 
 wait in vain the letter from her father, that still came not. 
 And thereto was added this involvement of all her laby- 
 rinth of difficulty. What should she do or say when the 
 answer came to the letter she had written at Vincent's 
 dictation to their father, which answer must of necessity 
 make her known to Vincent, do what she might ? Was it 
 likely that her father would omit all mention of her own 
 dishonour, and keep back the name of her betrayer? 
 Oh, the torture it would be to him to tell it! Why had 
 she been so mad as not to foresee all this, when she gave 
 way to Oliver's behest of secrecy? 
 
 But what was done, was done. At least, the evil hour 
 was postponed that must one day — she shuddered to 
 think of it — ^place these two men face to face, with drawn 
 swords between them. And see now, what Vincent had 
 been on that ship's deck! 
 
 That letter she had written for Vincent, many a word 
 of which had stung her like an adder, told the story in 
 full of his return from Virginia. He had made his re- 
 solve suddenly, more from a roving disposition than any 
 other cause, but stimulated by the offer of a good passage 
 in a ship whose captain he had confidence in, being an 
 old friend and schoolfellow. In those days good passages 
 across the Atlantic were not so common as they have 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 153 
 
 become of late years. On the voyage all went well, but 
 on landing at Bristol, he and others on the ship were 
 seized by the press-gang, and compelled to take service 
 on a man-of-war of his Majesty's, then fitting in Plymouth 
 Dockyard. But could he not have bought himself out? 
 asked Lucinda. Why, yes, so he might! But a battle 
 was certain with the Dutch, and he had never seen a 
 sea-fight. He was no craven, and 'twas a great tempta- 
 tion to a man of spirit. The life, though, was of the 
 roughest, and now he had once been half-crippled in the 
 King's service, he was the less minded to serve again, 
 except it should be on occasion shown, as in the event 
 of a national danger. For that was the temper of men 
 in those days, and to the thinking of him who writes 
 this, it had a good side to it, as well as a bad one, for then 
 all men were not only given up to mere commercial gain, 
 as now, and lives of luxury at home. This, however, is 
 not for the story to determine. Vincent's letter went 
 on to tell of the cruiser in the Channel and of how the 
 ship joined the fleet, by a rare stroke of luck, just in time 
 for the battle. Twelve hours of a head-wind, and they 
 would have lost it! 
 
 Then he told, at too great a length to resume, the story 
 of the fight. His own ship, heeling over somewhat from 
 a cause he could not explain, was struck below the water- 
 line by more shots than one of a broadside from the 
 Dutch Admiral; and when all of the Dutch fleet that 
 were in sailing trim put out to sea, and the signal for 
 pursuit was hoisted on the Duke of York's flagship, his 
 own was waterlogged, and no better than a sheer hulk. 
 On which her Captain, Askew, being in doubt whether to 
 man the boats and make for the shore or to try his luck 
 at the capture of the Dutch Admiral, still above water, 
 
154 AE AFFAIR OF DISHOXOK 
 
 put the^ question to hia crew^ to say &lMWild it be the oaa 
 wsLj or ihe otken Who, being aJll of one mmd^ wev& toid 
 out tO' their boats, Vincent himself being in the foremost 
 boat, at his omn wisL, All but one boat to cariry those 
 already woimded ashore, far it was now certain the ship 
 would not be long afloat. 
 
 Then came the: fight on the deck of the Dutck Admiral, 
 which waiS alreadj known to Liieinda, seeing, she had in 
 a sense been witness of it, through the hearing of Sir 
 Oliver's running; comment, as it passed before his eyes> 
 And then saya she, staying the writing for a moment: 
 " What became of the boat with the waunded men? 
 They came not ashore." 
 
 " I know not," said Vineent. " But the odds are they 
 delayed their landing, for they would have been keen to 
 see the boarders at work, and like enough hung about too 
 near for safety, to see what was doing. But for my part, 
 I saw nothing to. tell of, being dizzy with the shake I 
 got falling; and I had barely come to mj thinking senses, 
 and used my sight to see that the man who had saved me 
 was my friend I had that tussle with on the deck, when 
 the Dutchman's powder-magazine must needs catch alight, 
 and off she gpes ! A fine sight, but I would I had looked 
 the other way about, now. For something aflame struck 
 me across the eyes ; and for the rest, you know it as well 
 as I do, Lady Eaydon." 
 
 The letter being «)on finished, for Lucinda used a free 
 hand in transcribing all her brother's gratitude to herself, 
 what was to be done about the sending of it, seeing that 
 her father would know who was spoken of as Lady 
 Eaydon, even without the help of the handwriting and 
 the date, Kips Manor? There could be but one Kips, 
 Manor. And how should her father be able to guess at 
 
A¥ AFJFAIK OT DISH0:N'0E 155 
 
 once iier many reasons for her concealment from her 
 brother ? M was a problem beyond her powers to solve, 
 and she could take none but Sir Oliver into her 
 confidence. 
 
 " Foolish wench ! '' said he. " Did I not tell thee that 
 a lie half-told saves no man from the gallows ? '^ 
 
 ^^ Eut, dearest Oliver, I can see no lie, nor colour, nor 
 gloss, that I can put upon it, that will make me right in 
 my father -s eyes, say what I may! And yet I feel no 
 shame of my own falsehood to poor Vincey, seeing I act 
 for his sake, and to hold over all cause of quarrel till we 
 are free to wed, and the clouds gone. Oh, Oliver, it will 
 come — the happy time ! " 
 
 " And think you ]V£aster Vincent will be all forgiveness 
 when it does come, fairest Lucy ? ^' 
 
 " As for Vincent, I know not ; but for my father, him 
 I am sure of. And dost thou think, sweetheart, his bid- 
 ding would have no weight with the boy? For I grant 
 you Vincey is ii boy, and headstrong ! '' 
 
 Then Sir OHver's face got that fiame look Tipon it that 
 it had that morning when he fell stricken by the falling 
 sickness at the ISTew Hall, no such long time since. Long 
 enoug'h, though, for Lucinda to have begun building hopes 
 that that evil might be counted a thing of the past — a 
 thing never to recur again. 
 
 He paused a moment, to find something to say that 
 would not stick in his throat — the throat of an old liar, 
 and experienced. He found nothing better than : '^ Thy 
 father, my girl, will say little enough, I doubt not. But 
 as for what you had best write to him now, I see no harm 
 to come of telling him why you have thought it best 
 that your brother should be kept in ignorance. Can you 
 explain it eke? It is no uncommon thing to hood- 
 
156 AlSr AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 wink a sick man for his own sake, so he may live at ease 
 till his natural strength is his own again, rather than 
 have care on his mind to throw him back." He paused 
 a moment, a little proud of his device for setting present 
 difficulty at rest ; then added, in a lighter mood : " For 
 my part, I see nothing to be gained by keeping the truth 
 from him. Thou mayst tell him, lass, for all I care/' 
 
 Thereupon Lucinda, thinking to herself how clever 
 and how good at heart was this lover of hers, and seeing 
 her way out of an embarrassment at least, sits down and 
 writes a long letter to her father, to go with Vincent's, 
 explaining all her action in the sense of Sir Oliver's 
 suggestion. Having finished it to her liking, she shows 
 it to him, not without pride, and happier in her mind; 
 begging that John Rackham may ride with it forthwith, 
 that her father may have it at the earliest. For then 
 he will surely write back to her and break his long 
 silence, which is still bitter to her heart. 
 
 Sir Oliver read both letters through — for she had asked 
 Vincent's leave to show his, for the sake of its tale of the 
 battle— with a "Humph!" for this and a "So!" for 
 that; but an approval in the end, under protest. The 
 letter would do no harm, at least. He could have no 
 secret under-grin at Lucinda's ignorance; his own knowl- 
 edge went too near the quick, and left him no heart for 
 amusement. 
 
 But who so willing as he that the letter should go? 
 Give it to him! He would direct it and see to it that 
 John Rackham lost no time over despatching it. And 
 thereupon he took it away with him to his little private 
 room, and put it in safety in his wicked cabinet. But 
 for security he folded and directed a counterfeit letter, 
 that he might seem to hand it to the messenger with 
 
AN AFEAIE OF DISHOXOE 157 
 
 others of his own, so that no suspicion might hang about. 
 And mj lady was to see it if she asked, said he; whereon 
 John Rackham, feeling some roguery afoot, held his 
 peace; but took good care this letter should be visible 
 in his hand when his mistress had sight of him departing 
 to carry it to the Cobbler with Two Wives, where the 
 local carrier would take it on to the new post in the 
 London Road, to await the new Government Mail. On 
 seeing which, Lucinda was happy, and could tell her 
 brother it had gone off safely, and he might look to have 
 an answer within a month. 
 
CHAPTEK XI 
 
 SiE Oliver was gloomy and morose, passing much of 
 his time in his sanctum, and leaving his guest, after the 
 midday meal, to the entertainment of his mistress, hav- 
 ing no misgiving that any ill could come of his doing so. 
 He knew now the relation of the two to each other; judg- 
 ing of Vincent that he was not a man of his own type, 
 but one who, in spite of his solderlike qualities, had a 
 trace of what he called a psalm-singer about him. Were 
 not Cromwell's Ironsides brave fighting-men, and yet 
 practised what some look on as the common decencies of 
 life ? This Oliver accounted such practice, for some strange 
 reason, as akin to psalm-singing. Besides, psalm-singer 
 or no, Vincent, being blind, was in the dark to the beauty 
 of Lucinda. No — there could be no miscarriage of event 
 there! Oliver drank his sack in solitude, without a 
 qualm of uneasiness; and indeed his judgment was 
 shrewd enough to measure rightly the safety of the posi- 
 tion, his observation from afar of the curious habits of 
 honourable men and sweet-hearted women having given 
 him an insight into their ways that he could not have 
 acquired from any knowledge of himself. 
 
 But a great black shadow was over him in his solitude, 
 and he knew he had courted it for the selfsame reason that 
 had made him flinch away from Lucinda on that accursed 
 day of the duel with her father. He was apprehensive, 
 too, that this shadow might mean what it meant then; 
 and, if he was to fall insensible again, and wake again 
 
 158 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHON^OR 15^ 
 
 without control of tongue or sequence of thought, why — 
 let him at least be alone ! Who could tell what he might 
 not say in his wandering; and that, too, in the presence 
 of the son of the man he had slain? Slain in fair fight, 
 mind you, not murdered — nothing of that! 
 
 So on the afternoon of the day that John Rackham 
 rode with the letter — which, though fairly directed with- 
 out, was so much blank paper within — Lucinda and her 
 brother, to whom she was still almost invisible, talked 
 together of his departure, which would not be long 
 delayed, seeing how quickly he was improving. For each 
 day he could walk farther, and see more plainly. 
 
 " I could ride with a guide to show the way, Lady 
 Raydon," said he, " if I could not see my own hand. But 
 that is nothing. My only reason for delaying to relieve 
 my kind host and hostess, whom I can never thank 
 enough, of my company ..." 
 
 " Say nothing of that." . . . 
 
 " Well — did your generosity not forbid my speech of it^. 
 it would be a good reason, at least ... I mean that I 
 would soonest be able to see my old dad — dearest of 
 fathers, Lady Raydon — when I come back to him after- 
 eight long years of absence. And my little Lucinda — 
 your namesake, dear lady — think of my perplexity, to 
 find her a tall woman to the touch, her lips and mine own 
 so near of a level, and to see but a shadow, as I see you 
 now to my sorrow. Then, mark you, by that fact hangs 
 another reason, and a sound one. It would suit my liking 
 ill to leave this hospitable house having seen so little in 
 the way of fair vision of my kind host and hostess. Is 
 it not hard that I should carry away no true image of 
 either?" 
 
 Then Lucinda, under the torment of words fraught 
 
160 AN AFFAIR OF DISHOXOK 
 
 with a hundred accidents of cruelty for her, made a slip 
 of speech. '^ Oh, Vincent," she cried out in her confu- 
 sion, " how can you stay too long ? " And thereupon sat 
 aghast at her mistake. 
 
 But she had less need than she thought for her em- 
 barrassment. It may be that the wdnds of the broad 
 Atlantic, and the great silences of the primeval forest of 
 Virginia, had worked together to the weeding out of her 
 hearer's mind the petty usages of speech — the little 
 formalities of address nicely balanced to suit each speaker 
 in his grade of life — till it seemed to him none so strange 
 a thing that a lady should, for sheer graciousness, and 
 no other reason, call him by his proper name. For 
 whatever cause, her use of it had no disconcerting effect 
 on him, but made him laugh out with pleasure; saying 
 thereafter, as one who felt his own laughter strange: 
 " Ay, but one who has lived as I have for so long, some- 
 times months away from a woman's voice, may well feel 
 it sweet to hear his own name in the mouth of a lady. 
 'Tis a foretaste of the joy I shall have to hear it once more 
 from the lips of my sister, your namesake. Lady Eaydon." 
 To which she answered nothing, being at a loss for speech, 
 but always glad he could not see the confusion of her 
 face. Nor did his next words make it less : " I could have 
 thought she spoke, the little Lucy; for to my fancy — 
 'tis but a fancy, I warrant — ^your voice. Lady Raydon, 
 and hers are not unlike." 
 
 Then Lucinda, calling to mind a thing Sir Oliver had 
 said, and not to seem too silent, replied : " It is a fashion 
 of the day, since the King came, to be freer of speech 
 with the christened name than was the custom formerly." 
 And he, hearing the effort in her voice, thought it came 
 of an apprehension that she had seemed to sanction a 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 161 
 
 like familiarity in him : and, to relieve it — for what could 
 he know of these fashions of the day? — went off to ask 
 questions of the Court, and of the beloved King, Charles, 
 whose accession de facto had not come about till three 
 years after his own departure for the Colony. 
 
 In such chat much of that day passed: for Lucinda, 
 meeting little encouragement from Sir Oliver, when, as 
 once or twice happened, she went to relieve his solitude 
 or persuade him to be more sociable, felt warranted in 
 giving all her society to Vincent; accompanying him, as 
 the coolness of the evening set in, in a walk along the 
 sea-shore, and hearing again the incidents of the fight. 
 Wherein it was a great happiness to her that her brother, 
 looking out seaward w^hen she spoke of the Dutch 
 Admirals masts, still visible above w^ater, exclaimed that 
 he, too, could see them, but dimly. For he had begun 
 to find distant objects growing clearer in his field of 
 vision, out of proportion to the improvement of his eye- 
 sight of nearer objects, which nevertheless mended, though 
 slowly. Now this was a great cause of rejoicing to both, 
 even more than the gain of strength to his injured limb, 
 and the subsiding of pain at the joint. 
 
 Therefore, when Sir Oliver reappeared at supper, mak- 
 ing formal apology to his guest for his neglect of him, on 
 the score of headache and a wakeful night — of which Lu- 
 cinda had observed nothing — the talk soon turned on this 
 great amelioration of Vincent's eyesight, and its good 
 promise for the future. Sir Oliver, to make amends for 
 his neglect, would go to the cellar and bring up one or 
 two bottles of the fine wine of Frontignan, that was so 
 great a favourite with his father. For there were still 
 a few bottles left of those brought from Croxley Hall two 
 years since, and it was but right to drink to Mr, 
 
162 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOE 
 
 Mauleverer^s returning eyesight in a choice draught, and 
 ungrudgingly. Which Lucinda promised to do also, re- 
 joicing that her lover should be in such good heart 
 again. 
 
 Now this was a rare old wine — ^would open the nig- 
 gard's purse and loose the tongue of secrecy itself. What 
 wonder these three should chat freely, though two of them 
 had cause to keep a guard on speech, and one of the three 
 was ever on the watch against himself. And yet to out- 
 ward seeming Sir Oliver was the least restrained, the 
 most careless of them all. 
 
 " Another bumper, Mr. Mauleverer," said he. " I 
 would you could see the colour of it — the golden ruby 
 against the light." For Mrs. Trant, with a little waxen 
 taper from the kitchen, was lighting up the candles in the 
 candelabrum of Murano glass his grandfather brought 
 from Venice in the days of Queen Mary; seeing that the 
 coloured glass and diamond panes of the great window, 
 looking away from the sunset, stinted the twilight it had 
 left upon the land, and Sir Oliver had no mind to sit in 
 the half-dark. 
 
 Said Lucinda then : " Mr. Mauleverer may yet see the 
 colour of it ere he goes, Oliver mine, if you and he drink 
 not the last bottles at too prodigious a pace. For I trust 
 thee not, good Oliver — I trust thee not — and I tell thee 
 so plainly." 
 
 " I will give thee the key of the cellar, sweet Lucy," 
 says Oliver then, all smiles. *^ Thou shalt be the warden 
 of it for the nonce. But here is my toast! May our 
 guest have his sight again in a se'nnight. Or, for my 
 part, by sunrise to-morrow ! " 
 
 Thereupon Vincent laughs out, roundly : " Better still, 
 Sir Oliver ! " — says he. " Best of all ! For then to- 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 163 
 
 morrow shall I have a sight of my dear hostess. And I 
 will spend this night in dreaming of what she may prove 
 to be when day comes. For no man needs his eyes to 
 dream withal. '^ 
 
 " And you will dream all wrong, dear Sir. My word 
 for it! And then you will be disappointed on awaken- 
 ing. So dream me not too comely, Mr. Mauleverer." 
 Lucinda's laugh rang with a full music through the house. 
 And Susan Trant laughed aloud too, as she placed the 
 second bottle by her master. For in those days there was 
 not the stiifness of our later time 'twixt master and serv- 
 ant, and it was thought nothing that a serving-man or 
 maid should join in with the talk at table ; only, the head 
 of the household would check such talk, if need were. 
 Now, at this laugh of Mrs. Trant's, Sir Oliver's eye 
 rested on her for a second, but did not stay to meet hers. 
 And when his voice came, it had no true ring about it; 
 neither, indeed, had the woman's laugh, which might 
 have served for as plain a slight as she dared on her 
 mistress's beauty. But as to his artificial manner, it 
 meant no more, may be, than that he was acting a 
 part. 
 
 " That were a hard task for the most skilful dreamer, 
 Lucinda mine ! " said he. " Put it not on Mr. Mauleverer 
 to achieve it." His tone was that of a courtier's com- 
 pliment. " But I, too, have an interest in his eyesight. 
 Have I not a right to be curious as to what my friend 
 thinks of my choice of a wench ? " 
 
 Then Mrs. Trant, at the sideboard, laughed again un- 
 pleasantly, and spoke aside to her mother. But — so 
 Lucinda thought — if old Hatsell can hear that, she can 
 hear much folk think her deaf to. 
 
 Sir Oliver heard the laugh, and, dropping his courtier's 
 
164 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 tone, condescended to jest with an old retainer. " Speak 
 it up, Mistress Susan. No secrets, I pray you. . . . 
 What was it she said, Goody ITatsell ? " 
 
 The old woman heard his raised voice, and answered, 
 " Said first choice is ever best choice, master." At which 
 Sir Oliver could make believe to laugh. " Ho, ho, my 
 Lucy ! — dost thou hear that ? First choice is best choice 
 — who knows that better than Susan Trant ? " For he 
 felt so sure of his hearers, and that Susan's underthought 
 would be plain to none but her mother, that he did not 
 shrink from a trifling that amused him. And the brutal 
 jest of a little sting for an old mistress, under the very 
 eyes of his new love, neither knowing the other's mind, 
 was congenial to his soul. 
 
 Now the half-blind Vincent, listening to this, was at a 
 loss to think whether, when he left England, such talk 
 was only unknown to him because he was but a boy, 
 before whom some reserves would be practised ; or 
 whether, perhaps, this manner of speech, spoken by a 
 gentleman of his wife before a guest at his own table, 
 might not be a part of these new fashions, crept in with 
 the new Court? Certainly, even in Virginia, strange 
 stories were already afloat of the wild days of the young 
 King and his former life in France. But there! — after 
 all, what was there in Oliver's pleasantry ? It came to 
 very little, all said and done. Maybe he himself was 
 old-fashioned. 
 
 But it gave him a discomfort, and set him a-seeking to 
 change the conversation. He could and did tell many 
 things of the late revolt against His Sacred Majesty — who 
 could have dreamed then that Englishmen would live to 
 see Members of Parliament daring in the House of 
 Commons to stand up and side with the colonists in a still 
 
Al^ AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 165 
 
 greater revolt against their King? — and of his own 
 wanderings in savage lands, where no white man had set 
 foot till then. But whatever turn their conversation 
 took, it would always drift back to the joy that would be 
 his when he should once more set foot in the old home; 
 where still his fancy pictured the old man his father, and 
 the little sister of his boyhood, scarcely changed, for all 
 his reason told him to the contrary, from the child he left 
 eight years ago, innocent and unblemished by the world. 
 And if it was a pang to the woman she had grown to be 
 to sit and listen to him as he dwelt on his happy delusion, 
 what was it to the man whose hand poured out his wines 
 for him, in mock good-fellowship, to know that the blood 
 of that same father was still fresh upon it? But so 
 hardened was its owner in his sin — so unmoved by any 
 thought but of his own safety till such time as he should 
 weary of the woman's beauty that he now possessed body 
 and soul — that he could fill his guest's glass and his own 
 and show no tremor visible without; nay! — that he was 
 even proud to do so, and could talk lightly the while, and 
 make a parade of his indifference. Was it not a deed of 
 honourable battle, as much so as this guest's would have 
 been, had he slain his foe on the deck of that sunk ship 
 over yonder? A truce to these puling regrets! He was 
 not even the challenger! 
 
 " Which of the two shall I see the first ? " cries Vin- 
 cent, dwelling on the joyous anticipation. " Come, Sir 
 Oliver, a wager! Which shall it be — father or daugh- 
 ter — dad or little Mayjune ? Say, which will you back ? — 
 and name the odds." 
 
 Then Lucinda's heart said to her, " Never little May- 
 june again any more, in this world. Those days are gone, 
 and can never come again." And she answered her own 
 
166 AlSr AFFAIE OF DISHO^^OE 
 
 heart, and said, " Let it be so ! He shall still see me, 
 and know my love as of old. And when I am free to tell 
 my tale, will he not forgive me, my brother? Are men 
 so free of sin ? " And then she thought to herself that, 
 cotdd such a man be found, it may be he would cast no 
 stone, seeing that our Lord Himself cast none, being sin- 
 less. But how if he should say, " Go and sin no more " ? 
 Would she not answer, " My soul must die, then — for I 
 love J " 
 
 But Sir Oliver is only weighing in his mind the safest 
 answer he can give to Vincent's jesting proposal. " Clear 
 me up this point," he says. " What is the meaning of 
 ^ first sight,' in your case ? Suppose, for instance, the 
 first to greet you should be your father, and the first to 
 your eyesight your sister — how then?" 
 
 " Why, truly — I should have seen my father first. . . ,, 
 Yet no I — I should see my sister — it is true." 
 
 Lucinda, at cost to herself, must join in the talk, if only 
 for form's sake. " Mr. Mauleverer should have said meet, 
 not see,'* she says. And then she gets up and goes to the 
 window, and stands looking out to the afterglow in the 
 west. Enough is left of it to gleam in the folds of the 
 satin brocade of her dress, and match its colour against 
 the mirrored candlelight within. But the hand trembles 
 that pushes open the window-lattice, and the eyes that 
 look out through it glisten in the light, no longer dry. 
 Can Lucinda bear this talk — of herself, mind you! — of 
 herself ? 
 
 Sir Oliver is safe, and knows it. What can Vincent see 
 of the tear that zigzagged down the satin brocade, as she 
 passed him but now on her way to the window? Sir 
 Oliver can see it, or its fellow, even as she stands, some 
 way from him, courting the twilight. But he knows he is 
 
a:n^ affaik of dishois^or igt 
 
 safe, as his eye rests furtively upon her. She will not 
 unsay her tale of herself, her claim to his living wife's 
 name, and face her brother's reproach of her dishonor. 
 So confident is he of this that he can play with the subject. 
 His pleasantry would be devilish to her, were she not 
 besotted with her love for him, woman-like. 
 
 '' What shall we make the wager, Mr. Mauleverer ? A 
 hundred to one against the father . . . yes, I will hold 
 to it ! . . .a hundred to one in the King's new coin of 
 Guinea gold — listen, Lucinda mine! — a hundred to one 
 he meets not thy father first! ..." But his speech 
 stops with a jerk, and his face flushes hot with anger at 
 himself for his blunder. He cares nothing for that; he 
 knows his guest cannot see it. But he must right himself, 
 somehow, and sees nothing better for it than to repeat, 
 " the father, not the sister ! " 
 
 For Lucinda, turning from the window with panic in 
 her face, was crying out: ^' Oliver, what art thou talking 
 of? Thou hast drunk too freely of the old French wine, 
 foolish man! Come away, and have done with it, and I 
 will sing thee a new song thou hast not heard." Where- 
 upon he, thinking it best to be guided by her, suffers her 
 to lead him, for a dizziness has mounted to his head. 
 And Vincent follows unguided, for he can see enough to 
 find his way, easily helped by a touch here and there, on 
 the furniture or doorpost, or what not. He is wondering 
 in his mind to see his host, who has drunk glass for glass 
 with himself, to all seeming unsteady on his feet; while, 
 lame though he be, he feels secure upon his own. But he 
 has scarcely heeded the slip of Sir Oliver's tongue, that 
 made such a pother but now. 
 
 Though Vincent missed the slip Sir Oliver's tongue 
 made, there were ears that heard it in the room, other 
 
168 AN AFFAIR OF DISHO^^OR 
 
 than his. Mrs. Hatsell was back at the sideboard, un- 
 noticed but noticing. And when she returned to the 
 kitchen, her hands full of table-gear, her daughter, en- 
 gaged upon the preparation of coffee, had a mind to know 
 why my lady had called out so of a sudden. For she was 
 always inquisitive and watchful of all that passed between 
 her master and mistress. 
 
 " There'll be a tale to tell, one day, there," said her 
 mother. " And there'll be villainy in it. And thou 
 knowest the name of the villain, as well as I do, Sue.'' 
 Then she repeated what she had heard, saying it all came 
 of a seeming innocent wager, and that of a sudden Sir 
 Oliver had lost his tongue and turned the colour of a red 
 peony. Also that the Lady Lucy had caught up his 
 speech at a word, touching of her father, or Master 
 Mauleverer's. " Ay — but which ? " asked her daughter. 
 And then she put her mother through a close catechism, 
 impatiently blaming her for an old fool, that she could not 
 use her senses more, and make some shift to find out what 
 was going on under her eyes. 
 
 But you may trust me for this, that this woman took 
 very particular note of all she could get from her mother, 
 comparing her tale point for point with what she already 
 knew from the groom, John Rackham. And it shows her 
 cunning and secretive mind, that though she laid by the 
 knowledge she got from each, to use as occasion might 
 arise, she said never a word of what either had told her 
 to the other. And thereafter, by little signs and tokens, 
 stray words of chat, and comparison of by-notes, she 
 settled it in her mind that some untold tale was behind 
 it all; and, more than that, John Rackham could tell it. 
 But to make inquiry of this man was only to excite his 
 suspicion and increase his taciturnity. 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 169 
 
 So let the story leave Susan Trant at this point, to 
 think out, if she can, a means to get at the heart of John 
 Rackham's secret, and go back to Lucinda and Sir Oliver 
 and Vincent, now in the room adjoining the bedroom and 
 Sir Oliver's private cabinet. There all that is of service 
 for music such as Lucinda can command is to be found, 
 rather than in the larger room of state below, which has 
 not been used for many years past. And Lucinda, seated 
 at her virginal, looks through a music-book to come on 
 some song that shall meet her lover's approval, he being 
 nice of choice, and capricious. 
 
 But if Sir Oliver was tempersome, and hard to please, 
 what could it matter, with such a delighted listener as 
 Vincent, whose hearing was insatiable for song after song ? 
 Those who have ever been stinted of music, for a long 
 spell of time together, know the joy of its sweet sound 
 breaking afresh into the arid silence. That was his 
 case, as he sat and dwelt upon her voice and its concord 
 with the tender notes of the virginal — a quill-struck dain- 
 tiness, unlike the harsher tone of our piano-forte^ as 
 it is called, now becoming so common that the harpsi- 
 chord and clavichord of our fathers may look to be 
 forgotten. 
 
 But Sir Oliver struck in at about the third song. 
 
 ^' These are no novelties," said he. " Bring out thy 
 new song, Lucy mine; let's have it, and no more ado!" 
 For he was always keen to prove that some interruption 
 was afoot to thwart his wise ruling. But Lucinda knew 
 this way of his, and thought nothing of it. She sought 
 among the various scrolls and sheets of written music 
 beside her, saying: " It is just an old-time ballad to sing 
 by the fire of a winter evening." And having found it, 
 she sang it through, all but the last two verses, which 
 
170 AN AFEAIK OF DISH0:N^0II 
 
 she omitted at a sign of impatience from Oliver, who 
 swore lie had had enough of that 
 
 It was, indeed, a longish ballad; yet, having got thus 
 far, it seemed unreasonable in Sir Oliver to hold out 
 against its completion. But his reason was clear in 
 his heart. For the ballad was a tale of a girl whose 
 lover, having been forbidden her father's house, never- 
 theless receives him there, in defiance of his orders, 
 in his absence. Whereupon he, returning unexpect- 
 edly, and finding the intruder concealed, draws his 
 sword upon him, and pays the penalty of his rashness, 
 being slain outright by the younger and abler swords- 
 man. 
 
 Now Lncinda, having her face away from Oliver, who 
 sat back in the dim light, had sung thus far through 
 the sweet recurring music of a strange, fascinating 
 melody — being herself taken by its charm, however 
 much the rugged wording of the verses grated on her 
 tongue — until she reached a point where the girl in 
 the story strives to persuade her lover to conceal him- 
 self from her father's anger. She had just completed 
 these verses: 
 
 " * I cannot hide me in a withy basket, 
 Nor yet in a chest of oak, 
 Nor yet in the chimney above the hearth 
 For the stifling of the smoke. 
 
 " * Let me begone by the window, sweet! 
 'Tis a step to the ground below.' 
 * Nay, listen, my love, and hidden thou ^alt be 
 In a place that none doth know.' 
 
 ** She has opened a wainscot-door in the wall, 
 Was hidden from all men's sight. 
 ' Now keep thy sword-point closer to thy side, 
 That the door may shut outright.' 
 
AN AFEAIK OF DISHONOR 171 
 
 • Her father lie looked in the withy basket. 
 
 And the lid of the chest raised he. 
 * Now where hast thou hidden Lord Ferrers of the Dyke, 
 
 Whose kiss on thy lips I see ? ' 
 
 ' He has flung the door in the wainscot wide, 
 
 And a curse is all his speech. 
 They be two strong men, with choler at heart. 
 
 And a sword in the hand of each." 
 
 At this point it was that Sir Oliver cried out, with 
 seeming unreason : " What a plague is all this ? Enough 
 of it, my Lucy! Leave such stuff for ballad-mongers 
 at a wayside inn and sing me something merry." But 
 his voice was not that of a man ready for mirth and did 
 not consort well with his words. Lucinda, not seeing 
 his face and knowing nothing of his hard-set look, and 
 livid colour, could but laugh and say: "I have sung all 
 my songs, sulky Oliver " — for she never scrupled to jest 
 with him — wilt thou have them all over again? What 
 shall it be ? * O mistress mine, where are you roam- 
 ing ? ' " For this was a great favourite with them, and 
 they would speculate whether twenty — in the last verse — 
 was the age of the lady, or the number of kisses, or both. 
 But Oliver gave no answer beyond a short sound behind 
 closed lips. 
 
 Vincent, however, was all agog to hear the end of the 
 ballad-tale, and took it amiss that he should be balked 
 of it. " Is it not hard," said he, " to stop thus on the 
 edge of a battle, and not know which was the better 
 swordsman — the girl's father or her gallant? Another 
 wager, Sir Oliver. I back the father, for a side-stroke 
 of compliment to my own. Never was a better rapier- 
 thrust than his, and I'll be bound it is so still — ^for what 
 are a few years at his time of life ? " 
 
172 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 Then Lucinda all but cried out : " Oh, Vincent, pray 
 God he never use his dreadful skill . . . ! " But 
 she stopped herself in time, though her lips had begun to 
 form his name, saying instead : " Leave your silly 
 wagers, good geese, and I will sing the rest of the song, 
 for all that Oliver may say to the contrary. Now lis- 
 ten ...! " 
 
 " * Now God save either, or God save both, 
 God, save my love,' she said. 
 * For all that a woman could give have I given, 
 Although that we be not wed.' 
 
 " The white swords flash, and the white swords glint, 
 And the white swords glint again. 
 And God hath granted the woman her prayer, 
 But her father he lies there slain. 
 
 " Oh, he lies slain in his good red blood. 
 And none shall hide it never. 
 And none shall assoil a murderer's soul 
 From the curse of God for ever." 
 
 When the song ceased, Vincent spoke out his pleasure 
 and approval. '^ It was as well for me, though, Lady 
 Raydon," said he, " that no odds were named of my 
 wager. I might have lost a good round sum." . . . 
 But as he chatted on thus. Sir Oliver struck in suddenly, 
 and his voice seemed harsh and out of place in a conversa- 
 tion that had no tone of earnestness in it — just light words 
 of pastime, and no more. 
 
 " A mighty wise ballad that ! " cried he. " A pretty 
 tale, that a man who slays his adversary in fair fight is a 
 murderer! What shall we be told next? Shall we all 
 be murderers, if by a stroke of ill-luck our man gets slain 
 by a thrust none ever meant should kill ? A point goes 
 an inch too far, forsooth, and then a man is a murderer! 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISH0:N^0R 173 
 
 Who shall be safe except he sit at home and eat gruel by 
 the fireside? No — I tell thee, Lucy, it is a foolish song, 
 and the less one hears of such a song the better! " For 
 Lucinda, not a little perplexed that he should take so 
 slight a matter as a mere song to heart, had gone to sit 
 by his side to cajole and soothe him, as was her wont in 
 any of his fits of moroseness. 
 
 But Sir Oliver is not to be soothed, and almost makes 
 as though to shake her off rudely. Whatever is it that 
 should cause all this turmoil, thinks Vincent? But he 
 can only distinguish that Lady Raydon has seated her- 
 self beside her lord on the couch he half-lay on, a moment 
 since, listening to her song, on which he now sits forward, 
 shunning the gentleness of her touch upon him, and 
 wiping across his forehead with a tremulous hand. Had 
 Vincent more eyesight, he might see how grey is Oliver's 
 face — how colourless his lips! But he can hear the 
 catch in his voice, its effort to be unconcerned and still. 
 And all for a mere ballad ! Who could have guessed 
 that his host would turn out this manner of man? — that 
 his polished ease, his high-bred mettle, would of a sudden 
 give place to an hysterica passio, sl sheer affection of the 
 nerves ? 
 
 Then he hears the sweet speech of Lucinda — a sure 
 sedative, he thinks, to this excitement. But no! — if 
 anything, it makes it worse. For Sir Oliver turns round 
 upon the ballad, venting his anger on the puppets of the' 
 story, just as though they were truly living creatures. 
 " I will none of it, I tell thee ! " he shouts. " And what 
 was the fool of a girl about, to hide the fellow away in 
 the wainscot? Could she not have known her father 
 would know all the rat-holes better than she? Serve her 
 well right for her folly, say I." . . . And he mutters 
 
174 AN AFFAIE OF I)ISHO:^OR 
 
 on to himself, with a shouted word now and again, out 
 of all measure or proportion to the cause that has pro- 
 voked it. 
 
 Vincent, half-ready for a laugh, but keeping it back 
 lest this should be some strange distemper of his host's 
 brain — well known to his wife, but such as she might 
 easily have said nothing of, for prudence' sake — ^would 
 gladly help her, if he might, but feels the ground insecure 
 beneath him. Still, he may go so far as to say : ^' What 
 are they all, dear Sir Oliver, but just the puppets of a 
 galanty show at a fair to amuse children ? " Then at an 
 uneasy laugh from Sir Oliver — for it caught in his throat 
 — he adds : " To my thought, the old man was the fool 
 to cross swords at all with a young ruffler. Unless, 
 indeed, he could use his weapon like my father. And 
 where would this gay young minx have been the better 
 had her lover been the dead man ? " 
 
 Sir Oliver made a better laugh of this, and drew a 
 breath of ease. " Well spoken, Mr. Mauleverer," he said. 
 ^^ He'd had his will, I take it. But he never could wed 
 the girl with a sword through his guts." 
 
 " But need he have died of it — need he have died ? " 
 cried Lucinda, in such a taking about the ballad-folk that 
 Vincent could not but wonder, as she went on : " For my 
 own part, I am sorriest for the girl, sinner though she 
 were, as the word of the world is. Oh, but think of it, 
 Oliver mine ! — to see her own father lying there in a pool 
 of his own blood, and the man she, like enough, loved 
 standing by with his guilty sword ! " Then she mistook 
 the odd sound that came from Oliver for some sort of 
 protest or dissent, and must needs go on. " Kay, but 
 fancy it, dearest love ! — had'st thou slain my father, and 
 I stood by to see it . . ." 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 17^ 
 
 But she gets no farther, for Oliver, starting up from 
 where he sat beside her, with an awful cry, stands for one 
 moment rigid, then falls headlong, foaming at the mouth 
 and writhing. And his mouth is all awry, and his eyes 
 have gone upward, just as they did on that night of his 
 sleep-waking a month since. Of this, though, Vincent 
 sees nothing; but he can see this much — that Sir Oliver 
 is on the floor, and Lady Raydon is kneeling over him, 
 loosing his collar at the throat for air. 
 
 Then a thing happened that a many persons — and those^ 
 too, not uninformed on matters of the like sort — may 
 easily cry out upon as a thing impossible. For as Vin- 
 cent, dumb-stricken, and almost dizzy at the terrible 
 unearthly sound of the epileptic's cry, stands unable to 
 help for lack of sendceable eyesight, as well as for the 
 impediment of his hurt, all that he half-sees becomes 
 suddenly clear to his vision, and for the first time he 
 has more than a mere guess what this host of his is like, 
 and what this owner of a lovely voice. In a word — 
 and so strange a tale will not be made less so by lengthen- 
 ing of it out — he can see in a flash, as it were, the whole 
 image of the room before him, and he wonders — ^will it 
 go or stay? But he has no need to fear; it will hold. 
 There it is still !— ^Lucinda kneeling in her beauty by the 
 writhing, jerking figure on the floor; the women of the 
 household, hurried would-be helpers with no succour to 
 give ; the last word of the sunset through the open lattice ; 
 the candles on the spinet guttering to their end in the 
 warm night-wind; the music-sheets scattered about. He 
 who, a moment since, saw but dim images, as through a 
 mountain mist, can now discern well and clearly, as 
 though his eyesight had never been at fault. 
 
 Being thus free of all impediment, his maimed limb 
 
176 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 apart, should not his first thought be the offer of some 
 help at need, even though the manner of it may be hard 
 to choose ? If it be so, it is a thought that never comes 
 to action. For he remains speechless and motionless, 
 his eyes fixed upon the kneeling woman, as though some- 
 thing his new power of sight brought with it had struck 
 him dumb. And she, for her part, in her despair at this 
 bitter grief, this sudden resurrection of a foe she had 
 dared to think dead, seeing nothing but the seemirg 
 agony of the face she loves, contorted by the cruel malady 
 she cannot understand, has no heart to ask or hope for 
 help from him. What can he do, or any man? What 
 may be done she does, with ready presence of mind. Cold 
 water for the brow, and the palms of hands hard to un- 
 clench — freedom for the throat, and a cork, as the doctor 
 had told her, to keep the teeth from the already bitten 
 tongue and clear the way for breath, and there is the 
 whole of her resources in a few words. And now nothing 
 is left but to send Mrs. Trant to despatch John Rackham 
 to ride full-speed for assistance, first of all to Bury, 
 though her belief is small indeed in the medical help to 
 be had there or elsewhere. Still, it should be summoned, 
 for what other can she hope for? 
 
 The fit subsides, and, as before, Sir Oliver lies breath- 
 ing heavily where he fell, and she fears to have him 
 moved. Nor would anything be gained by doing so. 
 Raise his head on pillows, and wait! Nothing else can 
 be done; all human succour is at a loss. The fiend that 
 has possessed him — for that is all her thought, not 
 knowing its folly as we know it now in our day — will 
 leave him free, in God's own time. For us, what is left 
 but patience? 
 
 Then she turns to Vincent, never dreaming he can see 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOJSTOK 177 
 
 her, still less that in a moment he will know her. At 
 the moment so dumbfounded is he with bewilderment, 
 he cannot be truly said to know anything. 
 
 All his bewilderment is in his voice. " In Heaven's 
 name, who and what are you ? " And the eyes that she 
 still supposes to see her but dimly are fixed upon her in 
 all intelligence, but with terror in them, or something 
 like it. 
 
 Her first thought is despairing. Is there no God in 
 Heaven that this should be the moment chosen for the 
 climax of her perplexity — for the forcing of a confession 
 to her brother ? Her words are only : " Oh, but why this ? 
 . . . why now ? . . . '' Could not the blow have struck 
 her, she would say, at a less afflicted moment ? 
 
 Then in an instant he sees nothing but her pain, and 
 the solution of the mystery — look you! — can wait. 
 
 " IN'ot now — not now ! '' he cries. " Let it bide. Let 
 it be what it may! Count me as nothing, for the love 
 of God ! " And his words are not so wild but that she 
 can understand them. No thought of him is to add a 
 bitterness to her bitter lot — is not that his meaning? 
 
 She can see that he sees her more visibly than hereto- 
 fore. But she has no conception how plain his sight has 
 suddenly become. She thinks, at least, that the tears 
 that are obscuring her own vision; the rise and fall of 
 her bosom as she gasps to speak, but cannot; her hands 
 that hang so helpless till some slight convulsion shows 
 her distress through their inaction — that all these are 
 unseen by him, who really sees them plainly, with pity 
 in his heart, but a mazed understanding, so far. 
 
 For a moment all remains unchanged. It is a moment 
 of acute silence for both, through which is audible the 
 heavy stertorous breathing of the man on the floor. 
 
178 'AN AFFAIE OF BISHONOK 
 
 Lucinda is the one to break it. She cannot reason now 
 of what is best to say. He may know nothing yet; but 
 she knows he has to know all soon, and why not now? 
 One way of knowledge is like another, and his comes to 
 him with the name of his boyhood, spoken through a 
 torrent of pleading for forgiveness, a passionate cry of 
 remorse from a soul in torture. Oh, how could he have 
 been so deaf as not to know that voice? — so dull as to 
 be none the wiser for his own glint of insight into its 
 likeness to his sister's, more than once ere this? 
 
 Then Mrs. Hatsell, coming stealthily to replace a wax 
 eandle near its end in the window-draught, sees Lady 
 Haydon fall into the arms of her guest, and hears her 
 agonized cry: "Vincent — ^Vincent — ^you mnst forgive 
 me ! — ^you shall forgive me ! '' She sees the kiss of his 
 forgiveness — for what offence she knows not — and the 
 welcome of his arms, and gets away unnoticed, with a 
 tale to tell her daughter. 
 
 Had Vincent's recognition of his sister come at some 
 happier moment, might he not have withheld the for- 
 giveness so ungrudgingly given? Had his first percep- 
 tion that this Lady Ray don, the teller of a false tale of 
 her own parentage, was in truth his own little Mayjune 
 he was longing to greet — had this come upon him as a 
 revelation of her lawless disregard of all moral duty, her 
 indulgence of a sinful passion fraught with a thousand 
 dishonors to a family so little blemished as their own, 
 it may easily be that her confession and plea for pardon 
 would have been met by a storm of angry reproach. 
 Had he seen her first as one of a gay throng of rakes 
 who had thrown all sacred obligation, all purity of love, 
 to the four winds of Heaven — and coteries of such-like 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISH0:N^0R 179 
 
 folk were no harder to find in those days than in our own 
 — the first word from his lips to the sister the memory of 
 whose childhood he had treasured in all his wanderings 
 might easily have been some brutal epithet containing a 
 falsehood, such as a society of liars and hypocrites bestows 
 so freely on the woman who transgresses laws womankind 
 have had no share in making, with only a lenient word 
 of formal blame for the male transgressor, of whom she 
 may have been the half-unwilling victim. But Lucinda's 
 cry of contrition, her appeal for lenient judgment, came 
 to him in no such guise. It was mixed with her despair 
 for the dire calamity he now saw for the first time, for a 
 lover stricken down with one of the cruellest afflictions 
 man has to bear at the hands of God; and all his pious 
 instincts towards reproof of sin were, so to speak, caught 
 at a disadvan,tage, and overcome for the moment by his 
 sorrow for the pitiful plight of this his dearly loved sister 
 and friend. 
 
 So soon as his utter bewilderment would allow him to 
 understand it, Lucinda told her tale — one in which her 
 own almost childish ignorance of the nature of the step 
 she was taking played even a larger part than is common 
 in such stories, though, like enough, the girl had not been 
 kept more in the dark than the world, for its own pur- 
 poses, has decided to be wisest for all girls. But so skil- 
 fully did she gloss over the wicked cunning Sir Oliver 
 had practised in entangling her, so much self-blame did 
 she impute, so persistently did she dwell on the reci- 
 procity throughout of an ill-restrained passion — guilty, 
 perhaps, but of like guilt for both, and irresistible by 
 either — that her brother could not gpe^k his hatred of 
 her seducer without seeming to include her in the scope 
 of his condemnation. For all throu^ the telling of her 
 
180 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 story he was burning to say : " Right or wrong, I am on 
 my little sister's side. If Law and Custom be against 
 her, I appeal to God. If God be against her, I cast my 
 lot in with hers, and take part, if need be, with the 
 Devil." 
 
 It is true that no memory of past lapses of his own 
 had any share in this impulse; it was entirely due to 
 his devotion to his sister. But, then, he was a Man. 
 
 What should he say to that thing on the floor that he 
 at last knew for a villain, his sister's betrayer ? Nothing, 
 here and now. How could he speak to the slow-returning 
 consciousness of one half-witted from the overwhelming 
 paroxysms of epilepsy? How hope for a sane answer 
 from his thickened speech and clouded thought? ^ot 
 yet — ^wait a while ! ]^ot even when Oliver, denying, as 
 before, that time had lapsed, and refusing, as before, all 
 help but John Rackham's, had been got safely to bed 
 had Vincent a word to say to him of his villainy. His 
 few words of formal farewell, and wishes for a night of 
 sound sleep for his host, had no colour in them of a 
 gravity not warranted by the tragic interruption to a 
 peaceful evening. I^or on any of the few days left of 
 his stay at Kips Manor — for on the second day after this 
 he was fit to mount a horse, and only delayed a day or 
 two longer for prudence — did he utter one syllable to 
 Oliver of the matter nearest his heart. And the sad- 
 ness that ruled the house was nowise strange, considering 
 the evil hap of its master, and its persistency of oppressive 
 effect on him. 
 
 But when the day came for him to ride away to his 
 father's home, strong in hope that ere long he would ride 
 back, bearing at least some message from that father to 
 his daughter, if not the full forgiveness such an offence 
 
AX AFFAIE OF DISHO:^rOR 181 
 
 could scarcely find a plea for — then at last Vincent spoke. 
 He had started on his journey, as men rode on such 
 journeys in those days, with spurs to his jack-boots he 
 might need to use, for speed of flight or pursuit; with 
 pistols loaded ready at his saddle-bow, and a sword of 
 tried service — all the loan of his host, as was all else he 
 carried with him, and the horse he sat upon. Beside 
 him rode Oliver, quite himself again after that queer fit, 
 a week since, to conduct his guest as far as the main 
 road upon his way, after which no guide would be 
 necessary, all the stages of his route being well marked 
 and easy of inquiry, besides a good chance of other com- 
 pany. According as this may turn out, John Rackham, 
 who rides behind, will accompany him farther or return. 
 There was no mount for Lucinda, the young colt still 
 proving too troublesome for a lady's hand, and her o\vn 
 mare being needed for Vincent, caution being still de- 
 sirable, his hurt being so recent. 
 
 ^^ Listen, before we part. Sir Oliver Raydon," says he. 
 " You have been a good host to me, and I am your 
 debtor for a many courtesies. But you are a damned 
 villain, and shall one day answer for your crime against 
 me and mine. For I know the whole story, and, though 
 my sister's love is yours, I know you for what you are. 
 Do you call upon me to make good my words? If so, 
 here and now . . ." And he would have dismounted, 
 but Sir Oliver stopped him. 
 
 " Keep your saddle, Mr. Mauleverer. I should gain 
 little honour by crossing swords with a lame man, even 
 though I myself be none of the fittest for a bout after 
 this accursed attack. But do not fear. A time will 
 come, suitably for both, unless, indeed, you are minded 
 to go back on a hot word spoken in anger. I will overlook 
 
182 AN AFFAIR OF DISHOl!^OR 
 
 it, for my part, and so farewell, and a pleasant ride home, 
 and a good welcome! " It cost an effort to get this said. 
 
 " Never a word will I unsay," said Vincent ; and he 
 saw that the other flinched, but had no guess why. 
 " But look you, now ! — here is a bargain. I have no 
 wish to run my sword through a man my sister is so 
 besotted about. I would rather call him brother. But 
 a day may come when she too may measure you right, 
 and her craze be at an end. Count our meeting post- 
 poned till that day. I have this much faith in you. Sir 
 Oliver Ray don — that I do not believe you will dishonor 
 a pledge from cowardice. Promise me but this, that my 
 challenge shall stand until Lucy tires of you, and till 
 then — soon may it be ! — I will not claim it." 
 
 " Agreed ! " said Sir Oliver. But then he thought to 
 himself, ^^ How about his father's death, when he comes 
 to know it ? " So, after hesitating a moment, he added : 
 " Let us have the compact clear, with a witness, though 
 he be but a groom." He signed to John Rackham, who 
 came ; then continued : " It is to be thus, I take it, 
 Mr. Mauleverer: no challenge shall hold good against 
 me until my lady wearies of me, and would be quit of my 
 service. Thus and no otherwise — is that it ? " 
 
 " Thus and no otherwise ! " echoes Vincent. But then, 
 having misinterpreted Oliver's pause, he adds this sub- 
 intent : ^^ The pledge is mine only ; my father is not held 
 by it. I have no right to bind him." He had wondered, 
 when Lucinda told her tale, that no word came in of a 
 challenge from the old swordsman, her father. 
 
 " I understand it so, and am content." So says Sir 
 Oliver. But his eye meets not Vincent's, as he turns to 
 ride away, and neither says farewell. There is a malicious 
 grin on the groom's colourless lips as he turns his horse 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 183 
 
 to follow his master, with the barest sign of obeisance to 
 the departing guest. 
 
 As for Vincent, how can his heart be aught but a heavy 
 one when he thinks back on the home he hoped to find, 
 and contrasts it with the one he now expects. Alas! — 
 he does not know the worst. He rides on over the green 
 roadside turf, with a wheel-track of no great width in 
 the centre, and the hedges sometimes flanking it close, 
 then opening wide, as was the way in those days even 
 with the highways of some importance. He rides on, 
 stooping now and again when a tree-bough, dropping too 
 low, threatens his head, and indulging the thought of the 
 welcome the Old Hall may still give him — of his father's 
 face with the burden on it of a grief to tell — a tale already 
 told. But why — ^why — ^had no answer come to Lucinda's 
 letters ? Ay ! — even to his own ; though shortness of time 
 may have had to answer for that. 
 
 He who writes this — ^partly with a free pen and partly 
 as an abstract of a record of more than a hundred years 
 ago, too full of the author's reflections to warrant the 
 cost of reprinting at length — is not well enough informed 
 about maladies of the eyesight to know whether so 
 sudden a revival of vision as Vincent Mauleverer's is a 
 common case. All he can vouch for is that it stands so 
 in the narrative, and that he has inclined in this portion 
 to leave its language unchanged, rather than to modify it 
 with a view to softening seeming improbability. As it 
 was written, so it is reported, and the responsibility for 
 its truth or falsehood must rest with its first writer. 
 
CHAPTEE XII 
 
 Never had Oliver been more silent and morose than in 
 the days following the departure of Vincent. He was 
 brooding over what he now thought his own folly, in not 
 at once catching at a challenge that might have had a 
 fortunate outcome for him. Another thrust, like that 
 hasty one he repented of daily, would have sent the son 
 to follow the father, and relieved him — ^not from the 
 burden of guilt — but from the apprehension of a prema- 
 ture revelation; one that would turn Lucinda against him 
 before the natural flagging of his own passion had made 
 him ripe for some new adventure elsewhere. 
 
 What has he gained by his postponement of a duel 
 that must needs be fought when Vincent learns the 
 truth? His mind flinched from an image it conjured 
 up of an opponent no longer balked by a crippled limb, 
 swift of hand and keen of sight, with two great wrongs 
 to avenge — a sister's dishonor and a father's murder. 
 And he himself with nothing then to fight for! For he 
 knew in his heart that Lucinda's strange love for him 
 would then be changed to loathing. What a miserable 
 fool's pledge he had given — to play a game of life or 
 death with his chief stake swept off the board ! Better — 
 far better! — they should have cleared the score, then and 
 there, on the hill yonder. 
 
 The best might-have-been his thoughts could frame 
 was one of himself, borne back after such an encounter 
 with an expiatory wound on him — ^bad enough for the 
 
 184 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOE 185 
 
 purpose, but not too bad — and then a full confession of 
 the whole to this mistress he was more than half in love 
 with by now, in spite of his normal incapacity for love. 
 For his imagination did not scruple to trade on the pity 
 Lucinda had store of in her heart, and to utilise it for 
 the easing of an embarrassment. It would work all right, 
 that way, and be of service to him. This blasphemy 
 against the Holy Spirit of Love was constant with him. 
 And repellent as was the frame of mind that made it 
 possible, it contained also the germ of the only possi- 
 bility of life and growth to his self-centred soul ; the heart- 
 stretch he had to acknowledge the existence of towards 
 a woman who was to have been but an item of his passing 
 pleasures. Lucinda's beauty, her overpowering grace and 
 sweetness, had stolen a march on him; and he bade fair 
 to become a prisoner in the citadel himself had captured. 
 Else he might have shaken himself as free of her as ho 
 was of that discarded Susan, who was losing her beauty 
 now, and knew it. 
 
 Then an indignant impatience with the creator of 
 human maladies, whom he could not reach, found some 
 easement in denunciations of the Faculty of Medicine, 
 which was relatively near at hand, for its ignorance of 
 the nature and treatment of disease. But then a thought 
 occurred to him: — Was this affliction of his an ordinary 
 disease — fair play on Nature's part — or had the Devil a 
 hand in the matter? Was he bewitched? Such things 
 had been. But a few years since the smell of burning 
 witches was over the whole land, and these eastern shires 
 had been tainted with the contagion almost beyond all 
 others. 
 
 Who would the offender be in this case? Well-^he 
 had not far to seek for that. All the countryside knew 
 
186 AN AFFAIE OF DISHO:^rOR 
 
 how narrowly Mistress Trant had escaped being swum 
 for a witch three years ago; and, though Sir Oliver him- 
 self had been mainly instrumental in rescuing her from 
 the clutches of Matthew Hopkins, the great witch-finder, 
 he was never convinced that the accusations against her 
 were false. He recalled the confessions this woman had 
 made — to avoid torture, certainly — and among other 
 things that a chief accusation against her was that of 
 afflicting a neighbour's children with fits. His own case — 
 that was strange ! 
 
 If it were so, no need to fancy — as he half -confessed to 
 himself he had done — ^that his witnessing from afar that 
 encounter on the ship's deck had made him hesitate to 
 cross Bwords with the surviving combatant. What folly! 
 Be sure it was that accursed malady that had eaten into 
 his system, and made him half the man ke was three 
 months ago! That was it! It was witchcraft. It was 
 some devil's practice of that green-eyed snake of a woman. 
 What was a woman's jealousy not capable of? And 
 what a return for all he had done for her! Would she 
 ever have been an honest woman at all, but for him? 
 
 Sir Oliver jumped at this witchcraft theory, having lit- 
 tle relish for suspicion of his own cowardice. He was not 
 long in making up his mind that his discarded mistress 
 was the culprit, and that it was some accursed witch- 
 philtre of hers that was answerable for this falling sick- 
 ness. She had motive enough. It must be plain now 
 to her woman's quick apprehension that all those little 
 aftermaths of a lawless love, nominally secret from her 
 official possessor, would have to come to an end. She 
 would not need to believe in the decay of her own charms 
 for that ; what woman is convinced of that at forty ? But 
 what a hatred must hers be for Lucinda ! 
 
Aj^ APFAIE of DISHOXOE 187 
 
 Then a thought stopped him short When his first 
 seizure occurred, what did this Susan know of Lucinda? 
 Simply nothing! But had that anything to do with the 
 matter? In this subject of witchcraft all reasoning was 
 at fault. We knew nothing of the conditions. How 
 could he tell that some imp, some familiar, had not car- 
 ried the news of all his doings, or even that the witch her- 
 self had not travelled invisible? Tales enough were 
 abroad of like things happening. Eather, was it not more 
 reasonable to assume Susan's supernatural knowledge of 
 things at a distance, and account for it by her being in 
 league with the Devil? Fancy accepting a plea of an 
 alibi from a witch! 
 
 But if Oliver, dwelling on this way of accounting for 
 his malady, as well as on the growing difficulty of keeping 
 his mistress in ignorance of her father's death, became 
 more and more silent and distraught, it was another story 
 with Lucinda. All the heart of her youth was back in 
 her veins, now she knew that she must ere long be once 
 more in touch with her father. Fancy seeing him again ! 
 Fancy feeling his arms about her as of old, and hearing 
 his dear voice, even though it spoke plainly to her of her 
 own misdeed, and stooped to no false palliation of it for 
 her sake. And then, too, what a joy to have her brother, 
 as it were, on her side — to be spared the first confession 
 of her sin to her father, face to face! That would have 
 been terrible. She looked to it now as a certainty that 
 his letter would come soon — this dreadful silence would 
 end. Kot that his reproaches would not sting. That was 
 inevitable. But anything — anything, rather than this 
 condemnation without speech, this dumb and stupid 
 void of cold speculation! 
 
 "Oh, Heaven, speed my brother on his mission!" 
 
188 AN AFFAIK OF DISH0:N^0E 
 
 That was her hourly thought. And she made up a 
 thousand ways in her mind how Vincent would arrive 
 at the Old Hall, and how he would be welcomed. 'Now, 
 it was under the canopy of a starlit night, like that above 
 the still sea yonder; and she could almost hear the 
 tramp of his steed on the stones of the court of the Old 
 Hall — could almost hear his joyous voice shouting aloud 
 to his father to come, to wake and come, and see how 
 the boy of eight years since had become a man. And 
 then she would dream, when the morning sun was 
 making so much gold of the lichens and stonecrop on the 
 grey Manor House, that, even at the moment, father and 
 son had met, maybe in the rose-garden that was called 
 her own, maybe in the lane — anywhere! Oh, the morn- 
 ing air of the Old Hall gardens, scent-laden with southern- 
 wood and lavender, thyme and mignonette, so unlike this 
 sweet, salt desert by the sea! 
 
 But whatever form her dream took, it was always 
 crossed by the pain in her father's voice, uttering her 
 name as the first thing to speak of; yet again alleviated 
 by the sound of her brother's, that — so she would have 
 it — ^was to say boldly : ^' I have seen my sister, I have 
 been beneath her roof; and if all is not well, all is not so 
 ill but that I can take her part against the world, and 
 feel no shame in doing so." So she dreamed on, and the 
 days went by; it was a little lull of rest with a privilege 
 of hope in it, a right that was hers through all the time 
 in which no letter from her brother could possibly reach 
 her. She made the most of it, and hid in the very back 
 of her heart a misgiving that she might soon be at a loss 
 to invent reasons for this letter's non-arrival. 
 
 How vexatious it was of Oliver that he should, just 
 now of all times, begin to scheme a journey to London! 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 189 
 
 He had not hinted before of any departure from Kips. 
 Manor, either for their previous home or for London, 
 until mid-August at least. If she were dragged away 
 on any pretext before Vincent had time to write — and 
 she could imagine reasons why he might not write at 
 once — ^how long would it be before his letter, forwarded, 
 would reach her? It might never do so. 
 
 She tried to coax Oliver to promise postponement of 
 their departure until letters from the Old Hall should 
 arrive; but he always evaded the subject, pooh-poohing 
 her anxiety, and saying another day, or two at most, 
 would be sure to put an end to it. He showed impatience 
 when she referred to it again; whereupon she, bearing in 
 mind his recent attack and Dr. Phinehas's warning that 
 he was not to be thwarted, determined not to speak of it 
 again; to Oliver himself, at any rate. 
 
 But she could not even feel sure no time would be lost 
 in the forwarding of this letter when it came. In fact, 
 she had serious misgivings that it might lie unclaimed at 
 the Cobbler with Two Wives when John Rackham was 
 no longer at hand to ride over there, as he now did regu- 
 larly twice in the week. Sir Oliver was not communi- 
 cative about the arrangements that would be made for 
 forwarding letters in his absence. All she knew, so far, 
 was that after their departure Susan Trant would return 
 to her husband at his farm, and Martha Hatsell would 
 remain in charge of the house as heretofore. But Trant's 
 Farm was only an easy distance from the Cobbler with 
 Two Wives, and at this time Lucinda had no doubt of 
 Mrs. Trant's good faith and trustworthiness, whatever 
 may have been the case later. 
 
 " Now listen to me. Mistress Susan,'' said she, to her 
 attendant a few days after her brother's departure. " Sir 
 
190 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOE 
 
 Oliver has set his heart on a visit to London, and that 
 in spite of the tales they tell of the plague that has fallen 
 on the people there. He is headstrong, and cannot be 
 dissuaded." 
 
 " He was so from a boy," said Susan. " What is your 
 ladyship^s wish ? " 
 
 ^' 'Tis a small matter, but must be done without fail. 
 There will come letters for me when we are gone, there 
 where John Rackham rides now to fetch them. You live 
 near by ? — is it not so "? " 
 
 " The Cobbler Inn ? Yes — one can go on foot, within 
 the half-hour. Mr. Isaac Trusslove." 
 
 " That is his name, who has charge over the letters ? 
 . . . Well! — he will give you mine; for, as I suppose, 
 he knows you. Write on them the new address — * Mrs. 
 Jane Worbidge.' "... 
 
 "I cannot write." 
 
 " l^ever mind, Mr. Trusslove will write it, if you tell 
 him. ISTow keep it well in memory. ^ Care of Mrs. Jane 
 Worbidge, over the barber's shop in Panyer Alley, by Ivy 
 Lane.' " And she made Mrs. Trant repeat this once or 
 twice, so there should be no mistake. Why she did not 
 write it down for her was in order that no question should 
 be made about it over the borrowing of a pen from Sir 
 Oliver; she herself having none, but always seeking his. 
 And Lucinda knew well that folk who cannot write have 
 a keener use of memory than such as can jot down -at will 
 every trifle, to keep it in mind. 
 
 Now, the name Lucinda had given — that of an old 
 nurse whom she was sure to seek out if she did go to Lon- 
 don — was only chosen because she had no knowledge of 
 where Sir Oliver would lodge, he having said nothing 
 ■of his arrangements so far. She had no mistrust of her 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOA^OR 191 
 
 own letters being forwarded with his, if there were any ; 
 but as he expected none he would very likely not give his 
 London address to the local postmaster at all, relying on 
 his despatching them to the Old Hall, whence they 
 would be sent to him with any others. Lucinda's sole 
 object was to gain every moment of time possible; not 
 to be without her brother's letter, or her father's, one 
 single instant beyond necessity. In her nervous anxiety 
 for this, she quite lost sight of a possible interpretation of 
 her wish to have her letters sent to an address apart, 
 
 " Now, you will be sure not to let it slip," said she, and 
 began repeating again, " Mrs. Jane Worbidge, in Panyer 
 Alley, over the barber's shop ..." But Mrs. Trant 
 said, somewhat severely, " I heard it, my lady," and was 
 silent. 
 
 This woman's reserve would relax with her mother, and 
 they would be heard talking freely when the door was 
 closed, the old woman's shrill treble often cut short by the 
 firm dry speech of her daughter, whose voice was not un- 
 musical, however incisive. So Lucinda heard them talk- 
 ing afar, disputatipusly, as she passed through the 
 vestibule, to join Oliver without, after giving her charge 
 to Susan Trant. 
 
 For the daughter had said to her mother, returning to 
 the kitchen : " Thou art astray touching the sailor-guest 
 and my lady. They would be a strange-fangled sister 
 and brother to kiss o' that fashion." And then, though 
 her mother spoke not, only looked, " Of what fashion, 
 forsooth? — ^why, the one thou tellest of! . . . No! — 
 I care nothing what they called each other. Names be no 
 better than toys to play with. You're all in the wrong 
 of it, mother. Brother and sister — a likely story! " But 
 she said this only to make her mother tell again what she 
 
192 A^ AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 had seen and heard of Vincent's recognition of his sister ; 
 having believed up till now, from John Rackham's in- 
 formation about Lucinda's maiden name — which, how- 
 ever, she had kept to herself — that the inferences drawn 
 about their relationship were correct. This separate 
 address of Lucinda's threw a doubt upon them, in a mind 
 prone to suspicion, and set it a thinking whether a useful 
 jealousy might not be excited in Sir Oliver by a judicious 
 revelation of the postal instruction Lucinda had given. 
 But she had to be sure of her ground. 
 
 " You may forsooth me, daughter, and make light of all 
 I say. But I tell thee this — all brothers are not like 
 thine, who would as soon have given thee a clout as a kiss, 
 and all sisters are not lik6 thee, to count a brother's kiss 
 a dose of medicine." Thus the old woman. Who, then, 
 being pressed, resumed the tale she had already told, and 
 added other recollections of conversation overheard be- 
 tween Lucinda and Sir Oliver, all tending to show that 
 her lady and Mr. Mauleverer, who came off the wreck, 
 were truly sister and brother, whatever Mrs. Trant's early 
 experience of fraternal relations may have been. 
 
 All which her daughter listened to and passed by, 
 saying, with an ugly curl of her top lip : ^^ Then our Sir 
 Oliver goes to a lodgment in London over a barber's shop ! 
 A likely story ! " . . . Then for explanation, being 
 asked, she gave the tale of the new direction, and ended 
 with the question : " What entertainment may there be 
 for breeding of high quality in Panyer Alley, over a bar- 
 ber's shop ? Thou knowest town, mother, as I do not, that 
 have never set foot there. What sort of an alley is Panyer 
 Alley, that Sir Oliver Raydon of Croxley Hall should 
 dwell there, over a barber's shop ? But of a truth, I know 
 nothing." Neither did her mother seem wiser than she, 
 
AlSr AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 193 
 
 as to Panyer Alley, never having heard of it. But her 
 ignorance of it told against Panyer Alley, for had she not 
 in youth been in the service of quality in London, and 
 known all the quarters where the gentry congregated in 
 those days — St. James's and Piccadilly, and eastward 
 along the Strand — but had never heard speak of such a 
 place as fit residence for gentlefolk. However, it might 
 be in the City itself, eastward of Temple Bar. But as 
 to why my lady should w^ant her letters sent there if it 
 were not Sir Oliver's own proper address, there could be 
 but one reason. And this was certain, that Mrs. Hatsell 
 had overheard her to say to this brother or what not, 
 just before his departure, that she should be miserable 
 until his letter came, charging him to write quickly. 
 
 The end of it was that Mrs. Trant, whatever her actual 
 belief was, saw a way to utilising the worst construction 
 she could put on the unsuspicious freedom of Lucinda's 
 intercourse with her guest, and rejoiced over it in her 
 heart. But she wished to know all she could know first; 
 to be complete mistress of the position. The groom Rack- 
 ham was the only person who could have anything to 
 tell, and Susan's attempt upon his confidence had only 
 scored a few small successes. Ale, to which she had 
 looked to loosen his tongue and make him less reticent, 
 had only made him more and more so ; until, at the point 
 where most men would be helplessly drunk, Mr. Rackham 
 stopped, as a clock stops. But the face of a stopped clock 
 is an expressive thing compared to Mr. Rackham's when 
 drunk ; for at least it repeats its last statement for what it 
 was worth; and once accurately, if it was beforehand at 
 the moment of stopping. His was an irritating silence 
 always seeming to refer to the thing you wanted to know, 
 whatever it might be. 
 
194 a:n- affaie of dishonoe 
 
 But Mrs. Trant outmatched him in the end, as we shall 
 see, by what agency it is not for the story to determine. 
 Yet it is only reasonable to suppose that if the evil deeds 
 that none can doubt are committed by persons accused 
 of witchcraft, even in these days, are due to the inter- 
 vention of the Evil One, this practice of Mrs. Trant on the 
 groom, John Rackham, was one of a like colour. We 
 may refuse belief to many such legends as abound in the 
 confessions of culprits tried for witchcraft, such as those 
 of familiar spirits — Pyewacket or Grizzel Greedigut — 
 braget cats or little bloodsucking black men, incubi or 
 succubi or the like. But it is almost as hard to believe that 
 an influence over an obdurate man, forcing him to the 
 narrative of secret matter wholly against his well, should 
 be attained by means so simple as those she employed, 
 except those means were in some sense diabolical. It 
 does not need to assume the intervention of the arch- 
 fiend Satan in person, seeing that the agencies he employs 
 may be well counted by millions. But it is noteworthy 
 that this Susan Trant had already been under such 
 suspicion of malpractices of this sort, that even her former 
 paramour. Sir Oliver, while throwing his weight and in- 
 fluence into the scale against that of the Witch-finder 
 Hopkins, had never entirely acquitted her in his own 
 heart. And now, being in doubt as to the cause of his 
 malady, his mind harked back to the old tales against her 
 of the children she had afflicted with fits, ulcers, and so 
 on, especially the former. 
 
 John Rackham, it may be supposed, had heard chance 
 gossip about Mrs. Trant's evil repute, else it would never 
 have occurred to him to seek advice from her about a 
 perplexity he found himself in. He, being unable to 
 account for the vices and wildness of the young colt he 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISH0:N0II 195- 
 
 had so mucli difficulty in breaking-in, ended by deciding 
 that it was bewitched. A thief may be set to catch a thief, 
 and a witch a witch. But Susan Trant, being consulted, 
 told Mr. Rackham he was no better than a born fool to 
 think such a thing. Perhaps, though, said she, he had 
 other reasons that he had not told. He was not a person 
 to be profuse in information until some form of con- 
 tradiction or hostility came into the question. 
 
 " What will you call fool for next, Mistress Susan ? 
 Study your words afore you speak 'em, say I. Mean to 
 tell me when a horse is stalled safe overnight, and stream- 
 ing with a muck o' sweat in the morning, that the DeviF& 
 at a distance ? I say no ! " 
 
 " I say like enough. Why not ? Witch-wives must 
 have a busy time, to answer for every little ailment. 
 Some will have it a body can't sneeze but a witch is to be 
 answerable. Any old dame with a cat will do — one as 
 soon as another." 
 
 " You're wise with a wench's wisdom, Mistress Sukey 
 — ^your tongue gets ahead of your knowledge. N'ow, if 
 you had but bided for a word I'd have told you." 
 
 " What would you have told me ? ISTothing worth the 
 hearing, I lay." She was ironing fine cambric, and talked 
 of things of small account the while, with slight interest. 
 It exasperated Mr. Rackham, who was no match for her 
 on even terms. 
 
 " I'd have told you this/' said he, moved to emphasis, 
 short of anger, for which he was too torpid. " I'd have 
 told you that when the mane of a three-year-old colt, or 
 e'er a horse you may name, is tied in strands so no comb 
 passes through, do what you will, that young colt's been 
 hag-rid in the night. You may naysay it, mistress, but 
 it's well known for a truth by all who have charge of 
 
196 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 horses. My father knew it afore me, and no man called 
 Tin a liar, in his day . . . what might you make of 
 that ? " He had said a good deal, for him ; and had done 
 justice to his case without posing as a petitioner for what 
 he considered a professional opinion. 
 
 Mrs. Trant felt she could tantalize him; perhaps that 
 might be her best policy. " I have heard tell of that,'' 
 said she, placidly ironing a careful corner. There she 
 stopped. She was considering whether she could not 
 utilise this fulcrum of the horse-incident to extract the 
 information she wanted. A lever was knoAvn to her, could 
 she get the chance to apply it. She completed the corner 
 before she spoke again. ^^ They're a strong and a wicked 
 sort," said she ; " but they do say there be remedies 
 against them, too ! " 
 
 The old groom, leaning with his elbows on the window- 
 ledge of the kitchen, grinned maliciously on one side of 
 his face and crimped the eye that belonged over the grin. 
 " I'd make a sharp remedy if I could find the old cat," 
 said he. *^ But who's to say where to find un ? " 
 
 " Who — alas ? " said Mrs. Trant. But then she went 
 to the window over against John Rackham, and as she 
 stood against the inner side of the thick wall, spoke to 
 him under her breath. ^^ Listen to me, Master Rack- 
 ham. This is no fable I am telling you. If you will be 
 guided by me, I will put you in the way to know of this 
 witch that has done ill to your horse — who she may be, 
 and her name. But you must stand pledged to follow 
 my bidding in all things." 
 
 Mr. Rackham's usually immovable face showed symp- 
 toms of alarm. '' No raising of the Devil, mistress," 
 said he. " I bar that." But she, facing him near over 
 the window-sill, makes a jest of this pusillanimity of his, 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 197 
 
 and as though to take him still nearer to the bosom of 
 her confidence, says, '^ What ! — do I look as though I 
 had to do with the Devil? Look on my face and 
 see ! " 
 
 Now in all this, which is dwelt upon especially for that 
 reason, it seems to us that Mrs. Trant — whatever she may 
 have practised of other sorceries later on this coarse but 
 weak-minded man — used no other enchantment but the 
 very ancient witchcraft woman has practised on man 
 since the beginning of time. Which of us but is wax in 
 the hands of a woman who says, " This way — come ! " 
 who wraps him round with the warmth of her voice ; who 
 distinguishes him on her own behalf from his neighbour ? 
 We all know this is so, even sometimes in cases where 
 beauty is lacking; and Susan was still any eye's pleasure 
 that rested on her, as her mistress would often think, over 
 her image in the mirror, when engaged about her tiring- 
 work. 
 
 But this preliminary enthralment of Mr. Rackham's 
 susceptibilities, or such as remained to him at his time of 
 life, was only a means to an end. Susan, having, as it 
 were, her fish on the hook, as she made her bargain with 
 him in undertones across the window-ledge, promised to 
 show him an image of the witch who was at the bottom 
 of his stable-troubles, on certain conditions. He was to 
 undertake at midnight on Lammas Day — very shortly, 
 that is — having neither eaten nor drunk since midday, 
 to come prepared to follow her directions in all things to 
 that same kitchen, when she would show him that witch's 
 visible image in a magic glass or crystal. She could not, 
 however, give him any certainty that the name of its 
 original should be made known to him. That might 
 depend on whether he could himself identify her — or him, 
 
198 A]^ AFFAIK OF DISH0:N^0R 
 
 as might be; for this mischief might be the work of no 
 witch, but a wizard. 
 
 For the present relief of the evil to the yonng horse she 
 knew of but one thing that was entirely infallible in 
 freeing sufferers from the molestations of witchcraft, 
 namely, the constant wearing of a sufficient diamond; 
 but though this would apply alike to horse and man, there 
 was no diamond obtainable, it being out of the question 
 to get at the ring on her ladyship's finger for such a 
 purpose, as Mr. Rackham must see of his own judgment. 
 But an alleviation of the evil was possible. She would get 
 some vervain or verbena from the garden at her own. 
 home, seeing she was going there on a visit to-morrow; 
 and this, made into a decoction in hot w^ater, and sprinkled 
 over the animal and its stable, might render the opera- 
 tions of the witch more difficult, or defeat them altogether. 
 
 It so turned out, doubtless by the merest accidental 
 coincidence, that on the day following the employment 
 of this precious necromantic remedy of vervain, the young 
 colt had a fit of great docility ; so much so that my lady 
 could use him as a mount, riding with Sir Oliver across 
 country southward as far as what are called " The Levels,'' 
 where horse and rider may enjoy a gallop alike. So 
 tractable was he and obedient to the rein that his rider 
 could promise herself ease in his saddle on her journey 
 back to the 'New Hall. 
 
 This docility, it may be imagined, made a great im- 
 pression on John Rackham, and convinced him that 
 Susan Trant had not been falsely accused of witchcraft. 
 And the worse a witch was Susan, the better pleased was 
 John. All his hope was that hers was no false boast, and 
 that she would really be able to put him on the trail of 
 the witch that had ridden his horse, and inflicted upon 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHO]S^OR 199 
 
 him all this perplexity and trouble. The evil influence 
 was baffled for the moment by the vervain, but revenge 
 would be sweet. Short of burning at the stake there 
 were correctives ; such, for instance, as placing the culprit 
 naked in a sack with a tom-cat, and dragging the sack 
 through a pond. Or, pricking over all, to test whether the 
 devil had left no spot insensitive to a fair thrust of a 
 cobbler's needle; but that would be done in any case. 
 
 So it was with an eager anticipation, mixed, it may be, 
 with an occasional slight misgiving, that Mr. Rackham 
 presented himself on Lammas Eve at near midnight to 
 claim the performance of Mrs. Trant's promise. J^ow, 
 remember always that this woman's secret motive was to 
 get at the root of his knowledge of things half-betrayed 
 to her suspicious watchfulness already, and confirmed by 
 her mother's chance-hearing of Lucinda's words or Sir 
 Oliver's at times when each conceived her deaf or in- 
 attentive. 
 
 The room, used only as a kitchen in these days, was, in 
 fact, the old banquet-hall of the spacious manor-house, 
 built in the days of Henry the Eighth, and formerly used 
 for both kitchen and the daily meals of the household. 
 Its furnishing was scanty now as against w^hat it had been 
 in the days of its prosperity, when it was on the outskirts 
 of a busy town of cloth-weavers and fisherfolk. But, 
 measured by the needs of the present inmates and of all 
 possible guests — for Oliver's use of this house was rather 
 as a place of refuge from his surroundings elsewhere than 
 for the entertainment of his friends — it was ample even to 
 luxury. The silver that gave back the expiring flicker 
 of the logs on the great open hearth, ranged on the buffet- 
 shelves it faced, outmatched the pewter trenchers on the 
 shelves above, when Mr. Rackham, true to his appoint- 
 
200 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 
 
 ment, found Mrs. Trant and her mother awaiting 
 him. 
 
 Never were the surroundings of an appointed tryst less 
 like sorcery! The savour of ham or bacon simmering 
 over the fire in a great iron pot was, in its homeliness, 
 enough to stamp the place innocuous, and give it absolu- 
 tion of all sinister purpose. Only the time was out of 
 gear. For in those days folk grudged candle-light and 
 oil for lamps, sleeping and rising early, and leaving the 
 hours of darkness undisturbed by work or leasing-making, 
 unless it were for occasions of great festivity. So that 
 a midnight appointment, for any honest purpose, was an 
 unwonted occurrence. 
 
 " What said my lady to thee but now ? " said the mother 
 to the daughter, just before the incoming of their visitor. 
 To which the answer was : " I told her the ham would 
 spoil if it kept not on the fire for another hour, and that 
 I would bear you company. And on that she said 
 * good-night! ^ " And then Mr. Rackham tapped on the 
 window, asking whether it was not nigh midnight, and 
 w^as invited in. He blew out the light in a great lantern 
 he carried, but still paused, looking in through the open 
 lattice. 
 
 " You'll have to be my surety this is no bedevilment, 
 Mistress Sukey," said he. 
 
 " What ails the man, to be talking about bedevil- 
 ments ? " The woman spoke in a genial, rallying manner 
 she could assume at times. " Nothing venture, nothing 
 have. Master Eackham! What! — ^will you not risk a 
 little to catch this witch-wife? Then leave it and go, 
 for me. But the chance is lost if the clock strikes." 
 
 Tlie groom appeared to reflect. His fear of some un- 
 canny complication of sorcery — not on the score of its 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOE 201 
 
 unholiness, but of its possible inconvenience or danger — 
 was contending with his anxiety to avenge himself for 
 the pranks some old harridan in league with the Devil 
 had played on his horse. He grunted and hesitated, but 
 ended by walking into the house. 
 
 Said Mrs. Susan then : " We have no time to lose, 
 Master Rackham. 'Tis an easy matter, for your part 
 of it at least. Take in your hand this mirror. Sit you 
 down and gaze in it until you see a cloud appear." 
 
 ^^ And what will come o' that, Mistress Sukey ? " 
 
 ^^ If the time be lost a-talking, Master Rackham, very 
 little. Will you lose your chance, and wait for next 
 Lammas Eve to try again? Or will you do my bidding 
 and make no question ? " 
 
 Apparently the latter. For, under direction, the 
 groom is set to gaze fixedly on the little mirror, a convex 
 circle of polished jet, not large enough to cover the palm 
 of his hand. He can see in it the image of his own face, 
 small and fairly clear, and of the room beyond it, w4th 
 the flickering candle on the table he sits by. He watches 
 them with growing incredulity, as he looks in vain for 
 the promised cloud. At last his patience gives out. 
 ^' You are making an ass of me, mistress," says he. 
 
 " That's a man all over, mother," says Mrs. Trant. 
 And the old woman, after making her say it again, nods 
 her assent, and repeats the words, mocking. '^ A man 
 all over, daughter." Whereupon the crystal-gazer, 
 ashamed, renews his patience. But no cloud comes ; 
 only a stupefaction — not sleep. Something he cannot 
 resist. 
 
 Is there a watchfulness as of anticipated triumph in 
 the green eyes that are fixed upon him? Some influence 
 has taken a hold that a few moments since he could have 
 
202 AX APEAIE OE DISHONOR 
 
 resisted easily. It is growing, and that triumphant look, 
 is it not growing too? His eyes are closing against his 
 will,, but his hand still holds the little mirror, as though 
 he saw. 
 
 A moment later the mother nods slightly to the 
 daughter, saying, ^' Now ! " The daughter responds, ^^ I 
 know," as one who, knowing, needs no advice. Presently, 
 in her own time, she rises from her chair, and, crossing 
 over to Mr. Rackham, who seems to be trying to drag his 
 eyes open, lays her left hand upon his head, as though her 
 confidence in its power made the right needless, and says, 
 with a sinister assurance : " Try now and move ; you 
 cannot! " 
 
 And he cannot. Witch or no w^tch, aided by familiars 
 or only by her own cunning, Mrs. Trant has got a hold 
 of some sort over this old groom he may be at a loss 
 to shake off. 
 
 That night a cock crew loud, but mistakenly, for no 
 dawn had come, under the window of Lucinda's room. 
 It wakened her, to find that Sir Oliver had left her side 
 and was without on the staircase. Was this another 
 sleep-walking? If so, it was more alarming than the 
 last, for his sword was drawn in his hand. 
 
 But it was no sleep-walking, for at her sudden excla- 
 mation — though " What, Oliver, why ? " was all she said 
 — he turned and answered her collectedly. " There be 
 thieves in the house; I heard their noise," said he. " Be 
 silent, and I shall catch them." Then he stole down the 
 stairs, going stealthily as a cat, his silken roquelaure 
 gleaming in the moonlight through coloured glass, till he 
 reached the lobby of the great kitchen. Lucinda was 
 close on his heels. 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOXOE 203 
 
 " Thou wert best in bed, Lucy mine/' said he, " except 
 you have a fancy to see a man killed." This last was more 
 rough speech than was common with him — ^less of the 
 manner that, as men such as he think, women suppose 
 their due. 
 
 ^^ He may be quick afoot, good Oliver," said she. " But 
 I will see it out, whatever chances. Where was the noise, 
 pray ? " To which he answered nothing, only going for- 
 ward to the kitchen-door. Still, she followed him close. 
 
 There was a man in the kitchen, standing still, his 
 face colourless in the moonlight, his eyes fixed, as though 
 sightless. '' Stop — stop, Oliver ! " cried Lucinda, arrest- 
 ing his sword arm. "Can you not see ^tis John 
 Kackham?" 
 
CHAPTEK XIII 
 
 '^ How can I say, my lady ? '' said Susan Trant, comb- 
 ing her mistress's hair before the glass, the morning after. 
 *' Can I answer for one so strange as Mr. Rackham ? 
 All I have to tell is this: — near upon midnight we left 
 him, to come to himself as soon as might be, and find his 
 own way to the stables. I never knew, nor my mother, 
 that he had not returned there." 
 
 Her master was still sleeping in the next room, and 
 could scarcely have heard a word. But Lucinda thought 
 it best to drop her voice to say : " Sir Oliver was in a 
 great taking, that the door should be unlocked and un- 
 barred through the night." And, continuing, she en- 
 larged upon the danger to the household from midnight 
 marauders or mere thieves. To this Susan replied that 
 all such were held in terror by the bloodhounds, turned 
 loose at night, which had bred a carelessness both in her- 
 self and in her mother about the door-fastening. Still, 
 she acknowledged that Sir Oliver's instructions should 
 have been more strictly followed. 
 
 " And yet, what could we do, we two women ? " said 
 she. " Even could we have lifted him^ we had not the 
 heart to bundle the poor man out to lie on the cold ground,^ 
 and maybe the rain not keeping off. Just for the drink- 
 ing of a glass too much of small ale ! " 
 
 " Only one glass, Susan ! " Lucinda laughed out at 
 this. But Mrs. Trant became so warm in justification 
 of the groom, so far as his sobriety went ; and, so to speak, 
 so overdid her defence of him, that her mistress began to 
 
 204 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOISrOR 205 
 
 have suspicions of some mystery in the background. 
 It may have been due to her attendant's manner that she 
 did so, and it is far from certain that this manner was 
 not artificial, and assumed with intention to provoke 
 inquiry, as may be seen from what followed. 
 
 For Lucinda, speaking to Sir Oliver of this oddity of 
 Trant's, as she always called her in conversation with 
 him, was met with : " Make the wench talk ; she will tell 
 you more. She's a sly soul, but she'll never keep her 
 tongue quiet, in the end." But as he said this he knew 
 Susan's silence was sure on the only subject he cared 
 she should be silent about — namely, her relation with 
 himself. Concerning which it can but be said that its 
 continuance after her marriage had been as much due to 
 his wicked rejoicing at wickedness in secrecy as to any 
 strong fascination the farmer's wife still exercised over 
 him. In any case, he knew that her confidence in her 
 own power was not strong enough to set her a-talking to 
 his present mistress, to provoke her against him. 
 
 Lucinda, then, free of apprehension of any serious 
 matter behind what was palpably a screen of conceal- 
 ment, went back that same day to the subject, urging 
 Mrs. Trant to make no further secrets, but to say truly 
 what ailed John Rackham that he should look so white, 
 and that he should — so she described it — push and pinch 
 at his eyelids, as though they had gone stiff. Thereto 
 the orb of the eye itself was fixed, and lacked all expres- 
 sion of thought. This was unlike a drunken man. Had 
 he taken some poisonous drug, that so strange an effect 
 should come about? She was earnest to be told all, 
 and would be Mrs. Susan's surety no harm should come 
 to her of the telling. 
 
 Then Mrs. Trant, after some paltering and evasions, 
 
206 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 made sudden admission, as one rather relieved by doing 
 so, that she had in effect put a practice on the groom — a 
 thing she had been taught in her youth — but more as a 
 jest than for any profit she could reap of it, there being 
 none. Her success had, she said, alarmed both herself 
 and her mother. 
 
 But what — Lucinda then asked, with a roused curiosity 
 — what was this practice, learned in youth, that could 
 so confound and overcome the senses of a man of John 
 Rackham's age and stolid, unmoved habit, both of 
 thought and action? Was it not akin to witchcraft, and 
 unlawful ? 
 
 " Witchcraft, my lady ! " Susan exclaimed. " And 
 unlawful ! " She was profuse in her disclaimer of nec- 
 romancy. Was not she the last person, of all in the 
 house, seeing what she had suffered in past years from 
 unjust suspicions, to have any dealings with the Evil 
 One ? No — ^no ! No witchcraft for her ! ^^ If I were 
 minded," she continued, " to toy and dally with a for- 
 bidden craft, should I dare to do so in the house of my 
 good and worshipful master. Sir Oliver, through whose 
 intervention alone I escaped barbarous ill-treatment and 
 cruel persecution seven years since? Should I make no 
 secret of so sinful a practice, even taking my own mother 
 into my confidence ? " 
 
 " But what is the thing you Jiave done ? " said Lucinda. 
 " That is what I would know. God a' mercy, woman, 
 if you can make no secret of it to your mother, you need 
 not keep it from me." 
 
 " 'Tis a trick a child may play, my lady. We knew 
 it as girls — I and my fellows in the village. Some 
 of us had the gift to do it, others were fitter to be prac- 
 tised on." 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 20Y 
 
 " But what is it ? Do you tell me of it, Susan, that 
 I may know too. Trust me, I shall never betray you. 
 See ! — I will swear it, if it please you better." 
 
 Now, there lay on a shelf, near by where they talked 
 together, a copy of the Holy Scriptures. For this was 
 in Lucinda^s tiring-room, where Sir Oliver came but 
 little. She stretched forth her hand to take up the 
 sacred volume, as though to pledge her oath upon it as 
 a Christian. But Mrs. Trant would have none of this. 
 " Let be, my lady," says she. " This that we talk of is 
 a play of children, not a thing to be sworn upon in God's 
 name." Whereupon Lucinda, thinking to herself, ^* If 
 this woman touch the holy volume, then is she no 
 witch," held it out to her to replace on the shelf. But 
 she remembered afterwards that Mrs. Trant did not 
 then take it from her, outright and fearlessly; but, mak- 
 ing some pretext that her fingers were soiled, and not fit 
 to handle the leather binding, protected it with her apron, 
 so that her hand touched it not. 
 
 Then said Lucinda again : " But what sort of thing is 
 this game or practice? I am impatient to know." 
 
 " It is thus," replied her attendant : " Whoever can, 
 by persuasion or reward, induce another to keep a fixed 
 gaze for some while on any object — it may be a ring or 
 any jewel — worn on the person, then 'tis said the wearer 
 will have power over such a one as gazes on it, to com- 
 mand him at will." 
 
 " And you did this to John Rackham ? " 
 
 " For a jest, my lady. I promised to show him, 
 as in a gazing crystal . . . your ladyship has heard of 
 such . . . ?" 
 
 " Nay — surely ! 'Tis a thing well known." 
 
 " I promised Mr. Rackham should see therein the face 
 
208 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 of the woman that has bewitched his colt Merlin these 
 weeks past. And he taking me at my word, I set 
 him to pry into a piece of black jet I had carried in 
 my bosom all day and night, to be the riper for the 
 purpose." 
 
 " And what happened ? " 
 
 " He saw no witch, I promise you. Nor there is none 
 for him to see. But he did my bidding, clasping his 
 hands, opening and shutting his mouth, just as I said. 
 iThen I bade him say your ladyship's maiden name ..." 
 
 "And what said he then? " 
 
 " Will you be angry, my lady ? " 
 
 "Not I!— 'tis too silly. What said he?" 
 
 " * Mistress Lucinda Mauleverer, of the Old Hall, near 
 %o Poynder's Stratton.' " Now, it should be borne in 
 mind that none of Lucinda's communications with her 
 brother had, so far as she knew, reached any other ears 
 than his; except, indeed, it had been the claim she had 
 made to another name than this, which might have 
 reached Dame Hatsell's. Therefore this was clearly a 
 thing said by John Rackham ; truly reported, seeing that 
 he alone of all in the house knew what her maiden name 
 had been. 
 
 " What more did he say ? There was no harm in 
 that." 
 
 "I asked 'him — 'twas for the sake of the asking, just 
 that he should talk — ^no idle curiosity of mine own, my 
 lady . . ." 
 
 "Well!— you asked him ... ?" 
 
 " Were your ladyship's parents still living ? '^ 
 
 " And he said . . . ? " 
 
 " He said your ladyship's mother was dead four years 
 
AN AEEAIR OF DISHON^OR 209. 
 
 " That was true. Alas that it is so ! But he told you 
 my father is living ? " 
 
 " ^-no ! '' Mrs. Trant shook her head falteringly. 
 " ^ Dead/ he said. Surely I was right in my hear- 
 ing . . .- 
 
 " He is not dead . . . ! " 
 
 " Your ladyship would know — that is certain." Then 
 a little creeping doubt nested in Lucinda's mind, saying 
 to her : " How should we know, you and I ? " Mrs. 
 Trant continued: "Mr. Rackham's speech was not over 
 plain in the saying of it, seeing he clutched his teeth upon 
 his spoken word, and grudged it breath. But I would 
 have sworn it was, ' Dead there and then ! He must have 
 died.' " 
 
 " Oh, but he was talking nonsense ! My father is 
 living, and like to live many years." Lucinda's speech 
 fell short of absolute confidence. " Yet listen to me, 
 Susan Trant. Whatever Rackham may say, when you 
 play this trick upon him, the thing is near as strange as 
 though all he said were true. Why should he tell other 
 than truth of a thing he knows quite well? — unless, as 
 may be, he speaks from a dream-world, as men talk in 
 sleep. Sir Oliver is given that way, now and again." 
 
 Susan Trant seemed puzzled to word something she 
 would have said. " 'Tis not quite as you suppose, my 
 lady . . . well ! — 'tis thus — how shall I say ? " . . . 
 
 " It does not matter. The thing is passing strange, 
 and I am curious to see it. . . . But what were you 
 about to say it was like ? " 
 
 " Your ladyship has seen the prank of boys, who for 
 sport will hold to the ground the beak of some dung- 
 hill cock, and line it with chalk so that the line follows 
 true on the barn floor ? " 
 
210 AN AFFAIE OF ^DISHONOR 
 
 "Ay — and the poor bird so great a fool he thinks he 
 cannot move, and is stricken fast to the ground by his 
 own mere apprehension. But he makes no sound at 
 bidding." 
 
 " True, my lady! But the trick is of a piece, in its 
 degree." 
 
 " May I not see this practice of yours on John 
 Rackham?" 
 
 " Your ladyship will not name it to Sir Oliver ? " 
 
 '^ I have no wish nor need to do so. Also, Sir Oliver 
 is something hot and headstrong, and his impatience 
 might break a gap into what would else hold good. He 
 will never believe neither but that Eackham is feign- 
 ing, and might deal roughly with him. But when 
 may I see thy barn-door fowl chalk-lined ? " Lucinda 
 hid whatever she felt of misgiving that this was a 
 forbidden magic, or some shrewd imposture, under a 
 cloak of jesting familiarity with her tirewoman, as 
 though the whole thing were a slight diversion of the 
 moment. 
 
 But in the end it was arranged thus: — John Rackham 
 is to come at the bidding of Mrs. Susan, who seems all- 
 powerful with him, to the large disused drawing-room, 
 whence no speech can reach any other part of the house, 
 the lobby being closed at either end by a separate door. 
 So soon as she has, as it were, prepared all things, and 
 acquired a full mastery over him, she must give the word 
 to her mistress, who will await it in this closed passage, 
 whereof she may lock the outer door without causing any 
 suspicion, provided no noise within should reach Sir 
 Oliver's ears, should he pass that way. That was the 
 arrangement spoken of between Susan and her mistress. 
 But as it proved in the outcome, this door might as well 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHON^OR 211 
 
 have been left unlocked — indeed, better, as will be seen 
 later. 
 
 Was there a kindling of anticipated triumph in this 
 woman's eyes that afternoon as she stepped out into the 
 paved yard the kitchen looked on, beyond which were 
 the stables, where John Rackham was usually audible 
 hissing at the horse he curry-combed, slapping it on the 
 stomach to suggest a shift of place, drenching it with 
 pails of water and slights, as is the way with grooms? 
 There was an uncanny assurance, at least, about the way 
 she said, as she met him coming from the stable door, 
 swinging the pails he had a mind to refill at the tank 
 below : " I want you. Master Rackham, to come to the ball- 
 room an hour before sundown. Come you in by the ken- 
 nels, where the window shall be stood open for you. 'Tis 
 my lady's bidding, and mine ; see to it that you come." 
 
 The groom stood down his pails on either side, and 
 spoke, looking askant. " What if I come not. Mistress 
 Sukey ? " said he. His voice was irresolute, for all it 
 snarled. 
 
 But there was resolve in hers, though with a kind of 
 mocking sweetness. " Thou ivilt come," she said. " It 
 lies not with thee to choose, John Rackham." She spoke 
 as to a child, using familiar speech that seemed ill-fitted 
 to the grizzled man she addressed. 
 
 He growled his resentment at this assumption of power, 
 whether it was to attract or command. ^^ If I was a bit 
 younger, mistress," said he, " I'd know which to choose. 
 Or if ye were a bit younger yourself . . . well ! — / 
 wouldn't be the first." He meant to be offensive, but it 
 was a coarse and unskilful effort, and told for nothing. 
 Mrs. Trant remained unmoved. She replied with equable 
 good-humour : 
 
212 'AN AFFAIR OF DISHOJSTOR 
 
 " You will be in the South Court, Master Rackham, to 
 feed the bloodhounds, where the ballroom window opens. 
 lYou will desire to be gone, but you will cry back on your 
 desire, and stay. You will then come by the ballroom 
 window, as I have told you. !N^or you shall not know 
 why you come. And yet, come you must! The choice 
 will not be yours." 
 
 " Stand clear, mistress," said John Rackham. " Have 
 I the time to waste, palavering with the likes of thee ? " 
 And he swung away from her with his pails, going to the 
 water-tank below, but muttering uneasily to himself. 
 
 The wind was blowing off the sea that evening towards 
 sundown, bringing white mist and gusts of fine rain. It 
 was that sort of light drift that keeps no man within 
 doors, and Sir Oliver would have had Lucinda ride with 
 him in spite of it. She, however, remained, partly be- 
 cause the young horse, her only mount now, was restive 
 again, which the groom would have it was caused by his 
 enemy the witch, that had ridden the colt in the night- 
 time. There were the witch-marks on him, plain to see ! 
 His own horse had cast a shoe, and was to be led to the 
 farrier's in the morning. So Sir Oliver rode alone. 
 
 Mr. Rackham., in the South Court on which the ball- 
 room windows opened, wondered what had come to the 
 dogs. Were they bewitched, too? Old Diego — or Spot, 
 as he was now called, from the white spot on his forehead 
 — would not come to his hand, but shrank and shivered 
 back into his kennel. Zo, the old black-backed bitch, 
 mother of the many pups Sir Oliver had sold to his 
 friends, was even more intractable, snapping at his hand 
 as it reached her collar. This was unwonted, for the 
 bloodhound is a sweet and docile dog — whatever folk 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOE 213 
 
 may imagine from the terror of his name — and nowise 
 like the fierce white Maremma dog, nor the untrust- 
 worthy breed of St. Bernard, however sagacious this last 
 may be in the service of man. 
 
 But even bewitched dogs are content to be fed and 
 cared for, and in time this was done; and now it comes 
 to be seen whether Mr. Rackham will go back to the 
 stable; or, obedient to the injunction he has received, 
 enter the house by the window to seek Mrs. Trant in the 
 ballroom. He seems to have no doubt on the matter, 
 turning away to go, yet showing himself aware that some 
 influence is upon him by muttering : " We shall see who 
 is to be master, Mistress Sukey ! '' And yet, no sooner 
 has he, as it were, convinced himself that his will is free 
 to choose if he shall go or stay, than he turns back with 
 an oath under his breath, yet hesitating now and again 
 on his way to the window, and at last — it may be sur- 
 mised — convinced that he is acting of his own choice, 
 lays his hand upon it, and, pushing at it, finds it open; 
 for it opens inwards, reaching to the floor. 
 
 So far, there may have been nothing of necromancy in 
 this. ISTothing, that is, of any necromancy but the 
 world-old, familiar enchantment every woman with the 
 hall-mark of Mother Venus on her can practise at will 
 on any man turned out of N'ature's mint — ay! — even 
 though he be nearer his grave than this grizzled old 
 servitor; this most unpromising mark, one would say, 
 for the poisoned arrows of her baby-son. But then this 
 story has only Mrs. Susan's word to go by for what took 
 place in the kitchen not twenty-four hours since. For, 
 to gain an end she had in view, it may have suited her 
 to make light of her own knowledge, while really tam- 
 pering with the black art; so that Lucinda should feel 
 
214 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOE 
 
 no alarm, and not shrink away from the hearing of what 
 it suited her attendant she should know. The story, as 
 it chances, is ignorant of what passed before the woman 
 left the subject of these practices of hers alone in the 
 kitchen, to recover from the effects of them as best he 
 might. 
 
 Whatever was the nature of the influence that brought 
 old John to put his neck again in the noose that it was 
 easy for him, to all appearance, to have escaped, it was 
 the work of Susan Trant, who awaited him in the great 
 empty ballroom — empty, that is, of all but mirrors, pic- 
 tures, and furniture packed in sacking. He did not see 
 her at first, and, indeed, was breathing the freer to think 
 she had not kept her appointment, when her laugh came 
 to him from behind, and, turning, he saw her standing in 
 the window- jamb he had but just passed. Later, he put 
 this down to some sudden witchcraft of hers, doubting 
 that his lack of observation on entering could have 
 deceived him. 
 
 She, for her part, laughed an under-laugh, not pleasant 
 to hear. " Why do you come for my bidding so freely, 
 good John ? " said she. " See now ! — there is the window. 
 Thou art thine own master. Why not go ? " She leaned, 
 saying this, against the shutter, now folded in its place. 
 " Is the space too narrow to pass ? See ! — I will stand 
 back." She kept her arms akimbo, facing him in the 
 shadow of the wall, but with all her comeliness at its 
 best. 
 
 The groom looked and spoke sullenly. " What do you 
 want of me, mistress ? " said he. But he made no move 
 to go. 
 
 "What should I want, Master Kackham, but to do a 
 good turn to a graceless loon, that knows not his own 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOl^OK 215 
 
 advantage? Sit you down here, facing the light — unless 
 you have a wish to be gone. . . . See! — the way is 
 open. . . . Wilt thou not go ? . . . No ? — well, then, 
 take this in your hand again, as last night, and keep to 
 looking constantly therein, till I say ^ Stop ! ' " 
 
 She placed the jet circle in his hand again, as last night. 
 ^^ Shall I see the face of the witch-wife ? " said he. 
 
 " Very like ! " was her reply. She withdrew slowly 
 back to a dark corner of the great room, leaving him 
 under the light of the centre window seated on the cov- 
 ering of a packed fauteuilj or sofa, with his eyes fixed 
 on the little black mirror. 
 
 " Surely he is asleep, Susan." 
 
 " E'ot asleep, my lady ! " 
 
 " Then . . . what ? He breathes heavily, and hears 
 not what we say. And see — his eyes are closed. Wake 
 him! I do not like this practice." 
 
 " There is nothing to fear, my lady. I have seen many 
 another thus. Think you I would compass any ill ? 
 What grudge have I against Mr. Kackham? Now mark 
 what I do, and you shall see this is no common sleep." 
 So far Lucinda and her tirewoman spoke together, the 
 one having come at the other's summons from the lobby 
 without. Then the latter, going closer to the sofa, lays 
 her hand over the groom's head, pressing her thumb be- 
 tween his eyes. ^^ Thou canst not open thine eyes," says 
 she, with a strange assurance. 
 
 Then to Lucinda's wonder, and somewhat fear, the 
 man, who seems now to hear plainly, begins to strain at 
 his eyes, so to speak, to get them to open, but fails to do 
 more than show the whites, as though the orb of the eye 
 itself had vanished upwards. 
 
216 AN AFFAIK OF DISHOXOE 
 
 " Oh, Susan ! " cries Lucinda, in alarm. " Undo him, 
 I beg of you ! This is unholy." Then she herself, over- 
 coming a reluctance to touch him, seizes the lappet of his 
 coat, shaking him, and saying : ^' Wake up, John Eack- 
 ham, wake up! Think if Sir Oliver should come!" 
 
 But there stands Mrs. Trant, her green eyes most 
 satisfied, and watches on, with a still assurance. " He 
 will not speak, my lady, except I give him leave," 
 says she. 
 
 " Then give him leave, in God's name," cries Lucinda, 
 " and let him come to himself ! " Her alarm is growing 
 stronger as the thing gets stranger. 
 
 ^^ Will you have an end, my lady, and never know the 
 meaning of his tale of last night ? But I will make him 
 speak for himself, touching that. Listen to me, Master 
 Rackham, and answer me truly. Now — hast thou found 
 thy voice ? " He muttered something, and Mrs. Trant 
 repeated, as one who interprets : '' What would her lady- 
 ship have you say? Why — hearken now to what she 
 will tell you of her father, and unsay your tale of last 
 night." 
 
 " Ay — ^what could possess you, Mr. Rackham, to make 
 up such a story? My father is alive and well." But 
 Lucinda did not feel the confidence she affected. 
 
 The groom seemed to struggle against his own speech. 
 "I am not minded to tell all I know. That tale should 
 come from the master." 
 
 " Oh, Susan, what is that he says ? His voice chokes 
 in his throat, and his words are lost." 
 
 " Repeat that again, for my lady's hearing. Find thy 
 voice, man ! " Thus Mrs. Trant, in whom a sly, malicious 
 expectation accords well with something of the seeming 
 of a handsome cat. 
 
'AN AFEAIK OF DISHONOR 217 
 
 Rackham, his eyes always closed, blurts out, as un- 
 willing speech : " I said — that tale should come from the 
 master. How can the blame be mine? Let him 
 answer it ! " 
 
 Then Lucinda, with a terror of she knows not what 
 newly come upon her, beseeches the groom to make no 
 further secret of the thing he means. Has something she 
 should know been kept from her ? ^' Speak out, John 
 Rackham, speak out ! '^ — she cries. — " Oh, what can all 
 this mean ? " And thereat she sinks down on a couch 
 near by, white and trembling, yet with strength rather 
 to hear and know than to be tortured with doubts. 
 
 Then Mrs. Trant, keeping her hand still on the groom's 
 grizzled head, says imperatively : ^^ You hear what says 
 my lady? Make no more ado, but tell her thy tale of 
 the duel, and her father's death." Thus she showed that 
 she had never yet told all of what had passed the night 
 before. 
 
 But when Lucinda, giving a great cry at the words, 
 '^ her father's death," staggered to her feet, and then fell 
 back, white and dumb, Susan made as though to com- 
 municate to her by signs, as between themselves, that all 
 this was but a fantastic dream, a delusion. Then Lucinda, 
 interpreting aright her gestures of brow and mouth, got 
 calmness to listen, sickened though she was with the bare 
 mention of a thing so terrible. 
 
 Rackham then, speaking as though the words were 
 dragged from him by some force, tells again the tale it 
 seems he had already told — at least, in part. It is the 
 tale told early in this story, as seen by one of its actors. 
 As he proceeds, so impossible does the whole thing seem 
 to Lucinda that she can respond to Mrs. Trant's slight 
 sigTis, hinting at his complete delusion, with a half-nod of 
 
218 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 sincere assent. It is hallucination all through, clearly! 
 But grotesque as it is — for, otherwise, would not Oliver 
 be a liar? — she cannot but shudder at the outburst of a 
 brutal earnestness over the last thrust, as the groom casts 
 aside the mask of his wicked heart to tell it. 
 
 And with that he ended, saying, in response to a word 
 of Mrs. Trant's : " What more, mistress ? A ride home 
 with a light heart, to think which way the luck had gone I 
 And my gentleman would have a pail of water to wash 
 clean the blood, lest his lady should know aught of his 
 work afore breakfast, and was off from the stable-yard 
 through the garden." 
 
 But upon this Lucinda caught him up short, as for an 
 error in fact. For how, said she, could Sir Oliver pass 
 from the stable-yard to the garden, seeing there was no 
 door ? Then says Rackham : " Ay, my lady, no door 
 to pass in and out, but one Master Oliver would have me 
 open for the nonce that stood ever locked, and had done 
 for years, so he should not pass through the house to be 
 seen of the household." But though she noted this, and 
 recalled it later, her uppermost thought at the moment 
 was mixed with a memory of how she tended that scratch 
 on Oliver's brow one morning — when was it? Surely 
 the very day he was seized with that first convulsion! 
 But oh — she could remember! — that was the parrot, 
 Chow, and the parrot's house was a far step from 
 the stable-yard. How fanciful she got at the least 
 thing! 
 
 Then at her bidding, seeing that Rackham had told his 
 story — and who could say his reason might not suffer if 
 this went on? — Mrs. Trant, affecting or truly possessing 
 a complete power over his will, went through sundry 
 legerdemain performances, as waving of her hands over 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 219 
 
 his forehead or blowing on it. But it seemed also to 
 Lucinda that in the doing of this she sang some catch- 
 rhjme, such as children use for diversion. She did not, 
 however, conceive this to be of the essence of the busi- 
 ness, but only an idle fancy. Anyway, in the end Rack- 
 ham opened his eyes of a sudden, and a more bewildered 
 man would be hard to find. He caught his head in his 
 hands, feeling about and round it, rubbed his eyes, and 
 gazed upon his palms, seeming unsure if he were awake 
 or dreaming. Then he said in a daft way, turning about 
 and gazing blankly at the air : " Where is he ? '' 
 
 " Where is who, thou puzzle-pate ? " said Mrs. Trant. 
 " There is none here but my lady and myself, nor has 
 been this hour gone by. Ay — ^look in all the cupboards 
 if you will ! " For he was searching about with his eyes 
 in all corners. 
 
 " Let be, Susan ! " said Lucinda. " Whom do you seek 
 so keenly ? What is he like ? '' She spoke as one who 
 humours a jest. 
 
 " There was one here but now,'' answered the groom 
 doggedly. ^^ One of them. Mighty small, but bad to have 
 ado with ! I would pay him, though." 
 
 " You have seen, my lady, there has been none here." 
 So speaking, Susan's look said : " Mark his humours and 
 fantasies ! " But he caught her meaning. 
 
 " I tell thee there has been more than one here. Speak 
 truth, Susan Trant." 
 
 " Her ladyship has seen, John Rackham." She waited 
 as one content to wait, with a smile at the folly of it. 
 " You will be sorry for such speech when your wits come 
 again. Master Rackham," said she. 
 
 " I tell thee," he replied angrily, " there has been more 
 than one here. Else had they never made me tell out 
 
220 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 all this tale. A plague upon 'em, and upon you, too. 
 Mistress Sukey ! " 
 
 " But the tale was all a false one ! " cried Lucinda. 
 *^ Was it not ? . . . Oh, say it was false ! " Then the 
 groom's face got a stupid grin on it, as he answered: 
 " Never a word of truth in it, mistress ! 'Twas put upon 
 me to say, and I said it." For his senses had come back 
 to him thus far, that he could see how welcome his dis- 
 claimer would be of the truth of his own story. But not 
 to show him yet awhile how inexplicable had been his 
 telling of it. 
 
 Now it chanced that Sir Oliver, turning back impatient 
 of the rain-drift that strengthened ever from the seaward, 
 and finding no groom to receive him in the stable-yard as 
 accustomed, came at this moment within the house, 
 exclaiming against his servant for his absence from his 
 post of duty. First to the kitchen, where he finds none 
 but the old mother, Dame Hatsell; by which he is none 
 the wiser, for she either cannot or will not say she knows 
 aught either of Rackham, or her daughter, or her lady. 
 Whereupon Sir Oliver swings away through the house 
 with an oath, and, as luck will have it, his eye lights on 
 the one thing he was not to see, the vacant keyhole of 
 the ballroom door. Surely stray devil's imps prompt 
 these things sometimes! Seeing the door keyless, he 
 must needs infer that someone is within, or has been. 
 For why otherwise should it have been disturbed? To 
 know more, he shakes the door and rattles at the handle,, 
 shouting. Then he is sure of a voice on the farther side. 
 For the two women within speak together, disconcerted 
 at his return. So he rattles again, angrily. 
 
 Lucinda will explain all, she says, and takes her ke^ 
 
A:^r AFFAIK OF DISHOIs^OK 221 
 
 to open the door. For she thinks of the whole thing as 
 a mere jape, and that Oliver will laugh at the telling of it. 
 But to her surprise, Susan Trant was greatly concerned 
 that Sir Oliver should not be told, begging her to keep 
 silence. " But if he ask me how we came here, good 
 Susan," said Lucinda, " tell me — ^what shall I say then ? " 
 However, it ended thus, for the time; — Rackham, 
 still bewildered, was packed off through the window, and 
 some lame excuse concocted which was made to serve, 
 of how Lucinda had wished to try the old spinet, or what 
 not. But she said to her lover, below her breath: 
 " I shall tell thee all about it presently, sweet Oliver. 
 'Twas a little jest of ours." Thereupon he, going back 
 to the stable-yard, relieved his ill-temper by laying his 
 whip about the shoulders of John Rackham, with at least 
 one good effect, that the groom recovered his senses all 
 the quicker, though he became very hazy about what had 
 really happened — ^more so than at first. 
 
 It was about this time that Vincent, turning round on 
 a bed where he had lain through many days of deliriimi, 
 said to the man who sat beside him, watching out the 
 small hours of the morning: " Roger, take my hand and 
 tell me who slew him. I can bear to hear it now." 
 
 Then Roger Locke, convinced of his strength by his 
 voice, answered without a qualm : '^ He was slain by 
 Raydon of the l^ew Hall, whom I would have made to 
 answer for his misdeed, but that the hand of God was 
 upon him, and our Lucy was betwixt us." And then he 
 told him the whole tale, according to his knowledge of it, 
 and the two spoke together in the silence of the night, 
 and what they spoke of was retribution for a murder; 
 and the place they spoke in was the sleeping chamber 
 
222 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 of its victim. That was the bed on which his corpse 
 was laid two months since, where his son lies now, wasted 
 with fever that followed the shock of the news he had 
 to hear. 
 
 So they talked until, as the slow dawn began to creep 
 in, each had come to know all the other knew. Then 
 .Vincent said aloud : ^^ Honour is gone, but Lucy is still 
 there; and whatever you may think, Roger, she loves her 
 father as of old. I know both by word and manner, and 
 look. You thought her heart was changed. But no — 
 no! — ^not Lucy's! Heaven hasten the hour that may 
 change it towards her miscreant that we may not call 
 to his account, for she loves him! It will come, and 
 then ..." His speech grew faint from exhaustion. 
 And it was so with him for many days; but his strength 
 came back in the end, as we shall see. 
 
 It would profit nothing to tell at length how he had 
 ridden nearly to his home, all joyous expectation of the 
 meeting to come, when, stopping at the recognition of 
 an old neighbour, he was met by his commiseration for 
 a great loss; and, being told the tale, fell like a stone 
 insensible, never hearing the name of the man who had 
 slain his father. And then, being borne to the Old Hall 
 unconscious, remained in half or entire delirium, with 
 snatches of reason, for many days and nights. Moreover, 
 it is easy for the reader to image all he needs of the 
 events, with no help but the bare facts now told. 
 
CHAPTEK XIV 
 
 LuciNDA cast about in her heart how she should tell 
 Sir Oliver of this strange freak of Mrs. Trant^s, and her 
 mysterious subordination of the groom. But it was a 
 strange tale to tell, and how would Sir Oliver take it? 
 How could the unhappy subject of what looked very like 
 necromancy be preserved from the anger of the man of 
 whom he had, however unconsciously, told so preposterous 
 a lie? She herself felt much more pity than blame for 
 John Rackham; but how could she rely upon it that 
 indignation against the curious result of Mrs. Trant's 
 manipulations might not get the better, in her lover, of 
 amusement at its absurdity? 
 
 But of one thing she felt very sure, that the better 
 himaour she could get his lordship in with herself, the 
 easier would it be to talk to him about this fantastical 
 business, without fear of his taking what she supposed to 
 be the merest dream-chatter otherwise than as a jest. 
 So that evening she was at great pains to be at her 
 loveliest, that she might cajole him and hold him, as it 
 were, under a spell, to listen to her story without 
 impatience at the part he himself was made to play 
 in it. 
 
 She was wisely at odds with the women of her time, 
 who, after a few years of liberation from the preposterous 
 farthingales and cramped coiffures of their predecessors, 
 seemed like to go back to them, it may be from the exam- 
 ple of the late-married queen and her ladies of Portugal. 
 
224 AlSr AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 
 
 The loose flowing gown and hair held simply by a string 
 of pearls, celebrated in the songs of poets of the time, 
 and shown in the paintings of its artists, made up, with 
 a touch of informality all her own, the wardrobe of 
 Lucinda. But even in the simplest outward seeming of 
 a woman's dress there is much to choose in the manner of 
 it; as few notes may make music, or jar upon the hearer, 
 according to his skill who arranges them. 
 
 So that whoever reads this may take it as honest truth 
 that Lucinda, who would have looked surpassingly beau- 
 tiful even though her robe had been plain grogram, like 
 that of Dame Hatsell, lost nothing by the simple rich 
 clinging of its silk brocade about her form — pliable to 
 a miracle — ^glittering with a hundred mysterious sheens. 
 Nor by the rope of pearls Mrs. Trant had disposed so 
 cunningly, a snake acreep in a thicket of sweet hair, black 
 as the jet of her own magic mirror. 
 
 Sir Oliver was gracious enough, passing his mistress 
 as it were in review ; admitting, but critically, her beauty. 
 That was his natural tone, and the one Lucinda best 
 loved in him. His artificial one, of effusive compliment, 
 was in abeyance this evening, and this made her all the 
 happier. " Thou hast thy pearls on to-night, sweet Lucy, 
 I see," said he. Arid she answered : " Ay — ^the pearls," 
 and kissed him. " And the ring with brilliants ? " said he. 
 " Why, surely ! — surely ! " said she, and made believe to 
 strike his face with her flat hand, then kissed him again. 
 For this ring was one she always wore. 
 
 Susan Trant's eye was on this, and had no good-will 
 in it for either of the two. She went away to the kitchen, 
 and there her mother, in a fit of hearing, caught her 
 mocking Lucinda's speech, and thinking it truly her 
 voice — for, indeed, it was a clever fetch — ^would have it 
 
AlSr AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 225 
 
 that her ladyship had spoken. But it was her daughter, 
 mocking her speech : " Surely — Oliver — surely ! " 
 
 " Shall I sing thee all the ballad again, sweet Oliver, 
 of the man behind the wainscot, and how he slew the 
 father of his ladylove ? " So said Lucinda, after supper, 
 at the spinet. 
 
 " I do not like the tune of it. Sing to me rather, sweet 
 Lucy,' of thy starry eyes, thy lips that seem on roses 
 fed." So said Oliver, in all the enjoyment of his Vir- 
 ginian tobacco. He spoke of a song whose author's name 
 is now lost, but he could have told it then, perhaps ; though 
 even then it was an old song. 
 
 This song Lucinda sang. But as she sang, a thought 
 crossed her mind. Had it not been heartless in her, 
 when she spoke so freely of the ballad that Oliver — it 
 seemed — had no fancy for, to miss remembering that it 
 was just upon her first singing of it that he had fallen 
 stricken in that terrible convulsion? What wonder that 
 he should hate the tune of it? l^ever mind! — she would 
 make it up to him. She went when the song was done, 
 and sat beside him as he lay on a couch he favoured for 
 laziness after meals. She lapped him in the sweetness of 
 her young life, caressed his wicked head with her sweet, 
 guiltless hands, called him, the darkness of whose heart 
 outwent all evil she had knowledge of, her treasure and 
 delight. And he, for his part, while he took her tribute 
 as his due, felt anew that old uneasiness lest the tale of 
 her father's death should reach her before he had eaten 
 his fill of this feast, and wearied of it. For how could 
 he be deaf to the voice of his under-thought, that said 
 to him, hour by hour : " Search the foul records of your 
 life in vain for a girl like this " ? It had come upon 
 
226 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 
 
 him slowly — the thing called Love. It is a thing he 
 and his like know naught of; — a thing they can never 
 know but by a chance. But none take licence more freely 
 than they to use the sacred word — the word whose very 
 utterance by them is blasphemy. 
 
 Had it not been for this abnormal growth in the desert 
 of his soul, how should he have cared to prolong his 
 retirement from the glare and dazzle of the world of town 
 — all the delights of the dicebox and the card-table — of 
 a drama congenial to impious wit and debauched sense — • 
 of the delirious worship of a bedaubed Venus, a goddess 
 of paint and patches? Why should he, predominant 
 among Wits, self-styled, a man of note for his profligacy 
 in the world of profligates — ^why should he make surrender 
 of himself to solitude in this monotonous, outlandish 
 exile? The reason had never been plainer to him than 
 this evening, as he felt — or at least made his first acknowl- 
 edgment of feeling — the full extent of Lucinda^s power 
 over him. She had crept unawares into the heart of his 
 being, and wrapped him round with the enchantment 
 some never know but in the creatures of a dream. And 
 yet, so apt was he in the knowledge of his own wickedness, 
 that he could still forecast the day when he would fling 
 aside as worthless the thing he had possessed ; would let 
 the dish he had enjoyed the best of be removed, for whoso 
 would to finish. But this was only the voice of his ex- 
 perience. The banquet had not palled, as yet. Cer- 
 tainly not yet, this evening when he could lie there, 
 puffing his tobacco, closing his eyes to rejoice in the sweet- 
 ness of her hands at their best, as they caressed the locks 
 of hair they were so proud of. For in this solitude, afar 
 from Courts and modish devices, men's periwigs were cast 
 aside ; and Oliver, moved by his mistress's wish, had left 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHOISTOR 227 
 
 his head to its natural covering, and Lucinda watched 
 each new growth of it daily. 
 
 " Thou wilt never need to wear a wig, vain Oliver," 
 said she, "with such a crop as this.'' And her laugh 
 rang through the empty house, and reached even to Susan 
 Trant in her kitchen. 
 
 " She has not told her tale yet, mother," said Susan, 
 working silently on her pillow-lace. Dame Hatsell 
 answered : " What is that to thee, daughter ? She will 
 tell it him in the night, when none hears." And Susan 
 replied : " He never wakes to talk, in the night." But 
 her look was that of the assassin who thinks in peace 
 of the dagger he knows he can use to-morrow; or of 
 one who watches for the action of a poison he has used 
 before. 
 
 But in the room above Lucinda is making much, with 
 caress and jest, of the handsome head that lies, nothing 
 loth, upon her bosom. And there the idle chatter goes 
 on thus: 
 
 " The less need to carry a pocket-glass, my Lucy ! " 
 
 " How a pocket-glass ? " 
 
 " Every spruce coxcomb nowadays has his pocket- 
 mirror, to comb his artificial locks out. Thou shalt see 
 them combing them out in the playhouse; for 'tis the 
 fashion nowadays to do so." 
 
 " Shall I go to the playhouse then, when we go to 
 London?" 
 
 " Sure enough — in a little black mask. That is how 
 a lady goes to such like places, if she be of repute." 
 
 " Am I of repute, Oliver mine ? Truly, I would soonest 
 keep away from places where I may not show my face 
 like an honest woman." 
 
 " 'Tis for the sake of the men, my Lucy. But I pity 
 
228 a:^ affair of dishonoe 
 
 the youth that sees thine eyes for the first time through 
 a mask. 'Tis an added sting, to my thought." 
 
 " A saucy boy ! Let him mind his business and take 
 note of the players." 
 
 " What — ^my mistress ! — all in a taking about a young 
 Corydon that may never see thee. Or, if he do, he may 
 be more in a mind for Daphne, or for Phyllis. ..." 
 
 " Now ^e upon thee for shame, Oliver ! To promise 
 me a young beau for a lover, and then to jilt me thus! 
 But I'll none of him. His Daphne and his Phyllis may 
 fight for which shall have him — and either may, for aught 
 I care. ^ Corydon,' indeed ! " JSTow, as Lucinda said this 
 she sat encircling her lover's head, as it lay on her lap, 
 with her white hands and arms, or making as though she 
 would adjust some defect of his face at her pleasure. 
 For she was, as her brother had said, besotted about this 
 man, and all her joy was in his presence. And he, for 
 his part, took her worship of him as his due; although, 
 as we have seen, his vanity and selfhood rose in revolt 
 against the growth of her sweet power, even while he 
 could not but luxuriate in its light and warmth. 
 
 Then says Lucinda to him : " What makes thee cry 
 out upon my song of Lady Joan and Lord Ferrers of the 
 Dyke, Oliver Hard-to-please ? " For so happy was she 
 in this unguarded laughter-moment, that she must needs 
 again forget the ill-flavour this song's name would have 
 for Oliver. And thereto she sang the quaint short phrase 
 with a twist in it, that is the life of the strange little 
 air. 
 
 " There lies the reason of it ! " says Sir Oliver. " 'Tis 
 that very same flimsy lilt, a bit of musical jargon at the 
 best, that gets upon the drum o' the ear and won't begone. 
 iWhy! — whom do you think I heard a-singing of it, that 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOjSTOE 229 
 
 never sang a song in his life before that I ever heard tell 
 of ? Now guess." 
 
 Lucinda thought and thought, but could not guess for 
 want of men about the house to father the tale on. Then 
 she tried the fisher folk. ^' J^ot Keuben nor Ben Thur- 
 kill ? " said she. " They have never been near enough 
 to hear me sing. Besides, they will sing themselves over 
 their net-mending by the hour." 
 
 " Think again, Lucy mine ! Think well round the 
 house, upstairs and down. . . . Ho, ho ! — hast thou got 
 him at last ? " For Lucinda's gaze of perplexity at Sir 
 Oliver's face, with a chuckle to come in it, ends in a 
 sudden irresistible laugh. 
 
 " Not John Kackham, Oliver ! ISTever John Kackham ! " 
 'All her speech is broken with her laughter at the notion 
 of the groom singing. " Why — ^how came you to know 
 Fhat tune he meant to sing ? " 
 
 ^^ By the words, fairest Lucy — ^by the words. Else 
 might I have been at a loss to be sure of the tune. In- 
 deed, as I judge, he would sing but one tune in any case, 
 and that mostly one note and no more. But for the words, 
 he is bound by the book, and I can tell thee this, wench 
 — 'twas thy song and no other, concerning of the girl that 
 hid her lover in a basket. ..." 
 
 " Out upon thee, Oliver ! 'Twas not in a basket, but 
 behind the wainscot, with room for all his limbs, only his 
 sword was hard to pack in. ..." But then Lucinda 
 stopped a few moments, and when she spoke next, 
 thought was in her voice. " But did John Rackham 
 know all that song? — even to the drawn swords and the 
 blood?" 
 
 " I know not of the drawn swords and the blood, but 
 he knew many a verse." Then Sir Oliver, ill at ease, 
 
230 AN AFFAIE OF DISH0:N^0R 
 
 made a show of remembering suddenly a thing his 
 memory had not really let slip. " Ay, to be sure, I have 
 it now — the two of them came to question. Two lovers 
 of one maid, were they not ? ^' 
 
 " No, no ! — it was her father, inattentive man ! No 
 lover at all ! . . . " But Lucinda was in a maze of pre- 
 occupation by some new thought, and said no more, 
 sitting still with her lover^s head in keeping in her lap — 
 for he had put aside a finished pipe — and turning round 
 in her mind the thing that had arrested her. Then quite 
 of a sudden she outs with : " I care not, Oliver mine — I 
 will tell thee, and be thought a fool for my pains at the 
 worst ! " 
 
 " Highty-tighty, wench ! — ^what's all the to-do ? Why 
 such a long face ? Has Master Rackham — ^ho, ho ! — 
 been making love to thee? " l^oiv, this seemed to amuse 
 Sir Oliver mightily. 
 
 " Have your laugh out, silly Oliver ! — thou art just no 
 better than a boy. But when you have done, I will tell 
 my story, and you may call me fool outright." 
 
 IsTow the thought that had crossed Lucinda's mind, 
 making her at her ease about her tale of Mrs. Trant^s 
 tricks on John Rackham, and resolving her on the telling 
 of it forthwith, was just this: — that sure enough she 
 now knew what was the source and origin of all this crazy 
 dream of the bewitched man. What could be more cer- 
 tain? His disordered brain had fitted all the ballad's 
 intent and action to the persons nearest about him. Any 
 two lovers would have served his turn, but she and Sir 
 Oliver were readiest to hand. And see how a hundred 
 things, all within Rackham's knowledge, lent themselves 
 to the fostering of his craze. Foremost of all, her father's 
 swordsmanship — why, he was, as her brother had said, 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 231 
 
 famous for it! And, for all that a vulgar mind such as 
 Rackham's could know, what was there in her relations 
 with Oliver so unlike those of the lawless couple in the 
 ballad ? What could he know of the solemn pledges that 
 had clothed her compliance with her lover's petitions with 
 all the sacramental character of the altar itself? Alas, 
 for poor Lucinda! — she little knew how freely pledges 
 come from men who know that Law will support, and 
 Society excuse, the breach of covenants made in disregard 
 of their accepted formulas. 
 
 But this does not concern us now, though it passed 
 through Lucinda's thought as she pictured for the moment 
 Rackham's version of her love and Oliver's. Of course, 
 such a version would fit the ballad. His waking dream 
 was as natural as any sleeping dream would have been. 
 She might have dreamed such a one herself, and waked 
 in terror. 
 
 So, as she sat there nursing Sir Oliver's handsome head 
 — for none could gainsay his outward beauty — and making 
 believe to retouch and improve it as a sculptor might, 
 she had no thought of backing out of the telling of her 
 tale, but only a doubt of how she should accommodate 
 its strangeness to the understanding of her hearer. And 
 as for him, he was, to say the truth, but little concerned 
 to know this tale of hers as he lay enjoying the sweet 
 touch of her hands about his wicked head, letting her 
 sweet voice soak into his false heart — ^more and more 
 overpowered; in short, by this strange witchery of a till- 
 then-unknown phase or version of Love. Language halts 
 and goes lame in the telling of it, but it was with him as 
 though some Oread, the captive of a wandering Satyr of 
 the woods, had decoyed her captor into a Temple of the 
 God Himself, and held to his lips a nectar cup, that he 
 
232 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOE 
 
 might pour a libation at an unaccustomed shrine. And 
 jet, to meet her fancy, ratlier than from any curiosity of 
 his own, he would not leave her without encouragement. 
 
 " What's t^ y story, Lucy mine ? I will not call thee 
 a fool for nothing, trust me ! Tell it out roundly ! " Oh, 
 had he but known what it would be — he, lapped in all 
 his false security — ^more and more intoxicated with his 
 new-found nectar! 
 
 " It would serve thee but right if I told thee nothing, 
 Oliver mine," says she. But he is forgiven, for she bends 
 over the handsome wicked face with a long kiss, then 
 goes on : '' But listen ! 'Tis a tale of witchcraft, and 
 Trant is at the bottom of it.'' 
 
 "Oho!— is that it? What devil is in it, this time? 
 ApoUyon — or Ashtaroth ? " Sir Oliver is scoffing, but his 
 attention is roused, for all that. 
 
 " Nay, I know not. Maybe both ! She has bewitched 
 John Rackham, and now she can make him do her will. 
 . . . Oh, but you would laugh to see the power she can 
 put upon him to make him close his eyes, and the much 
 ado he has to open them. Nay — ^he cannot, try how he 
 may!" 
 
 *^ A pitiful small triumph for the black art of a witch 
 in league with the Devil! If she could force John Rack- 
 ham to open his mouth now! . . . there would be a 
 thing to raise the Devil for. But — just to close his 
 eyes ! " And Oliver laughed out, and would turn it all 
 to a jest. 
 
 But Lucinda had no mind to be thwarted of her tale, 
 and clapped her hand on his mouth to bring him to silence, 
 also bidding him be serious, for that it was a thing she, 
 for one, could make neither head nor tail of. Thereupon 
 he kissed the palm of her hand within, but said, though 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOI^^OE 233 
 
 with less of derision : " They are making a fool of thee, 
 silly Lucy. 'Tis a plot of conspiracy, and a mighty easy 
 one for any pair of knaves. Take my word for it, Master 
 Kackham will open his eyes fast enough if he hears my 
 voice. I wager the DeviFs imps won't wait for my com- 
 ing. No, no ! '' 
 
 '^ I doubt if either the Devil or his imps have any hand 
 in the matter," said Lucinda, but seriously. "May not 
 this thing and its like be some mere freak and folly of 
 Is'ature, that chances once, and there an end ? " 
 
 Sir Oliver's air was that of one who weighs for its worth 
 the thought of a lesser mind, and can concede it some 
 applause. " A shrewd guess, for a wench," said he. 
 " There be cases of a like sort. Get on with thy tale, 
 sweet Lucy." And then he made as though he would 
 bite off with his teeth her little finger-tip, and she, for 
 her part, was all indulgent of his smallest whim. But 
 she was clear now in her intent to tell this affair of Trant 
 and John Rackham, thinking it plain enough that all this 
 preposterous dream of the groom's was a mere fetch, and 
 as foundationless as he himself said it was. 
 
 " What will you say of it all, I wonder now, wise 
 Oliver?" 
 
 " I can say nothing till thou hast told thy tale, Mistress 
 Slowspeech." 
 
 "Why — ^you saw Rackham but last night. ..." 
 " What of last night ? The knave was drunk, my 
 Lucy! Why — ^he will swill ale by the hogshead, as lief 
 as not." 
 
 " There was no ale in this case, Oliver." 
 " Mighty little witchcraft, simple Lucy ! " 
 " Must I hold thy mouth shut, to keep thee quiet ? 
 [Now listen. When I charged Trant this morning to tell 
 
234 AN AFFAIR OF DISHO:NrOE 
 
 me honest truth of what she knew, she would have it 
 Rackham was no dronkelew, no more than reason, as all 
 men are. But last night least of all, seeing she had per- 
 suaded him that if he would forswear food and drink but 
 for one day, it being Lammas-tide. ..." 
 
 " Lammas Day is a feast, and no fast. ..." 
 
 " Keep thy mouth shut, silly 1 The more the feast, 
 the more the merit of him who fasts. 'Tis easy to fast 
 when all fast alike. Dost thou not see that this was all 
 a practice of Trant's, to make a great seeming of a simple 
 trick she was minded to play on Rackham, just to pay 
 him out for his dogged silence about . . . about things 
 he could tell if he chose. . . . Keep thy mouth shut, 
 silly Oliver, and listen ! — 'twas no harm, what she sought 
 to know — only my father's name and mine. ..." 
 
 For Sir Oliver had begun to ask who had given Mrs. 
 Trant leave to pry into what concerned her not — a by- 
 word in reproof of Mrs. Trant, and no more. He went 
 on : " But the trick — the simple trick — what of it ? " 
 
 "I only tell thee, love, what she told me." So said 
 Lucinda, and then went on to report what the tale already 
 knows concerning the spell cast upon Rackham, and the 
 seeming simple means used for its attainment. Sir Oliver 
 honoured her narration now and again with a grunt of 
 incredulity, and would have spoken once or oftener, but 
 Lucinda each time clapt her hand on his mouth, and bade 
 him be silent till she should finish. 
 
 INow the part she least relished the telling of — although, 
 indeed, she really thought it no more than a mad dream 
 — ^was the substance of Rackham's narrative of the duel, 
 and the return home. So what between her slurring of it 
 over, and Sir Oliver's growing itch to pooh-pooh the 
 whole thing, the tale hung fire, or was lost in her dis- 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 235 
 
 claimers of any sense or coherency in the ramblings of the 
 bewitched man when most completely under the strange 
 influence. For what she herself was seeking to tell Oliver 
 was the story of Mrs. Trant's curious power over Rack- 
 ham, and the strange practice by which she had attained 
 it, rather than the fantastic delusion it had produced in 
 its subject or victim. So she laid a great over-stress upon 
 the incoherency of his story, that an exaggeration of it 
 might frank her of the telling of a tale she would have 
 felt shame to repeat. After all, the gist of the matter 
 was, not the rubbish talked by the person thus oddly 
 affected, but the strange way in which his affection came 
 about. 
 
 Oliver, for his part, though he had not been without 
 misgiving that Rackham might break loose one day in 
 some Bacchanalian moment, conceived that this time, 
 witchcraft or no, he had kept all his wits and his counsel, 
 and held his tongue on all matters in which an indis- 
 cretion would not only have lost him his situation, but 
 procured him a sound horse-whipping into the bargain. 
 For surely, had Lucinda heard aught of the story of the 
 duel, it would have been her first thing to speak of, not 
 all this rhodomontade of silly necromancies. So he felt 
 little misgiving in seeking to know somewhat of the dis- 
 jointed words she said had come from Rackham in his 
 dream — too disjointed and ill-articulate for her to make 
 sense of it, so she said, on any terms. 
 
 " And what more had my drunken knave to tell, beyond 
 thine own maiden name, my Lucy ? " 
 
 But Lucinda was backward to answer, for the sound of 
 his speech jarred on her heart. " 'Tis my name still, of 
 right, sweetheart,'' said she. " Until my dear lord's is 
 mine of right," she added. 
 
236 AN^ AFFAIR OF DISHOISrOR 
 
 " My heart is thine, love," said he. " And what 
 woidd you more ? " And his voice rang so true, for once, 
 that tears of joy were in Lucinda's eyes at the hearing 
 of it She fairly buried his face in the kisses she gave 
 him — closed his wicked eyes with, stilled his wicked lips. 
 Wicked despite of all, for he was but an outside stranger, 
 a lawless trespasser, in the Temple of Love, the real God 
 who has but one name. Yet so intoxicated was he, as it 
 were, with the incense fumes at the altar, that a thought 
 took form in his mind on Lucinda's behalf. " I would,'' 
 said he, " that my Lady, whom the Devil fly away with, 
 were not so damnably virtuous. If only she had it in 
 her to tickle the fancy of our sweet King Charles ! The 
 chance of a coronet carries the outworks of virtue. But 
 she is scraggy, at best, and her lips are tight on her teeth. 
 So 'tis hopeless ! " 
 
 " Now let the poor lady be ! " said Lucinda, and the 
 music of her laughter rang through the house, and reached 
 Susan Trant, on the watch in the kitchen. " You married 
 her yourself, silly Oliver — ^you married her yourself! 
 Now talk of John Rackham and his plight. What can 
 you make of it, at the best?'' 
 
 " Faith — ^nothing ! 'Tis as you said but now, a freak 
 of Nature." 
 
 Then Susan Trant, in the kitchen, hearing the laughter, 
 says to her mother : " She has not told him. She will not 
 tell him to-night." So she rises from her lace-work, and 
 her mother does the like from her needlework, for the 
 hour is very late. But a little time passes while each 
 collects wandering reels, rewinds disordered skeins, and 
 makes all safe for the night. Then both together are on 
 their way to the garret in the roof, where they sleep. No 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHO:^rOR 237 
 
 other servant slept in the house at this time; nor at any 
 time in this part of it, when service from without was 
 insufficient for the household. 
 
 The rain-drift that has lasted on, with scarcely a lull, 
 through the whole day, is breaking into loose cloud-rack, 
 scouring across a new blue heaven, queened by a great 
 full-moon. The vapour-veils are swift to come and go, 
 and the silver light comes and vanishes apace through 
 the high window on the stair as the two pass up it, saying 
 never a word, and only one of them hearing the voices 
 still continuing beyond the door they will pass directly, 
 there on the first landing just above. Dame Hatsell, who 
 hears nothing — she has been this evening deafer than ever 
 — passes on unheeding. Her daughter remains listening, 
 still as a motionless snake. One hand holds the blown- 
 out taper the moon makes needless, the fingers of the 
 other are on her mouth, as though her silence were some- 
 how insecure in her own keeping. She can only hear 
 chance words — something of a dream of his mother — 
 nothing she can piece up to coherency. Her eyes have a 
 cruel gleam in the moonlight, as of joyous anticipation of 
 ill-hap befalling someone else. 
 
 Has she caught some change in the manner of the 
 speakers, that listening should quicken her expectancy 
 of something just at hand — be fraught with more im- 
 patience? Yes! Voices raised — interchange of speech 
 abrupt and sudden; then again a hushing of the voices, 
 as in greater concord. Then a kind of laugh from the 
 man, not over gleeful, followed by continued speech of 
 the woman; a sudden interruption, and a cry. Then the 
 voices of both, broken, spasmodic, beseeching; and in the 
 end the man's voice alone in the silence, speaking 
 earnestly. 
 
238 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 
 
 How long will he speak thus ? A little more — a little 
 more — and then the woman's voice, but strained and un- 
 earthly, followed by a cry and a long silence. And then, 
 without forewarning or seeming cause, a sudden piercing 
 shriek, the woman's voice again, and his. But this time 
 Susan Trant can catch a word she says. She says it again 
 and again. What is it ? " Murderer ! " 
 
 At that word the listener at the door laughed a laugh 
 that scarcely gave a sound; then, waiting to hear no 
 more, passed on light-footed to the upper stair-flight and 
 got away. 
 
 On the landing old Mrs. Hatsell met her daughter. 
 ^' Who called ? " said she. A headshake in reply meant, 
 ^* None called '' ; a warning finger was a caution of si- 
 lence. Then Mrs. Trant drew her mother with her to 
 their bedroom, full of the white moonlight, and, closing 
 the door, spoke loud in her ear. " She has told him," 
 cried she. And her voice had all the glee of her heart 
 in it. 
 
 The old woman's hearing was capricious. For a sound 
 l)elow, much like the fall of some heavy body, causing 
 breakage of glass or chinaware, was plain to her, although 
 a scream the fisherfolk might have heard a mile away had 
 seemed no more than a mere summons. She spoke to her 
 daughter, saying, " That is the master's fall, in one of his 
 takings." 
 
 But Susan Trant laughed a cool, ugly laugh beneath her 
 breath, saying in an undertone, " What if it were ? " But 
 to her mother she said aloud, " 'Tis no such thing ! 'Tis 
 the hound Zorra that bays the moon." And the old dame 
 believed her, for she had learned by long experience how 
 her hearing might cheat her, and would often take her 
 daughter's word against her own judgment. 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 239 
 
 Go back now to Lucy and Oliver, and mark what came 
 to pass since the story's last word about them. 
 
 " ' A freak of Nature/ " said Lucinda, echoing Oliver's 
 speech. ^^ Ay, truly! — but a freak that uses little scraps 
 of sound sense to the end of madness, a touch here and 
 a touch there — all else in confusion ! But, then, a dream 
 has sense and nonsense mixed — a common dream of the 
 night. . . .'' 
 
 Oliver broke in with a laugh. " Faith, and that is 
 true too! I could tell thee a dream I dreamed, not so 
 long since. ..." But he stopped suddenly, and went 
 off to something else, saying, '' You said, as I thought, 
 that Rackham's speech was but gibberish, all mad out- 
 right ? " 
 
 " I did not mean that. I should have said, belike, that 
 all the substance of his tale was mad, though he spoke it, 
 plain enough. . . . But tell me thy dream, sweet 
 Oliver.'' 
 
 Now Sir Oliver had begun to speak of this dream — 
 which was that unholy dream of his mother's ghost, 
 whereof the reader knows — recalling only the strangeness 
 of it, and forgetful of the many links it had with what he 
 had least wish to speak of of all things, to Lucinda of all 
 people. A moment's thought brought repentance of his 
 word in haste, and now he would have unsaid it. But 
 what shift was open to him ? To swear he had forgotten 
 it? Absurd! He might have devised some other dream, 
 to serve as well, with a quick wit. But, as it chanced, no 
 such expedient crossed his mind. And what need was 
 there either to say anything of the time of it, or its asso- 
 ciations for him? 
 
 " 'Od's bodikins ! " said he at length, with an ill-at-ease 
 laugh. " Can I be sure to recollect it right ? What 
 
240 'AN AFFAIK OF DISH0:N^0R 
 
 was it ? There was my mother, a-walking on the Terrace 
 with her head wrapped up, and there was a fountain, 
 and fish in the basin, and one of them had John Eack- 
 ham's head on. . . . j^o, my Lucy, I am not making 
 it up. 'Tis true! — I swear it.'' But, said Lucinda 
 then, this dream was mad all through; where was the 
 touch of sense in it ? " Stop one moment," says Oli- 
 ver, " while I tell thee. Sense enough in all the garden 
 round. 'Twas the Box Walk at the New Hall — thou 
 knowest ? " 
 
 " Ay — I know it well." 
 
 " This Bedlam fountain had grown in the night — ^for I 
 had been there but the day before — just at the garden 
 end, there where a little door went to the stable-yard, 
 that never was opened. ..." 
 
 " Oh, but it was opened, Oliver mine ! Else how could 
 you have passed through?" 
 
 " What does the wench mean ? " said Oliver sharply. 
 And well might he ask ! For Lucinda's words came of a 
 heedless forgetting, not unlike his own when his tongue 
 pitched upon this dream. She knew naught of this 
 garden door but from the tale of the duel, told that day by 
 John E-ackham. But the words had passed her lips before 
 she remembered this, to her confusion. Sir Oliver went 
 on, roused and speaking harshly. " When did I go 
 through? Who says I went through? I tell you, 
 that door was never opened since my mother had it 
 closed." 
 
 " I did not know it was there," said Lucinda, foolishly 
 speaking her thought, never seeing how it clashed with 
 her last words. 
 
 " Why — thou art a fool, girl ! What can possess thee 
 to talk such folly ? " Sir Oliver laughed out roundly, but 
 
AK AFFAIE OF DISHOXOK 241 
 
 something in his laugh grated. " How in the name of 
 patience should you know I. passed through it, if you knew 
 not it was there ? " 
 
 " Oh, Oliver! — it was not I, but Kackham that knew 
 it ; 'twas but a part of the nonsense he talked with Trant's 
 fingers on his forehead. . . . Yes, Oliver, stop and I 
 will tell you. ..." 
 
 " Tell me in a word ! What lies has that scoundrel been 
 telling you? Trant's fingers on his forehead, in good 
 sooth! . . .'' 
 
 " Now, Oliver — be not so angry 1 Leave my wrists — 
 you pinch them! What is it all but a piece of nonsense 
 — the matter of a jest ? " But Lucinda^s heart goes as 
 she speaks, and she is white and frightened. 
 
 His hands relax as they put hers aside, and he raises 
 his head. He is now seated beside her, for he has swung 
 his feet down from the cushion at the couch-head. His 
 breath came short as he spoke, and she has no guess of 
 the reason why he should be thus moved, the more that 
 his words had but now a ring of unaccustomed welcome 
 tenderness, quite other than that of the conventions of the 
 stage in affairs of love, with the like of which from him 
 she was often vexed, though she confessed it not. Now is 
 he as though he would speak, but could not. However, an 
 end comes of his silence, and he says, under his voice, 
 "What has he told thee?'' 
 
 "Why should I keep anything from thee, Oliver? If 
 only I can bring it again to my mind to tell. But it was 
 a maze of nonsense. This door he had in mind was that 
 very same one you spoke of but now. Not, indeed, that 
 I could have spoken to any memory of it, but I know the 
 place in the wall where it should be, a pace to the left of 
 the two yews, dipt to seem foxes. • . .'' 
 
242 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOKOK 
 
 " Ay — ay — ay ! I know the door well. What tell you 
 me of it? Speak on about Rackham. ..." 
 
 " Why — he would have it, in this daffing of his, that 
 after the duel ..." 
 
 " What was the duel ? You spoke of no duel. God's 
 my life! — what's all this history now? What shall we 
 have next ? A duel — a duel ! — and who fought this duel, 
 I pray ? " Then he made as though to laugh, as in 
 scorn. 
 
 ^ow at this Lucinda's heart quaked. But not so much 
 that his voice was harsh, as in anger, as for the sound of 
 his laugh, that had in it little of the life of true laughter. 
 IBut no thought crossed her mind that the cause of his 
 gasping thus was in the matter of her speech. Her fear 
 was to see him fall suddenly, seized by the malady she 
 was at all times now more or less in terror of. But it 
 was best, so she reasoned, to show no sign of this fear, 
 lest by doing so she should hasten a seizure that might else 
 pass off. She would be wisest to hide all consciousness of 
 anything amiss; that she felt sure of. So she answered 
 him quietly enough, " That, was the duel this crazypate 
 Rackham must needs dream for thee to fight with . . . 
 come now, Oliver mine, thou shalt guess whom he thought 
 to match thee with . . . guess now! " 
 
 Then Oliver, in despair, caught at a half-hope that the 
 groom, being clearly bewitched — ^that he had no doubt of 
 now — had come short of telling a true story, and that 
 what he had told had been some jumble of madness 
 within reach of a true denial. It gave him heart for a 
 less ill-fangled laugh as he made believe to guess, choosing 
 always some name quite out of question, as though nothing 
 could be too absurd. "Admiral de Ruyter, Lucy mine, 
 the fire-eating Dutchman! Or, stay — I will guess better 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 243 
 
 than that ! Good King Charles himself — ho, ho ! ^' And 
 his greater ease set Lucinda's mind at rest again. But 
 it was not to be for long. 
 
 " Silly man ! " said she. " See, now, Oliver, I will give 
 thee a hint, for a help to a better guess. Did you not say, 
 but now, when I had thy foolish head in my lap, that you 
 yourself had heard this drunken knave a-singing of my 
 song of Lord Ferrers of the Dyke? . . . What! — no 
 nearer for that ? . . . Well^ look, then, at this — I will 
 make thee another present. I am convinced outright 
 that this Eackham being in a sense bewitched, and mak- 
 ing — one might say — a furmety of truth in falsehood, 
 hath taken all the acts of this ballad-tale, fitting the part 
 each plays to someone known to him. . . . What of 
 that, dost ask? . . . Come, Oliver, thou art slow! 
 What of that, in sooth ! Why, listen, and put thy mind to 
 the thinking of it out ! Who should he light upon to play 
 the frail young beauty of the ballad — ^who but myself, 
 your Lucy? A sweet compliment! And even a worser 
 one yet for thee, Oliver mine ! ISTo wonder thou art glum 
 and silent over it. But he packed thee not behind the 
 wainscot, to be caught like a fox in hiding. No — do him 
 that justice ! He set thee to fight in the Park, out a mfle 
 beyond where thy mother lies — rest her soul! Come 
 now, Oliver, I have all but told thee whose sword crossed 
 thine — 'tis thy affectation, not to guess. ..." She 
 paused as for an answer, with half-playful gestures of 
 impatience, a foot that tapped the ground and fingers 
 struck together quickly ; then went on : " Who was the old 
 man the lover slew — come, now, whose father was he? 
 ... Oh, Oliver, what ails thee ? " 
 
 For Sir Oliver is on his feet now, and that hollow sound 
 is his voice. Or, rather, what would have been his voice 
 
244 AN AFFAIK OF DISH0:N^0E 
 
 had articulation made speech of it. What is it he is 
 striving now to say? He is — he is — ^he is something he 
 can find no word to tell; or, having found one, dares not 
 utter it. 
 
 Lucinda is beside him in her terror. This is to her, 
 surely, some new phase of epileptic seizure. It is all a 
 part of it that he should thrust her from him — nothing he 
 is answerable for. 
 
 But it is a thing that he persists in, holding her at 
 arm's length, until, with slow effort and suffocated gasps, 
 he at last finds speech — ^hard to hear through teeth half- 
 clenched, hard to distinguish from mere convulsive 
 breath, but still speech. And the same speech, again and 
 again. 
 
 " Keep from me — ^keep from me — till you hear — till 
 you know ! " And then, in answer to the ^^ Oh, why 
 this ? " of Lucinda — for she is helpless to say more — he 
 says more plainly, with some recovery of speech : " Do 
 you as I tell you, girl, and you shall know;" and then 
 drops heavily back on the seat he has left. 
 
 As she comes to see in all this something terrible afoot 
 she cannot grasp the meaning of as yet, her eyesight 
 swims and her powers of speech have gone, leaving her 
 rigid, motionless as a marble statue, yet with a buried 
 longing to speak that never comes to more than a half- 
 moan. But she can hear what he says. 
 
 " It was no fault of mine — this thing. I swear it. I 
 never sought to kill him. Had he handled his weapon 
 less well, I could have disarmed him. But this was no 
 boy's play, with a sword-arm like his. I would my thrust 
 had not been mortal — it was not my intent. O Lucy — 
 Lucy! — had he parried that thrust, I might have been 
 slain. 'Twas a choice of two — 'twixt him and me. Who 
 
'AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 245 
 
 dares speak more blame of me than of another in my 
 place? Who would have done other than I did? O 
 Lucy — Lucy! — had he not been such a swordsman, I 
 might have cried off and none have called me dastard. 
 But how could I choose, in honour, but meet his challenge 
 as he gave it? . . ." 
 
 And then he pauses, as Lucinda speaks. But her words 
 come as the words of one that knows not who hears her. 
 *' Do I know what all this means ? " she asks, much as a 
 dreamer, who wakes he knows not where, might question 
 a bystander ; and then goes on : " What is this he tells of 
 some man he has slain ? '' And then suddenly she cries 
 out: '^ Oliver! — speak the truth to me! Who is the man 
 you speak of ? Who is it you have killed ? " 
 
 Then Oliver, however sick at heart he be, has no choice 
 but to speak. '^ It was your father," he says, and sits on 
 silent. 
 
 So they remain, but neither knows how long. It may 
 be a few seconds, or it may be hours, for any measure of 
 time in the mind of either. She remains fixed and 
 motionless, a very statue in her stillness; and as the 
 flaring candles, now near their end, shift and flicker in the 
 wind each time it blows open a loose casement, letting in 
 a rush of music from the sea, her face shows white in the 
 moonlight they give place to. E'ot a sound from either ! — 
 nothing against sheer silence but the life of the night 
 without; the distant thunder of the shore, the cry of its 
 responsive shingle; the wind that means to find in the 
 hours of sleep new ways of moaning through the silent 
 house and roaring in its chimneys, and now is rushing 
 inland with the flying scud of foam below and vapour 
 overhead to tell all who will listen what it means — that 
 low bank of inky black it left upon the offing, and how 
 
246 AN AFFAIR OF DISHOIs^OE 
 
 it will not be a laggard long. Make shutters fast — it is 
 the storm ! That is its word to wakeful ears ; few enough 
 now, so late is the hour ! 
 
 But it may be Lucinda has heard no sound; has seen, 
 has understood nothing since those awful words came 
 from her lover^s lips, " It was your father ! " But it was 
 her power to take their meaning that makes her now 
 unconscious of all else. Had they failed to reach her 
 mind, speech would still have been hers. But she knows 
 the truth, and her heart is near dead with the knowledge 
 of it. All is void and waste for her now, this side of the 
 grave, and she is face to face with a Something — a thing 
 to poison the sweet air of morning with the taste of blood, 
 and dye the sunrays scarlet. A thing that, could she find 
 her tongue to speak it, might best be uttered thus : ^^ My 
 sin has slain my father, and the guilt of his death is 
 mine." But never a word said she, as she stood there, 
 a soul in torture in a cruel void, filled with her own 
 guilt. 
 
 The first to move was Oliver. He rose just as though 
 he lifted a great weight in rising. He moved towards her 
 as though it bore him down. He went with hands ad- 
 vanced as though to shelter the head that sunk so low. 
 How comes it that he, who more than once has laughed 
 aside all guilt as of murder done, on the false plea that the 
 fair conditions of the duel assoil the slayer of his brother — 
 yes! — would have freed Cain from the curse God laid 
 upon him — how comes it that he has fallen so low as this ? 
 How come his bold eyes to flinch from meeting those of 
 the woman he has wronged? — he that has made light of 
 a hundred broken hearts — has flung a hundred cast-off 
 shames to his victims, to be worn as a livery at the bidding 
 of a world of hypocrites, half-ready with applause of a 
 
AK AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 247 
 
 sort — ready, at least, to sneak off blame — for him? 
 Where was all his old effrontery, that had been so good a 
 friend to him so many a time ere now? The answer lay 
 in this : that Nemesis had come upon him in the very form 
 of the God he had blasphemed through a lifetime — Love 
 himself. Love, with a sentence of intolerable doom — 
 fruitless Remorse! 
 
 Fruitless, and he was to know its fruitlessness almost 
 before its sting had time to reach his soul. For when in 
 his blind despair of any speech that could palliate his 
 crime, he sought, while he dared not try to get Lucinda 
 once more in his arms, at least to take her by the hand, 
 that hand — the memory of whose touch was still upon his 
 face — struck his aside so fiercely that the ring upon it 
 scored his flesh, and left him bleeding, though, indeed, he 
 took no note of it. And then, with one long, piercing 
 shriek, she started from him, well away to the farthest 
 corner of the room ; for he was betwixt her and the door, 
 or she might have made for it. 
 
 Then she found her voice ; or, rather, it should be said, 
 she found a voice she did not know as her own. " Keep 
 off — ^keep off — ^keep away! " it cried, using the words she 
 would have it use. And then a word harder to say — 
 '^ Murderer ! " She had to force the voice to make it 
 come. But it came in the end. And then, once spoken, 
 she found it easier to speak, and knew the voice was her 
 own that said again, and yet again : " Murderer — ^mur- 
 derer — murderer ! " 
 
 *' God is my witness," said he, using the form of speech 
 men use to make a falsehood true, " that I am no 
 murderer. All was fair betwixt us, for him as for me. 
 O Lucinda! — had he been the slayer and I the slain, 
 would you have called him ' murderer' f 
 
248 AN AFFAIE OF DISHO:^OR 
 
 She stood white in the moonlight, close to the open 
 casement, her forbidding hands stretched out towards 
 him, to make his distance sure. Her speech came quick 
 and short, an undertone articulate with pain, but clear in 
 accent and unmistakable in meaning. " I know nothing 
 of how I might have named him — but this I know — for I 
 loved you once, Oliver — oh, how I loved you! — I know 
 his lips would never have touched his daughter's lips 
 again — his palm should never have pressed mine, though 
 I died for it. For, Oliver, I loved you, once ! '' 
 
 The man knew what he had lost, and would have caught 
 at any straw to save his fall. But he had no heart for his 
 own defence, all the more that he knew well that, in 
 strictness, every law of the duello had not been observed ; 
 for was not his opponent already wounded when he made 
 that fatal thrust? — a murderer's, surely, with that con- 
 sciousness upon him. He had slain a man no longer able 
 to attack him. 
 
 He strove to utter some plea for himself — any mock- 
 justification was better than none. But his teeth locked 
 over his words, and what he began to say went shuddering 
 down to an inarticulate moan. All his mastery of himself 
 was at fault; or, rather, all was blank, and he was a 
 conscious nothing, in a void. And Lucinda's voice, for 
 she spoke again, sounded leagues away : " I loved you 
 once, Oliver — Oliver ! '' 
 
 Yet these last words were not her own, to his hearing, 
 but had some accent of a speech he knew, or knew he had 
 known once. How could he say when, now, in this mist ? 
 Then, for him, all things ceased. 
 
 For her, she had caught sight of it coming, the thing 
 she feared, when his voice failed. She had seen the dire 
 strain coming on the muscles of his face, the upward drag 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 249 
 
 upon the eyeball, and she knew beforehand what she 
 should hear in a moment — the awful cry of the epileptic. 
 Her fingers were too late to stop her ears against the 
 sound, glad as she would have been to shut it out. Then 
 she saw him fall with all his weight, and lie jerking and 
 writhing on the oaken floor. 
 
 How came that great inky curtain to be hanging still 
 above the distant sea, and never nearing the land? 
 Rank upon rank of great white-crested breakers, lifting 
 to espy the shore, and falling disappointed, but to rise 
 again, spoke of the great wind that was rushing landward 
 from the black pall of the horizon. And yet the storm 
 itself was slow to come. But those clouds were heralds 
 of it, whose speed across the outer blue made the high 
 moon seem to fly for ever through an endless heaven. It 
 could not be long, now. 
 
 JSTot long ! For through the very heart of its blackness 
 shot a sudden splintered shaft of lightning, all the length 
 of the offing, and left it blacker than before. And the 
 woman who came from the front doorway of the Manor 
 House, that looked seaward, was in time to see it, and 
 waited, listening for the thunder. 
 
 For there is none among us but will pause betwixt the 
 first flash and the first voice of the storm's artillery, even 
 though the stress and cumber of life be at its worst upon 
 him. Lucinda's life had become, in this last hour, no 
 other than a terrible dream to her, but she had it in her 
 still to pay this tribute to the terrors of the storm. Even 
 John Rackham, very late at turning loose the blood- 
 hounds for the night, did not pass her with a mere hat- 
 touch in silence, his usual greeting, but stopped for one 
 moment to say, ^' Going to be a rough night, my lady ! '' 
 
250 AN AFFAIR OF DISHOXOE 
 
 and then stood waiting for the coming sound. It came — 
 a long, continuous roar that neither rose nor fell, too 
 satisfied of its strength to need it now. That was for the 
 time to come. 
 
 John Rackham took no heed at all of the ashy pallor of 
 his mistress's face. Or if he did, he set it down to mere 
 terror of the lightning, and the boding rumble of the 
 coming thunder. But what she said next roused even 
 his torpid and apathetic nature to some astonishment. 
 
 " Saddle the colt, my lady ! '' he exclaimed. " Would 
 you ride out a night like this? See the storm brewing 
 yonder." 
 
 For Lucinda's speech had been, briefly, that he should 
 put the saddle on the young horse. She was minded to 
 ride, and there an end! And when he made objection 
 to this, she silenced him imperiously, saying : ^' Do my 
 bidding, Master Rackham, for I tell you this — I am 
 in earnest. Refuse me, and I go straight to Sir Oliver, 
 and tell him of my own hearing, from your own lips, of 
 the crazy tale you have thought fit to utter concerning 
 him and my father. So be wise in time, and saddle the 
 horse as I have told you. Have him in waiting in 
 the stable-yard for me when I have made ready for the 
 saddle." 
 
 John Rackham thought and waited — ^waited and 
 thought; then began some objection, as that the young 
 horse would go past control from terror of the lightning, 
 and what not. But Lucinda cuts him short with " Do 
 as I say, or I . . . " ; and is turning to go, leaving her 
 speech half-spoken. Whereat the groom is ready with 
 assent : " Going — going, mistress ! Ne'er-a-one gainsays 
 ye, that I wot of," and is off to the stable-yard. 
 
 The great storm is coming quickly now, and darkness is 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISH0:N^0R 251 
 
 over the moon as Lucinda passes up the staircase to her 
 sleeping-room. She finds an over-wrap — no more — such 
 a one as she would use against a shower; then taking off 
 some jewels, gifts of Sir Oliver's, leaves them lying by 
 her mirror, and turns to go. 
 
 In the lobby she is accosted by Mrs. Trant, from the 
 upper stairway : " Have you called, my lady ? '' 
 
 " I have not called. . . . Stop — go presently to Sir 
 Oliver; not yet — in a little while." She said no more, 
 but her pausing thus with a jerk seemed due, in all reason, 
 to the sudden flash of dazzling lightning that was keen to 
 search every corner of the house, and, by some mysterious 
 force none understands, jarred every window-frame in its 
 Betting. By its light each woman saw the other, the 
 vision of a moment. The one, on the stairway above, 
 respectful, with a snaky smile, and green eyes concealing 
 something — something with a satisfaction in it. The 
 other, an ashy white face most of all, and two white hands. 
 Else, a mass of rich black hair, all shaken loose, and a 
 hooded riding-cloak. But the swift, eager cunning of 
 Susan Trant sees that the fingers are all but ringless, and 
 that the rope of pearls she was at such pains to twine, 
 three hours since, is there no more. So back she goes to 
 her room, to think out the unfinished thought that this 
 suggests to her. 
 
 Lucinda, going, pauses an instant at the door of the 
 room where Oliver still lies, breathing heavily, still in 
 stupor. Then she opens it, and goes in. And is standing 
 there again, once more, beside the man she loved, and 
 hates. 
 
 Oh, the knife-edge in her heart, of Love and Hate at 
 war! Oh that she could, but just for once, strain an 
 enforcement of oblivion in her mind — thrust his crime 
 
252 AK AFFAIE OF DISHOl^OK 
 
 aside, and leave him what he was a few hours since — only 
 to kiss once more the face she loved! The last expiring 
 flicker of the last candle showed her the blood from his 
 mouth the fit had left. But it was not that she shrank 
 from as she stooped and kissed the stained lips. It was 
 the thought in her heart : " This that I kiss is my father's 
 murderer." Forgive her inconsistency, for she was sorely 
 tried! 
 
 The rain was holding off, strangely, after a sudden 
 shower of heavy drops, when she came to John Eack- 
 ham in the stable-yard. All moonlight had gone, and 
 his horn lanthorn was the only gleam through the 
 blackness. 
 
 " Who said to you you should saddle Sir Oliver's horse, 
 John Kackham ? " 
 
 " Who told me not to put his saddle on him, mistress ? 
 !N"one, to my knowledge! " 
 
 " I tell you then, now, to take it off again. For 
 I ride alone. And it is no concern of any but myself 
 what hour of the night I choose to ride, nor in what 
 weather." 
 
 Mr. Eackham grunted. ^^ Alone ! " said he. Then, 
 after nodding twice or thrice, at short intervals : " It's 
 not for my like to speak," said he. 
 
 Lucinda pressed her hand to her brow. " Stop ! " she 
 said. And then a minute after : " Mount and go with 
 me, to show the way." 
 
 " The way to where, my lady ? " 
 
 " The way to the ' Cobbler with Two Wives,' on the 
 London road." 
 
 Their horses' hoofs, going at speed, were well out of 
 hearing, and time had passed to boot. And whoever 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHOis^OR 253 
 
 heard the ominous sounds afar might have wondered at 
 the storm's delay. But, then, on a sudden came a swift 
 glare of lightning all across the sky, and close upon the 
 heels of it its thunder, climbing sound on sound, culmi- 
 nating in an intolerable peal. The storm had come. 
 
CHAPTEK XY 
 
 Consciousness came back slowly to Sir Oliver, but, 
 till he regained his lagging powers of thought, showed 
 him imperfectly what he was, or where. All the stress of 
 his convulsion had died away by the time Susan Trant, 
 leaving her room furtively, that she should not wake her 
 mother, and without a light — for that would have meant 
 the noise of a tinder-box — went shoeless down the garret- 
 stair, and opened the door she had listened at two hours 
 since. 
 
 What she had expected, that she found. Darkness, 
 and a heavy breathing somewhere in the room. Where 
 was he, the stricken man ? Wait for the next flash of the 
 half-spent storm to see. For the tempest has said its say, 
 and nears its end, and has left a tale for the hearing of 
 those who slept on, and heeded nothing of it. A tale for 
 those to tell who waked through the darkness, and stopped 
 their ears, and hid their eyes in terror. And a worse one 
 yet for those roused from sleep by some intruding 
 torrent; or, worst of all, to quench a fire kindled by some 
 thunderbolt. The storm is dying now, and the thunder 
 rolling happily away in other lands. 
 
 But a flash comes back and back, now and again. A 
 flash that says — remember! And a muttered confirma- 
 tion from a thunder-roll, that knows and could tell more. 
 Such a flash shows Susan where Sir Oliver lies, over by 
 the table yonder. And even in the instant of its passing 
 she can see there has been blood upon his mouth, and on 
 
 254 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 255 _ 
 
 his hand. It is the old storj. She has seen it before, 
 and knows that it will have its way, and end like the 
 storm. And in near the same time; for, sharp as this 
 storm has been, it has passed swiftly away, unlike that 
 great storm the story told of, two months since, at the 
 :^rew Hall. 
 
 Susan Trant waits on for one flash more to see if there 
 is any change; but none has shown itself. He lies stilly 
 breathing heavily. She can go, for a while certainly. 
 She makes her way to the bedroom, and stands by the 
 mirror, waiting for a lightning-flash to show her something 
 she expects to find. It comes, and she sees the brilliants 
 of the rings give back the light. She knows their story — 
 they will never be worn by Lucinda again. 
 
 One by one she takes them, and there in the darkness 
 can, by touch alone, fit each on its finger of her left hand. 
 How well she knows its likeness to Lucinda's! Theft is 
 not in her mind. She has some other object. 
 
 Surely jealousy is akin to madness. At least, its 
 freaks are unaccountable to reason. And never did a 
 jealous woman's exasperation conceive a stranger freak 
 than this one that now has possession of Susan Trant's 
 mind. To dupe an old lover back to the tenderness of 
 long-past years — to cheat him as it were of a caress in the 
 false semblance of the hated rival — that was her scheme. 
 Her cunning taught her that his half-wit state, following 
 on the fit, would play into her hands, and help the fraud. 
 A crazy plan to all seeming, and yet . . . was it quite 
 mad? — was it out of all nature? 
 
 Scarcely that; for, think of the story of her life. 
 Think how, twenty years since, it w^as all aglow with her 
 ill-fated passion for the fascinating young Squire. Think 
 of her discovery that his every word she hung upon, his 
 
256 AX AFEAIK OF DISH0:N^0K 
 
 every honeyed promise she put faith in, was just a lie, with 
 a motive. Think how it broke upon her slowly what it 
 all meant, as it does in such-like cases, and how she came 
 to find the meaning of the word love, used by one in 
 training for a man" of pleasure, a neophyte of one of the 
 worst powers of darkness. Think of the blank life meant 
 to her, when she had perforce to shield herself from the 
 malice of her little rustic world of gossipred behind a 
 marriage-shelter, with a heavy fool for an accomplice — 
 of the ferment of lies that rose as incense at the altar of a 
 blasphemous sacrament, and made it suffocation. And 
 think of all the years that had gone by since then, whose 
 only alleviation had been these visits of Sir Oliver's to 
 Kips Manor, with the poison in them that her sole share 
 of their advantages was the painful privilege of waiting 
 on the favourite of the time being — dressing her hair, 
 keeping her robes in order. How she hated them! — 
 poor girls, each to be flung away in her turn by the 
 gallant man of fashion! But she had hated none worse 
 than Lucinda. 
 
 It is nothing to the story or its purpose that Susan 
 may have counted her marriage-vows to Farmer Trant as 
 not binding in the case of a landlord — a man whose dis- 
 pleasure could send her husband packing off a farm his 
 sixth grandfather held near two hundred years ago. 
 But whatever her relations may have been with Oliver in 
 the first ten years of her married life, it was all over and 
 done with now. Cold indifference had congealed over a 
 passion that had never been Love at its best. 
 
 She knew now, more of her own innate cunning and 
 insight than from mere words heard, what Lucinda's last 
 interview with Oliver had led to, and she felt assured 
 that the insensible man's first dawn of reason would set 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOXOR 257 
 
 him to seek absolution for bis crime. Could she, in tbe 
 darkness tbere, so work pn bis obscured perceptions as 
 to seem Lucinda to him, if it were only for a few mo- 
 ments ? Often when a chance witness of endearments of 
 Sir Oliver^s — ^for he made no reserve in her presence — 
 she had said to herself, in bitterness of heart : " A caress 
 like that would have brought back me my youth, and made 
 a forgotten sun shine on my world again.'' 
 
 She crept to his side in the darkness, and got his 
 head in her lap, sitting on a stool that was at hand. As 
 she raised him he showed that he had become conscious, 
 though he lay half-helpless. He tried to speak once and 
 again before he succeeded in uttering the word he sought 
 for — " Li^cy — Lucy ! " 
 
 Susan Trant, as in response, bent over him and kissed 
 his face. There was no lack of tenderness in her kiss. 
 She could play that part; it had never been forgotten by 
 her. Nor were her lips so changed in a few years that 
 they should grate on a face to which they had once been 
 welcome, even though its sense had not been in abeyance. 
 
 One might have thought no woman could have felt it 
 gain thus to personate another, and drink, as it were, the 
 draught that he who poured it meant for that other's lips. 
 It only concerns the story to tell that in this case it 
 was otherwise, and that the draught she drank fraudu- 
 lently was a half-successful counterfeit of wine. How- 
 ever strange it may seem, it was to her, when the man's 
 returning consciousness sought and caressed her hand, 
 almost as though their hands still met, as of old, in youth. 
 It was her hour, and again and again, there in the black 
 darkness,- she bent over him ; again and again she kissed 
 his lips, his brows, his eyes. And, to her, the hand that 
 held and fondled what he took to be Lucinda's, was the 
 
258 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 voimg Squire's again, out of the past. It brought back 
 to her one evening twilight, at a harvesting, when the 
 village beauty had come at once to the knowledge of her 
 own folly, and her lover's treachery. 
 
 His speech was coming back now. What was he say- 
 ing ? ^^ No murderer, Lucy, no murderer ! Let them 
 say their worst — 'twas no murder! 'Twas on fair ground, 
 and neither faced the sun. No, no ! — no murder ! " 
 Then he paused a moment, and said, of a sudden : '^ But 
 you have forgiven me, Lucy mine ? " and kissed the fingers 
 with the rings upon them he knew so well. 
 
 Then, thinks Susan to herself, how should she find a 
 word she might safely utter ? A recollection came to her 
 — one of her mother, quite at a loss to tell whether it was 
 her daughter that had spoken, or her mistress. The 
 words she herself had then used, mocking Lucinda's, came 
 back to her. ^^ Surely, Oliver, surely ! " said she. But 
 her voice had in it a sadness, well feigned to fit the 
 occasion. 
 
 Thereupon Sir Oliver seemed to arouse himself from 
 his stupor, or else the effect of his fit was leaving him. 
 ^' What am I doing here upon the floor ? " said he. 
 ^* Strike a light, wench ! Call Trant, or some of them. 
 Have I slept ? What ? " 
 
 Now, Susan's mimicry of Lucinda's voice had been a 
 great success, but she knew she would not have such luck 
 again. Nevertheless, as she slipped away from Oliver's 
 side, making as though to call for a light to be struck, or 
 brought from the burning log in the kitchen, which was 
 rarely dead outright, she got courage to play the same 
 trick again, from a memory of how Lucinda had called 
 to her many a time. ^^ Trant — Trant ! " she cried, and 
 her mockery of Lucinda's voice was apt and clever, as 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHOXOR 259 
 
 before. '' Get us light. We are all in the dark here.'' 
 It might have been Lucy herself calling. Then she slips 
 away in the dark up the garret-stair to her room, where 
 the old woman still sleeps soundly, and is soon rid of 
 Lucinda's dress and the rings, and then turns to in her 
 night-gear with flint and steel and tinder, to get a light 
 for her taper. 
 
 Sir Oliver calls after the departing steps he thinks are 
 Lucy's : " Call the sleepy jade, Lucy mine ! Don't go. 
 Make the sluggard come." And then, staggering to his 
 feet in the dark, leans on the table, dizzy. He can hear 
 the flint and steel's sharp click in the garret, and a little 
 wonders not to hear Lucinda's voice. But she will come 
 back directly, so he thinks. Meanwhile, it is only by 
 the utter strangeness of all about him that he knows he 
 has had an epileptic attack. It has been so, thrice before, 
 and he has come to know what this thing means. But 
 he is clear enough about all that came before his 
 un consciousness. 
 
 He sees he is in luck. This woman is indeed entirely 
 his own. This was a lucky fit, that softened her heart 
 to him. Had it not been for her pity for his afiliction, 
 he might have had to wait for her words of pardon a 
 long time. He was the first man, surely, the falling sick- 
 ness ever wrought good for. Had it not been for that, 
 could she ever have cried back upon the tone of voice in 
 which she named him murderer? Could she ever have 
 spoken at all a heart-whole forgiveness such as the one 
 that sent rejoicing to his soul but now ? The fit has done 
 it, and he is in luck ! But why does she not come back ? 
 
 He is firmer on his legs, and feels his way to the door. 
 A flash of lightning afar spares light enough to give him 
 help to find it. He opens it, and listens for voices above. 
 
260 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 
 
 But there is no sound beyond the flint and steel — chip, 
 chip, chip, interminably. 
 
 It stops at last. J^ow she will come, surely ! 
 
 Yes — a step on the stairs, and a light. But why does 
 not that lazy woman come to carry it? However, she 
 has to get some clothes on her back, certainly. 
 
 Sir Oliver's eyesight is not at its best, and little wonder! 
 But there should go some reason to the very worst 
 vagaries of a stricken power of vision, falling sickness or 
 no! Was it reasonable that Lucinda, who went upstairs 
 but a moment since in silk brocade, should now seem 
 cjothed in some grey dingy wrapper — and barefoot too ! — 
 what did it all mean? He could see, by the flickering 
 taper's gleam below, the white feet on the stairway and 
 the skirt of grey homespun. But the face — the face — his 
 eyes were so eager for — was lost in the shadow of the free 
 hand held up to shield the light. The skirt and the feet 
 his mind accepted, or was too unhinged to question. But 
 that hand ! — how about the rings ? Was he not kissing it 
 a moment since, in the dark there — knowing them there, 
 and avoiding them with his lips ? 
 
 " Where is lazy Susan, Lucy mine ? " he asked, but 
 more because he longed to hear her voice again than from 
 any concern about Susan. 
 
 The wrong voice, in return, took him grievously aback. 
 " Is not my lady still with you. Sir Oliver ? She called 
 out to me but now to bring a light, and I would I could 
 have struck it quicker. But she is still below here, as I 
 think." 
 
 " She is not, I tell you, Mrs. Trant. I heard her foot- 
 step on the stair, mounting to your room. But now, I 
 tell you, but now — five minutes since — or scarcely ! " He 
 is all in a tremor as he speaks, while she remains still 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHOKOE 261 
 
 calm and respectful, lier common manner with him in 
 these later years, now that all familiarities are at an end 
 between them; not that this meant any amendment of 
 his life at heart, but solely came of inclination dead, and 
 other fruit to pluck elsewhere. 
 
 She is most collected now, certainly, and her respect 
 of manner seems to veil ridicule or commiseration, or both 
 •mixed. Why this excitement? — it seems to say. But 
 her words are, " All is well with my lady, Sir Oliver. Ko 
 -doubt she is out above, on the terrace, to see the lightning. 
 I had not heard her pass for the noise I made." 
 
 Yes — that would account for it, of course. Oliver per- 
 ceives that all these nervous fancies are due to his accursed 
 seizure. Else he would have seen this himself, at once. 
 Of course she has gone out on the roof, there where they 
 saw the sea-battle together. She knew the lighting of a 
 candle was no matter of an instant. 
 
 He passes by Susan Trant, and goes after her, as he 
 thinks, up the stair. Susan's face has no need to conceal 
 her malicious joy, now his back is turned. She is in a 
 strange mood, of love and hatred mixed. But, indeed, 
 she has never known whether she most hated or loved 
 this man, since the hour of his treason. Even as she sat 
 beside him, his head in her lap, rejoicing at her trespass 
 on Lucinda's field, the question half rose in her heart, 
 "Why not a knife?" 
 
 And so she waits at the stairfoot, to hear what will be 
 the outcome. Her hair is rich, falling now in a tangle 
 about her shoulders, and fluctuating on her bosom in the 
 unsteady candle-light. In the daytime, close-braided and 
 bidden by a coif, it only half tells what the village beauty 
 was in those old days. Now its rich confusion makes a 
 setting to the unfaltering gleam of those eyes, steely- 
 
2G2 AjS^ affair OF DISHONOR 
 
 cruel with a blueness that is almost green, to the lips 
 that patiently await a smile of pleasure at a coming 
 sound. 
 
 It comes with an exclamation from above, which may 
 be, not unlikely, a curse for herself for her misleading in- 
 formation. Then Sir Oliver is back again, seeing only 
 that she has been mistaken in her hearing, not for one 
 moment suspecting Lucinda's absence from the house. He 
 is unsteady in his walk, and wrathful in his speech. 
 
 " Fool of a woman," says he, " to send me such a goose- 
 chase ! Your mistress is below. Come you and bring the 
 light." For where else can Lucinda be, since her voice 
 has been heard outside the room she was in last? Sir 
 Oliver swings angrily down the wide stair, reeling more 
 than once, and makes for the kitchen. The thought in 
 his mind is that Lucinda, impatient of the wearisome 
 operation of the tinder-box, has run for a light to the 
 kitchen-fire, and will be found kindling a flame with the 
 bellows from the smouldering log on the hearth. Yet 
 wdien he enters the kitchen, expecting to hear the flap of 
 the bellows — before Mrs. Trant, who is behind him, can 
 show the light — there is no sound, and the taper's light 
 flickers on an empty room. But so confident has he been, 
 that he speaks into the darkness as he pushes the door 
 open : " Why, my girl ! — What, Lucy ! — What, all in the 
 dark ? . . . " and then stops suddenly, with, " What has 
 got the wench? Where can she be?" He shuts his lips 
 determinedly on his resolve to find her, and, taking the 
 candle from Mrs. Trant, goes quickly, becoming steadier 
 as he walks, to each unvisited room of the house in turn. 
 When he has entered the last one in vain — it was the great 
 untenanted ballroom where Susan Trant had bewitched 
 John Rackham — he turns to the woman who has followed 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 263 
 
 him and says — this time with more of terror than anger in 
 speech half-articulate from the injury to his mouth — 
 ^' Where can she be ? '^ With the constant disappoint- 
 ment of each time not finding her, the longing grows and 
 grows of once more holding the hand, once more touching 
 the lips he thinks he has not lost, once more hearing their 
 words of forgiveness of his sin. For it was no murder. 
 Lucinda now feels, believes, knows, that it was no 
 murder. 
 
 '^My lady has never gone to the stables. 'Tis the one 
 place left now." 
 
 " You are a fool, Susan Trant ! '' was all Oliver had to 
 say to this. But he paused for thought a moment, and 
 at the end of it was minded to think his speech was rash. 
 For the tale of John Rackham, which his fit had beaten 
 aside for a while, came back to him now. How if Lucinda 
 had heard the groom moving about — for he would often 
 rise in the night, perhaps thinking to surprise some witch 
 tampering with the horses — and had purposed to get from 
 him some further light on the duel story? It was more 
 than probable. Yes! that was the solution of the 
 mystery. His heart had become quite light over it. 
 ^^ Xo — for once you are no fool," said he. '^ That is where 
 she is — the stables — the stables ! " And it seemed all the 
 more likely when he reached the side-door of the house 
 that led out to the stable-yard, seeing it had been left 
 open. For, indeed, that was the door Lucinda had opened 
 from within, over two hours since. 
 
 The storm had passed, and left a sky rainless but dark, 
 with promise of the moon's return from a silver gleam 
 upon the sea, when Oliver went shouting out into the night 
 to find the woman he sought, more sure than ever this 
 time that he had run his quarry home. " Lucinda, Lu- 
 
264 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 cinda ! Where art thou in hiding ? My dear — my love !— ^ 
 what's all the tale about? John Eackham, you drunken 
 knave, come out — where are you ? — come out ! " 
 
 But for all that he shouted, there came no answer. 
 Then was his moment of bewilderment, and it stunned 
 him. For till then there had been at each disappoint- 
 ment a resource to turn to for succour. He gasped once 
 and again as though he would have spoken, then went 
 quickly to the stable, calling to Susan Trant to bring 
 the light, which she did, shielding it carefully from the 
 wind. He had barely time to make sure that the stable 
 was empty of all but one horse, and to see that it was the 
 groom's horse, not his own, when a gust of wind blew out 
 the light. MrSi Trant said, as though no perplexity were 
 afoot, " Never mind ! — I left another lighted within '' ; 
 but a shade more of perturbation would have been better 
 policy. For Oliver turned to her furiously, crying out, 
 "You jade, you know more of this than you tell of!" 
 And then ran away, shouting, " Lucinda, Lucinda, where 
 are you?" So he went through the house again, from 
 room to room, and then she heard him so calling, along 
 the house-front and to the paved yard where the dogs 
 ran out to meet him, barking, and then round the back of 
 the house and farther afield, like a madman, still calling, 
 "Lucinda — Lucinda — where are you?" 
 
 But she, laughing to herself, went back the way she 
 came, and found her mother just awakened, and asking 
 who was calling without so loudly, and what had taken her 
 from her bed to be thus about the house without a light. 
 For she had slept through the lighting of the tinder, to 
 be awakened by the sound of Oliver's voice at last. Thus 
 it is with many deaf persons, who will sleep through the 
 firing of guns, to wake at a word from human lips. 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 265 - 
 
 Surely few men, and fewer women, if any at all, have 
 ever ridden through such weather as Lucinda faced in her 
 madness that night. The groom followed her persist- 
 ently, thinking at the outset that she would be glad to 
 turn back of her own accord, at the first heavy torrent of 
 rain. But, as it chanced, this lagged behind the first 
 outburst of the storm in lightning and thunder; and they 
 had ridden over a mile, at speed, before it came. Then 
 Rackham tried persuasion. Would not his mistress, if 
 she would not turn back, at least consent to shelter 
 awhile ? He knew a shelter hard by, no great distance off 
 their path, if she would but take it now. Another ^ve or 
 ten minutes, at a like speed, and there would be no refuge 
 of any sort all through a five-mile ride over a bare hill- 
 side, till they should reach the London Road. But he got 
 no answer but a laugh, and, ^^ See you lose not the way, 
 John Rackham! " 
 
 It was none of his doing that he parted with my lady — 
 this was his tale afterwards to Sir Oliver — at the Cobbler 
 with Two Wives. My lady would have her will, and her 
 will was that Sim Trusslove should saddle and ride with 
 her as far as Bury, and she would give him a guinea for 
 his pains, for bringing of him out on such a rough night. 
 And what could he, Rackham, do upon that, with my 
 lady's turn of speech with Sim, and a guinea to back her 
 bidding? Moreover, my lady had said to him that he 
 must hasten back to give help to his master, seeing that 
 Sir Oliver had fallen in another attack of his malady, and 
 would want him to be beside him as before. But Rack- 
 ham said never a word — ^trust him! — of the threat that 
 had brought him to accompany her ladyship in the first 
 instance. 
 
 He told his story honestly enough, this one suppreS' 
 
2GG a:n^ affaie of dishonor 
 
 sion apart. Perhaps he was none the less accurate, that, 
 as he told it, Susan Trant's eye was upon him, and he 
 was now afraid of her at every turn. Each was giving a 
 version of the events of that night, near upon thirty-six 
 hours later^ when Sir Oliver, whose revival of any coherent 
 consciousness or power of judgment was even then a 
 recent matter, broke out angrily, saying : " An end of 
 these lies ! Tell me when my lady rode from this house — 
 how long after midnight ? " 
 
 " It w^as on the stroke of twelve I loosed the dogs for 
 the night. My lady bade me saddle up the colt within 
 a quarter of an hour. . . . When did we ride away? 
 Another quarter — or it might be less. How else had I 
 been back before daylight 1 '' 
 
 But both bis hearers cried out together against this; 
 saying, how, then, could the Lady Lucinda have called 
 for a light at near three in the morning, seeing by that 
 time, if Rackham's tale were true, she must have been 
 well on her way to Bury, with young Sim Trusslove for 
 escort, while Master Backham himself would have started 
 to return to Kips Manor; where, indeed, he had arrived 
 about five in the morning, to find Sir Oliver still rushing 
 about as one mad, and seeking to find in his bewilder- 
 ment some trace of Lucinda ? For had he not heard her 
 voice, felt her touch, so short a time before the two of 
 them had found the stable empty? 
 
 l^ow, had Mrs. Trant not ventured on that simulation 
 of Lucinda's voice, calling for a light, and then made 
 claim that she herself had heard this voice, she might 
 have laid the whole strange, inexplicable business at the 
 door of Sir Oliver's aberration of mind, following on his 
 seizure. For was any man so stricken to be held re- 
 sponsible for all he might fancy on recovery? In fact, 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOXOK 267 
 
 when he spoke first before Rackham of Lucinda's presence 
 with him at so late an hour, Susan Trant had rashly 
 hinted that the whole thing was but the illusion of a 
 dream, bred of the very malady itself. On which Oliver 
 had turned upon her sharply, saying : " Was it a dream, 
 too, that you heard her call for the light ? " To which 
 she, being taken aback — for she had forgotten her own 
 words — could say nothing, and could only confess to a 
 complete bewilderment. 
 
 So, seeing that the groom held firmly to his tale, and 
 that his own conviction of Lucinda's presence beside him 
 when his fit passed off was too deep-rooted to be shaken, 
 Sir Oliver was near to distraction from perplexity and 
 feverish effort to get behind the facts and find their 
 explanation. He got no nearer by any pressing of the 
 groom and the tirewoman to vary in their story; and as 
 for old Hatsell, she either could or would say nothing 
 further than that she had heard horses below late over- 
 night. Sir Oliver, therefore, after over an hour of use- 
 less endeavour for enlightenment cut the interview 
 short, and bade them all begone about their business, 
 for that there was never a word of truth in the tale of 
 any one of them. 
 
 But then, as Mrs. Trant and Rackham are waiting only 
 to be out of his hearing to embark on mutual accusations 
 of falsehoods — he in good faith, she in bad, for she knows 
 his story true — comes Sir Oliver's voice, calling after 
 Rackham : " Come back here, you, John. I have some- 
 thing yet to say to you.'' Whereupon the groom goes 
 back, not over-willingly. 
 
 ^^ What's all the tale of a witch-trick this woman has 
 played upon you, John Rackham ? " 
 
 "Upon me?" 
 
268 AX AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 " Upon you ! Speak up and make no concealments with, 
 me, man ! You had best not, for her sake and yours." 
 
 Whereupon Rackham, after saying sullenly, '^ Suppose 
 I tell you the truth on't, master ! " and getting for reply 
 a curt " Suppose you do ! " goes on to give such an account 
 as he may — for his brain is in much confusion over the 
 whole story — of his first obsession or bewitchment by 
 the woman Tratit, and what came of it; always putting 
 the blame at her door, and also laying claim to having 
 kept back much of the tale of the duel, when compelled 
 to tell it to Lucinda. That Trant was a witch, and in 
 league with the Evil One, he was convinced — who could 
 doubt it ? For his part, he should always say Mrs. Trant 
 had a hand in Sir Oliver's own disorder. The reason of 
 his resentment against her, of course, was that it was 
 through her agency that he had become involved with 
 Sir Oliver, owing to his disclosure of the duel, which 
 might else have remained for long unknown to his mis- 
 tress. Otherwise he had till now been on reasonably good 
 terms with her. " But," said Oliver, " how the Devil 
 could she make such a fool of you ? That's what I want 
 to know," Rackham confirmed and enlarged his story, 
 adding: "Maybe you've seen a gamecock hold his bill 
 to a barn-floor, for naught but a chalk line dow^n the 
 middle of it ? " Oliver answered : " Ay, once and again ! 
 What of that?" "There be the trick on't, Master 
 Oliver," said Rackham. " Just that, and no witchcraft — 
 that's her tale. But I count her a liar." 
 
 Sir Oliver kept silence as to his own belief or disbelief 
 in the woman's alleged league with Satan, but his looks 
 were black enough to warrant Rackham's speech to her 
 when they next met. " I would make peace with the 
 master, if I were in your place, Mistress Sukey, for fear 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 269 
 
 of worse/' To which she said not a word, but the groom 
 had an impression that she laughed behind her breath. 
 And this impression grew upon him in her absence, so 
 soon as he had had time to forget that she had not really 
 laughed aloud. 
 
 In the evening that followed he overheard somewhat 
 of a stormy interview between Mrs. Trant and Sir Oliver, 
 which he, for his part, ascribed at first entirely to his 
 master's anger at her share in his own revelation about 
 the duel, whether it were connected with witchcraft or 
 a mere freak in the natural law. But it reached his slow 
 intelligence as a strange and noticeable thing that 
 Susan Trant's voice should show so wild and passionate 
 a tone, rising strenuously above Sir Oliver's and, as it 
 were, silencing it. And, strangest of all, that she should 
 address him by a name she never used in the hearing of 
 the household. " Squire Ray don " was quite unwonted. 
 Rackham heard enough to concoct in his own mind a 
 story near the truth, but not all the truth. However, he 
 went very close to assigning the true relations of Mrs. 
 Trant and Sir Oliver, honouring them with a grin and a 
 dismissal, as too slight and usual a matter to need 
 notice. 
 
 For the truth is that Oliver, after a day spent in help- 
 less chafing or mere morose silence, pacing to and fro 
 within the house, or wandering aimlessly along the shore 
 in the sea-wind, had given way to his anger against this 
 woman — an anger that had grown with the return of 
 vigour of mind and body as the effects of his seizure 
 passed away. It had always been thus with him in the 
 like case ; and when, after going through the form of being 
 served with a dinner he scarcely touched, he broke out 
 in bitter accusation and reproach against Mrs. Trant, she 
 
270 AI^ AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 was not surprised one whit, and turned upon him in her 
 defence as one ready armed at all points. 
 
 ^^ How was I to know the drunken knave's tale was a 
 true one? It was none of my choosing which of your 
 villainies he should blab upon. For a villain you are, 
 Squire Raydon, and who should know it better than I? 
 Who could have said 'twas any malice of mine — ^the sim- 
 ple question, what was the true name of your last victim ? 
 Who could have guessed there was murder behind the 
 story of it? Yes, murder! . . , Yes, I tell you — 
 murder!'' . . . 
 
 '^ You lie, Susan Trant ; before God, you lie ! It was 
 no murder. It was as fair a duello as ever men fought 
 yet And the challenge was his, you jade, the challenge 
 was his ! " . . . 
 
 The woman cut his speech across, with swift detection 
 of its falsehood. " What choice did you give him but to 
 send it? Answer me that! Would you have had him 
 submit to his daughter's dishonor, and his own? — say 
 never a word ? — raise never a finger ? " . . . 
 
 " The girl was old enough to know." . . . Sir Oliver, 
 speaking thus, sullen and scowling, but livid of lip and 
 bloodshot of eye, cut but a sorry figure, for all his beauty, 
 as he winced before Mrs. Susan, who seemed to have cast 
 aside her self of yesterday, so changed was she from the 
 decorous tirewoman Lucinda knew. It may be that, 
 though the story has not seen her so, she would have 
 this seeming more or less whenever none other was by to 
 guess from it her old relations with Oliver. 
 
 At his speech she let fall the last reserve between 
 them, as of master and servant, breaking into a long, 
 mocking laugh, and crying out : " Old enough to know ! 
 What girl is ever old enough to know, till no gain comes 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOIS^OR 271 
 
 of knowledge? Where would you look for your harvest, 
 Squire Raydon — ^you and your like — if little wenches 
 could be wise in season ? Old enough to know ! They'll 
 never be a penny the wiser, poor souls, for anything they; 
 will ever be learned by folk who want them to be ignorant, 
 for to keep the world a merry world, to their liking. Old 
 enough to know, forsooth ! " 
 
 ^^ Fool of a woman! '^ said Sir Oliver. " She was at 
 least old enough to know Lady Raydon was living. All 
 the countryside knows that." 
 
 Mrs. Trant had a sharp answer ready, and was not the 
 least afraid to utter it "Ay, truly, she might have 
 known you for the scoundrel you are, Squire Raydon. 
 A girl is told not to love another girFs husband — ^they 
 are let know that much. Rut they never know the right 
 of things, any more than I did.'' And she busied herself, 
 immovably, over matters of the table, while Oliver still 
 sat where he had eaten, his chair pushed back, a restless, 
 tremulous hand wandering over a chin two days un- 
 shaved, or through the rich locks Lucinda once loved, 
 always glowering askant at the seeming unconcerned 
 woman. For he was afraid of her, for all his bluster, 
 and was half ready to suspect that his delusion of 
 Lucinda's presence, when he revived from his stupor, 
 was but another sample of Susan Trant's witchcraft. But 
 he did not indulge this suspicion much; the vividness of 
 the impression had taken too strong a hold. Besides, 
 Mrs. Trant had heard Lucinda's voice calling her, or 
 said she had. 
 
 It was curious that he should accept her word on this 
 point; it was such an easy thing to say! But she had 
 overplayed her part, and it was ill for her that she did 
 so. For all Oliver's bitterness of feeling turned towards 
 
272 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 her, and became a congenial resource to countervail his 
 love for Lucinda — a love of a new sort that his evil soul 
 was in revolt against — a love that might have purged 
 that soul of its grossness, if he had not dashed from his 
 lips, half-tasted, the cup of his purification, suspecting 
 it was not unholy. And he formed in his secret heart a 
 plan of revenge. Susan Trant was a witch, and should 
 pay for it. 
 
 Therefore, when, on the following day, having by then 
 had time to recruit his shaken health, and to resolve 
 upon a course of action, he rode away with John Rackham 
 to retrace his journey to the New Hall, from which he 
 had now been absent eight weeks, his first halt was at 
 Bury, the assizes town; his intent being to lay an in- 
 formation for witchcraft against Susan Trant, knowing 
 well that such information, coming from one who had 
 formerly been her protection against a like accusation, 
 would have such force that a warrant would at once 
 issue, and that Mistress Trant would be clever indeed in 
 her defence if she contrived to escape burning at the 
 stake. For in those days the readiness of persons in 
 authority to lend an ear to accusations of witchcraft was 
 so great that, of those against whom they were brought, 
 few if any escaped; the innocent being confounded with 
 the guilty, and all being subjected to torture to procure 
 evidence against themselves from their own mouths. 
 Well might Sir Oliver feel confident that John Rack- 
 ham's deposition, which he made somewhat grudgingly 
 before the local magistrate — giving, however, in the end 
 the whole account of Mrs. Trant's evil practices at his 
 expense, and stating, although he referred fairly enough 
 to the gamecock explanation, that on the occasion of his 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 273 
 
 story to Lucinda he had himself seen more than one 
 familiar imp or spirit attendant on her — would be almost 
 enough by itself to convict; but that, backed by his own 
 evidence of what he had heard from Lucinda, and his 
 attributing his own malady to Susan's enchantments, no 
 defence would have a chance. So that, after both their 
 depositions had been duly entered and formally sworn 
 to. Sir Oliver rode on his way rejoicing as at a good deed 
 done, a public duty performed. For, believing as he did 
 that Susan Trant was certainly in league with evil pow- 
 ers, his conscience was quite at ease. Truly his anger 
 against the woman may have set the door of his mind 
 ajar to this belief; but, once it was well established, his 
 conscience jumped at it as an easement. For this Oliver 
 could be a hypocrite in his own behalf on occasion shown. 
 
CHAPTEE XVI 
 
 There is a room in Croxlej Hall known to this day as 
 " Sir Oliver's room/' and to this day none knows why 
 it is so called. Ask the man who has grown old there as 
 caretaker, or his old wife, why it is called Sir Oliver's, 
 more than any other, and neither will be able to reply. 
 But the reader of this narrative may guess, as its writer 
 has done, that this room, looking out across the lawn 
 "where that first epileptic seizure came about, got its name 
 from the fact, that on his return from Kips Manor, it 
 was the room its owner dwelt in throughout the day, not 
 allowing the shutters of any other room to be opened, 
 all having been closed during his absence. Such trifles 
 often print themselves on tradition; while things of note 
 pass from the memories of living men, even those that 
 have touched them nearly. 
 
 For Oliver, having ridden almost day and night since 
 he started — for his epilepsy never seemed to eat away 
 his physical vigour, only a day or two being necessary 
 for its complete reinstatement — arrived towards night- 
 fall, to find the house to all appearance deserted. Failing 
 to make his summons heard at the front door, he turned 
 to the entrance of the stables, with no better luck. For 
 his furious pulls at the swinging handle of the gate-bell 
 met with no response. He could hear the movement of 
 horses in the stable, and the dogs within barked furiously 
 in answer to each fresh jangle of the bell. Thereupon he 
 himself swore furiously back at them, but to no good 
 
 274 
 
AN AYFAIR OF DISHONOR 275 
 
 end. And, indeed, they were but doing the duty they 
 were placed there to do. 
 
 But no man lives in a house from his boyhood that 
 keeps not some secret corner in his mind that he can 
 enter by, on a pinch, though every bolt and bar that 
 others know be closed against him. John Rackham 
 could get in, he would wager, round by the l^un's 
 Postern, if he had not gone too full in the girth since he 
 was a lad of sixteen, four-and-forty years agone. And 
 he got into the house somehow, Oliver knew not how; 
 for he waited for him at the front-door, chafing, and now 
 and then breaking roundly into execrations, till he heard 
 bolt and bar shot back within; and then the great door 
 stood wide, and the dark and silent house was open to 
 him; with John Rackham, somewhat frayed as to gar- 
 ments by his burglarious entry, but otherwise unmoved, 
 the only soul to be seen. Then the two of them went 
 about in the basement, and presently found old Mrs. 
 Langdon, the housekeeper, who had been left in charge, 
 sound asleep in her room, and, as it were, torpid with 
 overmuch good living and too scant employment. Who, 
 when fully aroused, was in great amazement at the 
 sudden home-coming of the master. Why had he not 
 sent on a messenger beforehand, that she might have 
 known, to have all in readiness for him; and her niece 
 back from the village, and Rachel Anstiss to wait upon 
 my lady, and sundry others who had gone elsewhere 
 for the time, with or without preconcert and leave given 
 by the employer? But she would soon have the house 
 in some order now, so soon as ever her son should return. 
 This was the young undergroom who had ridden back 
 from Kips Manor with two pack-horses, near two 
 months since. She was voluble, and made as though to 
 
276 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 
 
 go and find her mistress, whom she took to be awaiting 
 Sir Oliver in the entry, or elsewhere. 
 
 But Sir Oliver would have none of that, saying the 
 Lady Lucinda was not come, and would not come yet 
 awhile. And till she came, not a shutter of the whole 
 house would he have opened, and it would be the worse 
 for whomsoever should open one contrary to his bidding. 
 All but his own sleeping-room, and the little room named 
 the Russet Room, where he would live and have his 
 meals till the coming of the Lady Lucinda, which would 
 not be long. Of whose return in the end he spoke with 
 a confidence for which he had, as the story knows, no 
 warranty. But it imposed on the household and perhaps 
 on Oliver himself, and enabled him to make some parade 
 of the temporary nature of his arrangement, that he took 
 this Russet Room for his living-room, and would have no 
 other. There for some while he passed his days in gloomy, 
 solitude, seldom leaving the house till after nightfall, and 
 charging those of the household who returned to his 
 service to keep silence about his home-coming, and deny 
 him to all who came to seek him. And so the days passed 
 for him, brooding constantly over his separation from 
 Lucinda, angrily resenting the domination of this new 
 power that forbade him laugh at this miscarriage of his 
 connection with one mistress, and go afield to seek new 
 pleasures and find forgetfulness. Why should he not 
 make light of it, and brush Lucinda aside, as he had 
 found it so easy to do before, with such a many ? 
 
 He could not. He could not even resolve to return 
 to the centres of gaiety and gallantry — to the vortex 
 of profligacy that circled round the throne of a witty and 
 worthless monarch; witty and worthless albeit lovable — 
 none denied that. He wavered continually betwixt re- 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHO^s^OE 277 = 
 
 solves to leave Croxley Hall forthwith for London, and 
 counter-resolves to wait on vaguely in a groundless hope 
 that the woman he had lost through his own folly would 
 come back to him of her own accord. He could not bring 
 himself to believe that this strange yearning for her, a 
 longing he had never felt the like of before, could exist 
 without some corresponding feeling in her own heart. 
 And all the while he was angry with this usurpation of 
 his rights over himself, which had come upon him in his 
 own despite, and dictated loss of precious hours he might 
 have spent in pleasure. 
 
 He could and did learn, without direct inquiry, that 
 Lucinda was again at the Old Hall, with her brother. 
 John E-ackham could tell him this much, from gossip 
 overheard. In a few days, too, came Rachel Anstiss, 
 confirming this. Hearing that Lucinda was again at the 
 Old Hall, she had applied there to know if her services 
 would be required, and had met with no encouragement, 
 though scarcely with a rebuff. She had then come on to 
 the New Hall, hoping for better fortune by an application 
 to Sir Oliver, and was not disappointed. 
 
 " It may be a little time," he said, " before my lady 
 returns. Doubtless she is well provided for the time 
 being, but when she comes back she will need a tire- 
 woman, and will scarcely make a new arrangement with- 
 out my consent, however confident she may be of it in 
 the end." Now, in saying this much, Oliver outwent the 
 familiarity he would have shown to a mere domestic 
 under other circumstances, for the pleasure his o^vn voice 
 gave him in taking Lucinda's return for granted. And 
 Rachel, a liar herself, could accept what she knew to be 
 a lie as true, and did it so deftly that it deceived Sir 
 Oliver; and thereon he was mightily well pleased with 
 
278 AN AFFAIR OF DISHOIS^OR 
 
 himself, and almost believed for the moment that Lucinda 
 would come. But Rachel, going away to the kitchen, 
 said : " My lady This, and my lady That, forsooth ! This 
 one comes not back; — who will be the next one? ... 
 How come I to know she comes not back? Why — by 
 the master's word his heart spoke, whatever way his 
 tongue wagged. Any cradle-babe could speak to that." 
 
 But she brought from the Old Hall other gossip, and it 
 reached Oliver. Some three weeks agone all the house- 
 hold had been roused from sleep by a piercing cry of a 
 horsewoman who rode apace into the forecourt, about 
 three in the morning, and the new Squire was barely in 
 time to catch his sister, Mistress Lucy, as she fell forward ; 
 having dismounted and made shift to keep afoot till he 
 could come, he having called to her from his window 
 above to be of good heart but for a moment, and he would 
 be with her. And how he bore her in and she lay to all 
 seeming dead with the great stress of her fatigue. For 
 she had ridden hard three days, with barely food or sleep' 
 enough to keep life in her, dismissing her last guide or 
 escort as soon as she came to familiar ground; when, her 
 own horse having broken down, she exchanged it for his, 
 telling him to lead it to a village at hand, and say to the 
 host of the Three Sheaves that it was Lucy Mauleverer's ; 
 who upon that would give him shelter and his keep till 
 she could return his own horse to him. Further, Oliver 
 could gather that Lucinda was for many days insensible 
 or delirious, and at first Vincent, her brother, was in 
 despair of her recovery, fearing that, if she lived, she 
 would at the least lose her reason. But that by now she 
 was recovered so far as to leave her room, and even ta 
 take some part in what there was of life at the Old Hall, 
 though speaking little, and very pale and still, so that 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 279 
 
 slie scarcely seemed herself to many who knew her well 
 a year since. 
 
 All this, as Oliver heard it piecemeal, gave him a true 
 enough image of the state of things at the Old Hall; but 
 for many days after his arrival no news of it reached 
 Lucinda and Vincent, who was now fully recognised and 
 installed as his father's heir and representative, though in 
 bitter grief for his father's death, and living in retirement, 
 mixing no more with his neighbours and such local matters 
 as called for him than was an obligation of duty and 
 courtesy. That the fatal ending of the duel should be 
 generally accepted by aU who had concern in the affairs 
 of the family was but a part of the wild and disordered 
 time. When it is considered that at the date of this 
 story but four years had passed since a Parliament was 
 dispersed at the point of the bayonet, and that boys not 
 come of age might still remember a scaffold in Whitehall 
 dripping with the blood of a beheaded Monarch, while the 
 memory of a devastating Civil War was still fresh in the 
 minds of all men, this seeming apathy of judicial power 
 in the case of one fatal duel seems not to call for special 
 explanation. And the less so, that the right of Law to 
 interpose upon the ordeal of battle was then looked upon 
 with jealousy, so long as all due observance of chivalrous 
 rule was shown; and indeed this jealousy is by no means 
 dead in our own time. Add to this, that this feeling ran 
 strongest in the very class to which Ralph Mauleverer 
 belonged, the class proudest of its ancestry, even vain- 
 glorious of its deeds of blood so long as Honour was 
 unstained. When the Deputy Sheriff, who was a Round- 
 head, made some show of a move toward calling Sir 
 Oliver Raydon the Royalist to account, he met with no 
 sympathy from the friends of Squire Mauleverer, all 
 
280 AN AFFAIE OF DISHON^OR 
 
 Royalist also to the backbone. Even the slain man's 
 second, though he more than suspected that when the 
 fatal thrust was given old Ralph was hampered by a 
 wound that should have parted the combatants, would 
 lend no help to a canting, psalm-singing accomplice in the 
 murder of his King. So the matter dropped, and bid fair 
 to be forgotten. But when Vincent reappeared from 
 Virginia, there were those who looked to hear more of it 
 as soon as Sir Oliver should be forthcoming to answer a 
 challenge. 
 
 But no news of Sir Oliver's return to Croxley Thorpe 
 reached the Old Hall till many days later. For of all per- 
 versities, the worst is that of Rumour, who will often keep 
 silence against all reason on matters close at hand, even 
 while she tells of things afar almost before they come to 
 pass. The news came in the end. Heaven knows how; 
 and when Vincent told his sister of it he had no better 
 answer ready to her inquiry, how was this thing known, 
 than that there seemed to be no doubt of the fact. But 
 the question was soon set at rest, for Rachel Anstiss came 
 again to the Old Hall — she being near of kin to the lodge- 
 keeper — telling how she had taken service again with Sir 
 Oliver, and talking always as though Lucinda's return 
 was held certain at Croxley. But she got no speech of 
 Lucinda, though it may easily be she had received instruc- 
 tions from her master to bring back all the news she could 
 glean of her mistress's health and future plans, for all 
 that she made no claim to be the bearer of any message. 
 
 Thus it came about that same evening that Vincent and 
 his sister, being alone together in the twilight, and no 
 lights as yet in the great drawing-room, he spoke again to 
 her of this arrival of her lover as a certainty, and of the 
 reason he came to know it. But, as though he would not 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOKOE 281 
 
 peer into her mind on the hearing of it, he never looked 
 round from the window recess, where he stood watching 
 out the last embers of a stormy sunset. Yet he need not 
 have been so nice, for Lucinda never changed colour nor 
 lost self-command, sitting always at the clavichord in 
 the "half -light, touching it now and again as the fancy took 
 her. Presently she spoke, never faltering at all, but as 
 one at ease. 
 
 " You saw the woman, Yincey ? The woman Anstiss, 
 I mean?" 
 
 Then, hearing a voice so well in control, Yincent left the 
 window and sat by the harpsichord. " I saw her and 
 talked with her," said he. " She is again in service 
 with — ^with hi7n; in some false hope, as I gather, of your 
 return." 
 
 " You told her ? " She paused on a chord, having 
 touched one lightly. 
 
 " Oh yes — made it quite clear." 
 
 " She knows the story ? " 
 
 " Darling girl ! — all folk know the story, or know one 
 half of it and guess the other. But she seems to have 
 helped this false hope by what I suppose to be a mis- 
 taken interpretation of something she has noticed — in 
 
 " Of something she has noticed ? . . . " She paused 
 inquiringly^ but struck the chord her fingers had waited 
 for, gently. 
 
 " Yes. But I only half like talking of it, dear 
 child. ..." 
 
 ^^ I do not mind it. Tell me ! " And again she struck 
 the harpsichord. 
 
 " Anstiss imagines that . . . that he is brooding over 
 your absence, and himself believes you will return. She 
 
282 AN AFFAIK OF DISHO^s^OR 
 
 describes him as either walking purposelessly to and fro 
 on the terrace, or dwelling on certain letters, which she is 
 confident are in your writing; and though she cannot 
 read, or but a little, she would be quick to identify it — all 
 the quicker, perhaps, that she sees not the many hand- 
 writings there be that are like it. . . . What I mean — 
 what I should say — is, she would think it yours the 
 quicker from little note taken of others like it. . . . O 
 Lucy! — what? ..." For her hands had fallen from 
 the keys, making a discord, and he could see from the rise 
 and fall of her bosom that her tranquillity had broken 
 down at the hearing of something he had said. 
 
 " Oh, Vincey, darling boy, do you not see ? It is his 
 love — his love that breaks my heart 1 '' And then she 
 started from her seat; and, as he rose, fell into his 
 arms weeping bitterly. And then Vincent saw there 
 was a thing he had not understood — a thing it is not 
 given to many men to understand at all; a something 
 of the nature of a woman's love. For he had thought 
 that it would die outright in her heart, this love for a man 
 who had slain a father such as theirs. Could he have 
 found it in him to speak the words, he would have be- 
 sought his sister to crush out all that was left of her love 
 for a murderer, and help him to his retribution. But he 
 could not draw his sword against him with that cry in 
 his ears from a sister's heart, telling of a love that refused 
 to die. And he knew it, even while the ring of Oliver's 
 steel upon his own would have been the sweetest sound 
 his ears could hear. And what had his compact with 
 Oliver been? True, Lucinda had thrust him from her — 
 had left him for good and all. But how act on the mere 
 letter of their parting only while the spirit of Lucinda'a 
 love remained? So he said nothing for a while, only 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 283 
 
 giving such consolation as he might, which was but little; 
 and yet something, for she loved this brother dearly. 
 
 Then, when she was calmer, he spoke, referring again 
 to these letters Anstiss spoke of. " Had you written him 
 a many letters, little Lucy ? " said he. 
 
 " Not such a many ! '^ she replied, but not at once. And 
 then she made a kind of little undersound with closed 
 lips, as of consideration, and said further: "No such 
 number as one might have thought, seeing all things. 
 Nor long ones, neither, for that matter." 
 
 " But thou hast written him long letters, Lucy mine ? " 
 
 " What is a long letter, Vincey darling ? One wrote o' 
 both sides?" 
 
 " Indeed, a good penman might call that but a short 
 letter at best. Three pages o' both sides, little girl! 
 That's a long letter ! " 
 
 Lucinda's head was lying on her brother's shoulder 
 with eyes closed, as with fatigue of grief, as she answered 
 languidly : " I never wrote so long a letter to him, . . . 
 .What, Vincey?" 
 
 "Why what, darling?" 
 
 " Because you gave such a jump." For Vincent had 
 started, for a reason we shall see. But he made light of 
 it then, saying a great fly had struck his eye. Also the 
 hoofs of a horse rang on the stones of the forecourt. It 
 was Roger Locke, the foster-brother, for whom they had 
 been awaiting supper. 
 
 " How comes the woman to be so sure this letter was 
 Lucy's ? " Roger Locke asked this question, as he sat 
 with Vincent after meat, Lucinda having left them, 
 meaning to lie down — not from any custom then prac- 
 tised, but from sheer weariness of soul and body alike. 
 
284 AI^ AFFAIK OF DISHOj^OR 
 
 " The woman Anstiss ? '^ answered Vincent. " Why — 
 she admitted, when I pressed her to tell me truth, without 
 reserve, that she had taken advantage of his absence to 
 read the signature of the letter, which he had left open on 
 his table. I suppose he thought she could not read, but 
 she could read that much, though what came before 
 puzzled her." Oliver's name, take note, was rarely men- 
 tioned by either. It was always " him '' or " he.'' 
 
 " And this was a letter of three sheets, and our Lucy 
 says she never wrote. . . ." 
 
 " Never wrote him ? . . . " 
 
 " Yes — never wrote him more than a sheet at most." 
 
 Vincent inclined his head. " So she says," said he. 
 But he sat watching Roger, as though he expected more. 
 
 " Why do you look so, Vin ? " said Roger. 
 
 " Because, dear Roger, I have an idea in my head, and 
 I would fain know if it is in yours also." 
 
 " An idea ? " 
 
 " Roger, think a moment on this. How many sheets 
 were there in that ..." 
 
 "... That letter to her father ? Her own beginning, 
 on the w^rapper, and three blank sheets . . . ! " 
 
 " Have we ever explained it ? " 
 
 "N-o!" 
 
 " I see it now." 
 
 " So do I. My God ! — ^what a miscreant he is ! " For 
 the story of that letter was clear to both as soon as the 
 clue was given — the three-sheet letter in Lucinda's hand- 
 writing, still in possession of her betrayer. 
 
 The next day passed, and the next, and on the morning 
 of the third Roger said to Vincent : " We have to make 
 up our minds, Vin." 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOJS^OE 285 
 
 "Whether the letter shall or shall not be shown to 
 Lucy?" 
 
 " Ay ! I was against it at first, whatever the explana- 
 tion was. I am not so sure, now we know." 
 
 But Vincent seemed in great doubt. " Would it not 
 be mere cruelty," said he, "to put upon her the pain of 
 knowing the full scope of his wickedness; with little 
 chance, to my thinking, of her love for him coming to 
 an end. Oh, Eoger, you but half know the strength of 
 her infatuation." 
 
 " We have been of an age from the cradle, Lucy and I, 
 and I know her heart as though she were my twin. Give 
 her this knowledge that these papers Anstiss tells of are 
 not, as she thinks, her own old letters kept and re-read 
 for love of her by this damned traitor, but the very words 
 she wrote to her father, not knowing him slain. . . . 
 Oh, Vincent, all her love would turn to hate. ..." 
 
 "Yea — but our Lucy — our Lucy! Would she be the 
 happier? It would be a joyful day for me — for you — 
 that left us free to deal with him, not that you stand 
 pledged as I do. . . ." 
 
 " I hold myself pledged, by your wish," said Eoger. 
 
 " And mine is the prior right, dear Eoger — the right of 
 blood. She is mine own sister, and he who lies dead . . . 
 was my father." He could speak again, a moment later, 
 and went on : " But Lucy — Lucy — ^^vould she be the hap- 
 pier — to hate him ? " 
 
 " Will she ever learn to love any other, if she learns not 
 to hate himf No, Vincent! — better far she should know 
 the whole truth, cost what it may, than fill her mind with 
 a false conceit of him, wide of his true villainy. Tell her 
 the truth, I say, and risk it." 
 
 " Hush ! — she is coming," said Vincent. But he spoke 
 
286 AN AFFAIR OF DISHOJ^OR 
 
 a few seconds too late; for that day, towards sundown, 
 comes Lucy to him, seeing him alone in the garden, and 
 says : " What was it 'twixt you and Roger this morning 
 that you spoke so earnestly and so long ? '' 
 
 '^ We speak very little but of one thing, Lucy. It would 
 be that." 
 
 "Then it was something not aforetold by the manner 
 of your speech, dear Vincent. Tell it me now." 
 
 Then Vincent cast about in his mind whether it would 
 not be best, after all, for Lucinda to know the whole story, 
 all the more for her resolute self-command and seeming 
 readiness, if need were, to face worse than had come to 
 her yet. But, indeed, when she saw him hesitate in per- 
 plexity, she pressed all the more to be told the thing he 
 stuck about the telling of, and left him no chance of escape. 
 So says he to her, " Wait a moment till I return," and goes 
 away; but comes back presently bearing three or four 
 sheets of letter-paper folded, whereof he opens one, and, 
 handing it to her, says, " Lucy, what is that ? " 
 
 She takes it from him, with a new terror in her heart, 
 she knows not of what. Then, seeming merely puzzled, 
 turns to her brother, saying, " This is the letter I wrote 
 to our father. It came here after. Why not ? " But 
 the terror is coming in her voice. 
 
 Says Vincent then, putting his arm about her : " Ay — 
 Lucy! It came here after. But where be the second 
 sheet, and the third ? " 
 
 " He knows best who opened it. It was before your 
 coming. Roger — was it not ? " 
 
 " Roger opened it, and found naught but what you have 
 there, and these three blank sheets." 
 
 She took them from him, turning them either way, as 
 though there might be writing. And tlien^ with a great 
 
AlSr AFFAIR OF DISHOKOE 287 - 
 
 effort to be collected, says quickly : " I gave this letter to 
 ... to him ... to despatch for the post. And I 
 saw it in the hands of John Eackham the groom, as he 
 rode away. Yes — and I had seen it near, in his hands, as 
 he mounted to ride." She says this, clinging to her 
 brother, her breath coming short ; and then, " O merciful 
 God, what is this? Oh, tell me, Vincent — tell me 
 straight.'' 
 
 " You saw the sheet with the writing, Lucy. But it 
 was folded with these other three and sealed. See how 
 they held together, bent across.'' 
 
 She took the blank sheets mechanically, adjusting the 
 letter's first folding with a trembling hand. And there, 
 plain to be seen, was each pinch and crease of the paper 
 fitting true in its place. She spoke wander ingly. " My 
 head goes," she said. " Was it the groom who took my 
 letter from the cover? How could he break the seal? 
 I made the seal myself." 
 
 " The seal was never broken, Lucy. How 'twas done 
 I know not, if you made the seal. But your three sheets 
 of writing were removed to make way for that blank 
 paper, before ever a seal was there to close it. And the 
 reason for doing it was that none here might know whence 
 it came to tell you of our father's death. For, see — ^there 
 is no place named in the writing." 
 
 " And what has come of the three sheets I wrote ? " 
 
 Vincent, in fear of the effect of what he had to say, 
 paused for a moment; then he said, steadily and clearly: 
 " Rachel Anstiss saw them, in the hands of the man that 
 had removed them." But his words seemed to carry no 
 meaning to Lucinda's mind. She looked dazed, repeating 
 vaguely, " The man that had removed them ? " On which 
 Vincent said, "Yes — the man that had removed them. 
 
288 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOE 
 
 Oliver Eaydon." Thereupon Liicinda seemed to come 
 suddenly to the meaning of it all, and, giving a loud cry, 
 fell. But her brother's arm was round her, and he caught 
 her, and, lifting her, bore her into the house, and laid 
 her on a couch in the great drawing-room. 
 
 For a day or more she was half delirious, walking con- 
 stantly about alone, talking with herself, ghastly pale and 
 wild of eye. Then came a quieter time, the effects of this 
 last shock dying down, and at last one of greater self- 
 command and a sad peace. She spoke of the past with 
 her brother and foster-brother with no more pain than it 
 would have cost her to keep silent; and her remembrance 
 of the writing of her letter, and Oliver's carrying of it 
 away to seal made all his infamous deception plain, and 
 went as near to killing all trace of love for him in her 
 heart as may be in any heart that does not turn easily to 
 hatred. Though many hold that in no woman's heart can 
 love ever be slain outright, even though hate be ready 
 with a helping hand. 
 
CHAPTEK XVII 
 
 It might have been well for Sir Oliver if, in one of his 
 fits of wavering between remaining longer at Croxley Hall 
 and departing at once for London, he had decided on 
 choosing the latter course. But he could not bring him- 
 self to a final renunciation — for it seemed to him it would 
 amount to that — of his last hope of Lucinda. She had 
 touched him to the quick, and, selfish as his longing for 
 her was still, a tiny seed had germinated in the rich soil of 
 his selfishness, which, had an earlier weed-growth allowed 
 it, might have reached the sun and upper air, and given 
 his soul a chance of life. But it was thus with him, that 
 he was half-angered with himself for knowing how he 
 loved her, and impatient to be able to fling the memory 
 of her aside, even as that of so many another. 
 
 By fits and starts he persuaded himself that that 
 seeming presence of Lucinda — touch and voice alike — 
 that came with his reviving consciousness after his last 
 fit, was no more than a breath drawn in the atmosphere 
 of the dream-world, when all its substance had passed 
 away. And then his mind^s reaction would decide that 
 it must have been real, for there was always that per- 
 plexity of Susan Trant's tinder-box! How came she to 
 be striking a light at all, except she heard a calling? It 
 was no wonder the problem seemed insoluble to him, see- 
 ing he had only the memory of his mazed senses at the 
 moment of his hallucination to go by, in his efforts to 
 get at the heart of the mystery now. 
 
290 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOE 
 
 So bis mind ran back always on tbat last bour of bis 
 concord witb Lucinda, before tbe idiot Jobn Eackbam bad 
 let bimself be fooled by tbat accursed witcb Trant and ber 
 bedevilments into blurting out tbe wbole tale of tbe duel 
 tbat was no murder. Wbat a sweet bour tbat bad been! 
 Tbose, at least, were her bands tbat toucbed bim tben. 
 He could almost persuade bimself tbat be could feel tbem 
 still upon bis face — could still bear ber voice of tbat bour 
 in bis ears. 
 
 All sentimental nonsense! He wanted cbange, ta 
 become bis old self again. Get back to tbe sweet, vile life 
 of town — tbat was bis wise course now — and sbake free 
 of tbis puny slavery ! Get back to tbe rattle of tbe dice, 
 tbe jangle of tbe loose gold among tbe card-packs, tbe 
 blaspbemy, obscenity, and wit of Eocbester, Sedley, 
 Etberege, tbe merry, beartless King bimself — ^not tbe 
 least witty of tbem all — and last and most tbe women, 
 daugbters of impudence and vice, wbose laugbter made 
 tbe downward road to Hell a merry one. Tbat was life — 
 tbe life of tbe boney-bee, tbat pauses on eacb flower only 
 for satiety, tben seeks inviolate blooms elsewbere. A 
 plague of tbis new inroad on bis soul ; it angered bim only 
 to be forced to tbe confession of it. 
 
 But it was tbere, in tbe beart of bim, unmaking all bis 
 manbood — tbe manbood tbat wbistles care to tbe winds, 
 and defies God and Devil alike. What, after all, were 
 tbese coarse beauties of tbe town, tbese painted jades, 
 these made-up dollies — he had worse epithets than tbat 
 for them, I warrant you — to set in tbe scale against one 
 lock of Lucinda's black hair, one look from her eyes. 
 iWhy fly to debauchery and drink from an ever-growing 
 sweet content, that grew by what it fed on ; that be feared 
 to see the end of, even while he did not anticipate it? 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 291 
 
 Why, indeed, if the end had not come? But, alas! — 
 he had flung all his treasure away and now was fain 
 to replenish his empty purse by forged drafts upon 
 the Bank of Pleasure, sure to be dishonoured in the 
 end. 
 
 Well ! — at least let him draw as long as his credit was 
 good. Why be sent to the gallows for less than an honest 
 felony? Off to London was the word! Pack and 
 saddle! Pack the heavy baggage off — some quantity of 
 it for this journey! — by slow waggon-carriage, to reach 
 London, if all goes well, in a fortnight. One pack-horse 
 load, such as we took to Kips Manor, will furnish forth a 
 fortnight easily. A two hours' interview, or maybe an 
 hour thrown in, with Durrell the steward, will settle all 
 the business of the estate — shall Widow Hacket, whose 
 rent was not forthcoming at Michaelmas, be left in pos- 
 session or turned out ? — shall a less price be accepted for 
 the summer's hay-crop on the home farm? — or such-like 
 points. As for his office of sheriff or magistrate, Sir 
 Oliver had contented himself with a brief hand-note to 
 each of his substitutes, alleging indisposition as a present 
 excuse from resumption of duties; and, as for his future 
 intended absence in London, out of sight was out of mind. 
 Let them even get on as best they might ! As for these 
 rumours of folk dying by hundreds of the Plague, they 
 were true enough, no doubt, of the common folk; the 
 better sort were untouched. ISTever fret for that! 
 
 So, let it be a start for London, and to-morrow! Why 
 make delay when none is needed ? But first, give just a 
 thought to this — could he but see Lucinda? If he got 
 speech of her, but for a moment, might not the tongue he 
 knew the powers of so well, — the tongue he had used so 
 skilfully for many a woman's ruin — be made of service 
 
292 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOE 
 
 now for his own salvation ? It was worth a forlorn hope, 
 especially as he might — might he not? — claim pardon 
 already given. Could he not get on the track of an 
 opportunity? . . . Yes, he could. Where was that 
 busybody Anstiss ? Ten chances to one she had been spy- 
 ing and prying. 
 
 Anstiss, summoned to the Russet Room by a prolonged 
 jangling of Sir Oliver's bell, could tell all he needed for 
 his purpose. My lady always walked out alone early; 
 very frequently — indeed, almost always — in the rose- 
 garden east of the house, to get the sun in the morning. 
 What did " early " mean ? Early meant very early, be- 
 fore a many were aw^ake. Call it an hour before the fam- 
 ily broke their fasts ; that might be, as the days shortened 
 now, half-past seven of the clock. The Squire (meaning 
 Vincent) would ride till then about the estate, keeping 
 an eye on this and that, making often a long round, and 
 sometimes late. Who else was there in the house ? Well 
 — there was the Captain (Roger Locke, clearly), except he 
 had gone to his regiment, and the two old ladies, the 
 sisters of the late Squire, w^ho remained much in the 
 house, working at broidery work with the needle. And 
 how came Mrs. Anstiss to be able to speak to these facts, 
 seeing she had never lived in the house herself? Her 
 reply was that her cousin the lodge-keeper's wife had a 
 tongue of her own in her head, and as good an eye for 
 what was plain to any sight as most folk, for all they 
 might give themselves airs. This woman was of a shrew- 
 ish temper, and would always take others to task for no 
 fault of their own, and build up a grievance out of 
 nothing. 
 
 Sir Oliver heard her out, paying no attention to any- 
 thing she said that was outside his purpose and the plan 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 293 
 
 he was forming in his mind. His face was black with 
 gloom and determination as he stood looking from his 
 window with his hack to her, seeming to hear her out. 
 But his eyes and his thoughts alike were bent towards the 
 Old Hall, there away beyond the tree-tops of his own 
 Park. For the Kusset Koom is high up in the building, 
 and was so called in those days from no colour of its 
 own, but because from the window one might see the little 
 village of Eusset Cross, which is just against Lea Down, 
 beyond which is the old Hall. And when Sir Oliver 
 turned again from the window, saying, " That will do, 
 Anstiss," he had listened to her no farther than to hear 
 what had set him on a plan to see Lucinda, if it might be, 
 in that time when she walked in the garden. Of which 
 intent his mind remained full when the woman had de- 
 parted, with a new grudge against him for his inattention 
 and curtness. And he brooded over it till midnight, 
 and it was with him after he lay down to sleep, and 
 his prefigurement of how he would ride next day 
 to the Old Hall — throw the dice once more in the 
 game of life, as it were — crept into the heart of his 
 dreams as he fell asleep, or waylaid them in the early 
 morning. 
 
 It is very rare to dream, a second time, an old dream in 
 its entirety; though some aver that this has happened, 
 once and again. But that the place, the buildings, the 
 fields and trees of an old forgotten dream should come 
 anew into our sleep — this is no such rarity, if folk may be 
 trusted to tell the truth when none can prove them liars. 
 Indeed, most of us know how any little stirring of past 
 memory overnight may haunt the thoughts of sleep and 
 colour the images it forms. 
 
294 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 It was so with Sir Oliver this night. Even as the 
 waking world vanished from him, a resolve was afoot in 
 his mind that he would not ride within sight of the 
 Mausoleum in the Park on his way to the Old Hall, how- 
 ever much he might lessen the distance by so doing. He 
 would not acknowledge the effort it cost him to keep in 
 abeyance his memories of that terrible morning of the 
 duel, and made believe that his hatred of the direct road 
 was only bred of that detestable dream that hung about 
 him still; that would have been dreamed all the same, 
 mind you, if no duel had ever been fought at all ! And cer- 
 tainly the effect on his sleep was to revive this dream 
 itself, not the duel. 
 
 For as the hour came on of the dreams we most remem- 
 ber — the hour before waking — he found himself again 
 making for the Box Walk, taking for granted the fountain 
 he would see at the next turn in the pathway, round the 
 corner of that yew-hedge. His thought to himself was — 
 that then this had been real, after all! See, now! — was 
 not this water real, that he could run his fingers through 
 it thus? And then he accepted as real, without protest, 
 things all his reason would have been in revolt against, 
 outside the realm of Sleep. All without seeking to know 
 in what interval, under what circumstances, he had con- 
 demned the whole as unreality! 
 
 Soon that ghastly fetch of his mother — he knew this, 
 somehow, beforehand — would limp towards him along the 
 gravel pathway. Yes — quick upon his thought of it, it 
 came, limping, limping, limping! This time he would 
 have turned to fly from it, could he have chosen. But all 
 power of movement was gone from him, and he could 
 not speak. How he fought for speech, were it only a 
 word! 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 295 
 
 Would this last for ever, with that muffled form still 
 limping, limping towards him, yet never getting nearer? 
 At last his voice came, but not to say what he would have 
 it say; only to make a crazy noise he had no control over. 
 From which intolerable horror of nightmare he woke with 
 a great struggle, to find himself in the half-dark of a wind- 
 less dawn, with an inexplicable idea upon him that this is 
 the morning of the duel; and that, now that he knows, 
 for some strange reason, what it will mean to him, he will 
 not fight. He will draw back, honour or no ! — nay more, 
 he will awaken Lucinda to tell her how he has held back 
 from the slaying of her father. For no perversion of 
 intelligence is too amazing to be impossible to him who 
 half-wakes from the delusions of a dream. 
 
 But, alas! — no voice came in response to his, and he 
 was alone in the room. Then his head cleared, and he 
 shrank from himself to think how furtively, that morning 
 of the duel, he had risen from Lucinda's side, that she 
 might sleep on in ignorance, and how he had stolen noise- 
 less from the house. 
 
 No need for caution now ! He flung the lattice wide to 
 welcome the sweet morning air, and looked out over the 
 land, veiled here and there with mist, islanding the elms 
 in the levels beyond the park-land, like a sea. It will just 
 have time to tell the early riser that Autumn is upon us 
 before the sun catches it unawares, and sends it flying. 
 Sir Oliver knew by the backward dawn that he was before- 
 hand with the time, and he had no mind for delay. A 
 long ride round would take him the farther from that 
 ride he sought to forget, of three months since. And the 
 sooner he was dressed and out of that room, with a 
 sense of that accursed dream still hanging about it, the 
 better ! 
 
296 AN AFFAIK OF DISHOISTOR 
 
 He took John Eackham to task, unreasonably, for not 
 being ready with his horse, near an hour before the time 
 he had bespoken it. Rackham, in no mind to waste a 
 word on that matter, or any other, waited till he stopped, 
 and said, " You want un now, I take it ? Is that right ? '^ 
 To which his master replied, still unreasonably : " Don't 
 waste time in talking. Saddle up ! " And then, to a 
 symptom of inquiry from the groom : " Want you ? — no 1 
 Stay you at home, this time." And then was aware he 
 had implied something by his last two words, more than 
 concerned his hearer. But he brushed his conscious- 
 ness aside, to make way for " Is my lady's dog here ? — 
 the one you wot of — the one she would always ride 
 with." 
 
 " The gazehound or the setter ? " 
 
 " The gazehound — Diarmid." 
 
 " You can have which one you like, Master Oliver. 
 You've only to name it. They're both on 'em here." 
 But this was only to bring a tone of inquiry into the 
 matter, with a suggestion that his master had spoken 
 obscurely in this case, and was always diflScult to under- 
 stand. On the same lines, he said in reply to " I told you 
 to turn the dog loose," from Sir Oliver as he was mounting 
 to the saddle — " You never said when. Master Oliver. If 
 he's loosed afore you're out of sight, that's enough, to my 
 thinking, and a bit over." 
 
 Oliver mounted and rode away, saying no more about 
 the dog. His last words were : " Say to them — Cecily and 
 Anstiss — that my lady returns with me." So he shouted 
 back to the groom. " Tell them to have all in readiness 
 to receive her." And so rode away, and Diarmid the 
 gazehound caught him up just beyond the wych-elm, and 
 scoured in wide circles over the park-land; safely, for so 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 297 
 
 far no deer were in sight, and he was too high-hred a dog 
 to molest sheep or cattle. But Oliver was glad to be com- 
 pelled to skirt the park, following the outer roadway, to 
 avoid the deer. For thereby there was the less seeming, 
 or none, of a schemed avoidance of that road by the 
 Mausoleum, which he must at least have seen had he 
 gone that way. Now, he could and did persuade him- 
 self that no hysterical fancies, bred of a nightmare 
 dream, could have stood in the way of his taking the 
 shorter road, and saving himself half an hour's hard 
 riding. It was the dog and the fallow deer. 
 
 But he was betimes to his purpose, having started early. 
 He could see from the road over Lea Down, as he ap- 
 proached the Old Hall, that its inhabitants were stirring 
 but little, if at all. A gardener, as he saw by the scythe 
 over his shoulder, walked across the lawn, and the ring of 
 his whetstone upon it was clear a few moments after in the 
 still air as Oliver drew nearer to the house. He went 
 cautiously, being in no haste to arrive until he had seen 
 Vincent ride away, as Anstiss had said was his custom. 
 There would be no danger of their meeting, for the Squire 
 w^ould never ride over Lea Down. He was certain to go 
 towards the village, or some farm, lower down on the 
 hillside. 
 
 Sir Oliver waited, turning over in his mind what he 
 should do with his horse. He was a little perplexed, as he 
 had either to leave the horse tethered and unguarded — for 
 he could not ride it close to Lucinda's garden — or to find 
 someone in whose charge it might remain till his return. 
 He resolved to tether it, and take his chance; unless 
 indeed some suitable guardian should come in sight 
 shortly. . . . 
 
 Were not those sounds from beyond the Hall voices, and 
 
298 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 the ring of hoofs on the cobblestone paving he remem- 
 bered so well at the front gate of the Hall ? That must be 
 Vincent, going out through the arch from the paved court 
 within. Yes — and then follows the sound of his horse's 
 quickening pace along the drive. 
 
 Oliver's eyes were fixed on a window in the eastern 
 gable, that caught the sun. He knew that window well; 
 had watched it more than once as he was doing now, in 
 the early summer dawns, when the silly girl his victim 
 would make appointments to meet her betrayer, without 
 her parent's knowledge, many a time. He could recall 
 that last time, before she left her home for good, when a 
 white handkerchief waved by a fooFs white hand showed 
 him the game was his — a preconcerted signal. That was 
 " Miss Mauleverer's room " then. It was so, still, per- 
 haps; but . . . However, he was always ready with a 
 spurious belief, to shield his conscience, that but for a 
 living wife all his behaviour to Lucinda would have been 
 honourable. It had been an arriere pensee, certainly ; but 
 now that it had come, the way he made the most of it at 
 every turn showed an awakening of conscience, surely? 
 Let him have the advantage of the doubt, for what it is 
 worth. 
 
 There ! — was not that a shifting of the window-curtain 
 of that room ? Yes — and an opening outwards of the case- 
 ment; Sir Oliver could not see by whom, but he had a 
 hope, for his face must have changed hopefully. Else why 
 should the hound, crouched at his feet and panting open- 
 mouthed, watching constantly for a signal from his 
 master to sanction some activity undefined — ^why should 
 he pant on a sudden more quickly? — ^why should his eye 
 gleam with a new impatience, almost too strenuous to be 
 borne ? Dogs have a way of knowledge unlike ours, and 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 299 
 
 it goes beyond the most we are ready to allow them. 
 How came this Diarmid to know what his master's intent 
 had been in bringing him thus with him, as he very surely 
 did? For his self-restraint endured no longer than to 
 glean, from the eye he watched so intently, , that its owner 
 had caught sight of what he too was on the watch for; 
 and then he was off like a whirlwind, the nearest way to 
 reach the garden. Oliver had just caught sight of 
 Lucinda there. It was no straight road, for a great 
 garden-wall, which even Diarmid could not leap, had to 
 be taken into account; and though he could have swum 
 the pond he chose the way by the bridge. 
 
 Sir Oliver was minded to whistle him back, mistrusting 
 his too great zeal. But a dog-whistle tells tales, and he 
 thought better of a first impulse. There was his horse, 
 too, to claim his attention. If he could see no one to 
 take charge of it he would have to leave it, perforce. Was 
 there a soul in sight? Well — a boy, certainly! A boy 
 is better than nothing. He beckoned to the lad, telling 
 him to keep his eye on the horse, and he should have a 
 penny. The boy nodded, and he left him sitting in the 
 fern by the roadside, while the tethered horse cropped the 
 short grass within reach. He then followed the short cut 
 to the bridge the dog had taken, sometimes zigzagging 
 through the gorse and bracken. He knew little — almost 
 nothing — of what he meant to say to Lucinda. 
 
 Were the words spoken by her — as he believed — so 
 soon after his confession, that night of the storm, suffi- 
 cient to warrant his posing as a pardoned culprit? He 
 could not answer ^^ Yes " to his own question. 
 
 As to the girl herself, she was hard put to it to know 
 whether what had passed in three months — ^no more! — 
 was real, or all a dream. For her, the world had changed 
 
300 AN AFFAIR OF DISHOXOE 
 
 with a rush, and had swept away her girlhood. That is, 
 if she could safely assume the reality of it all. Otherwise 
 — and a half-hope was hers in secret — she might still 
 wake from this horror of a too long night to find her life 
 intact, and her father's voice in place of tlie oppressive 
 stillness of the silent mansion. Think of it! — how she 
 would welcome back that grown-up babyhood with all its 
 ignorance upon it. But then came a terrible obstacle to 
 the dream-theory. How could she have brewed this 
 nightmare — most of all the joys that made it hardest to 
 bear, — out of the knowledge of life that babyhood 
 supplied ? 
 
 So she had gone on through the days, herself within 
 herself; speaking little, but with no outward sign 
 upon her of more suffering inwardly than one might 
 in reason hope would die with time. So thought her 
 brother Vincent; so thought her other brother, Koger 
 Locke. Both were wrong, but the truth is that no young 
 man understands women — even his own sisters. And he 
 will not hearken to his mother, for he thinks that already 
 he knows better than she. On which account Vincent 
 and Roger could dwell happily on the thought that one 
 day the Lucy of old would come back to them, and life 
 this side of the grave be somewhat sweet again, for all its 
 shadows, until the happy hour of death. But this only 
 when one or other of them had slain her betrayer and her 
 father's murderer. Let her love for him die, and the 
 hour of requital would come yet. 
 
 The Lucinda that Oliver caught sight of in her garden 
 afar, on this morning of his ride to the Old Hall, was no 
 other than herself of yesterday — of every yesterday as 
 far back as the hour of that deadly revelation of his guilt, 
 of that last kiss she could not withhold from the un- 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISIIONOE 301 
 
 conscious lips of tlie man she had loved. For her, life 
 ceased then and there, and left her merely the task of 
 being; no more for her than mere existence, till her 
 ])atience should be crowned with death. She walked in 
 the knowledge of a yesterday like this, a foreknowledge of 
 a morrow no other than this. Her eyes on the ground 
 scarcely left the* gravel path to see the pansies skirting the 
 beds on either side; still less to look up to the hollyhock 
 flowers chasing the young buds hard to the topmost stem ; 
 unheedful even of the year's last rosebud, to burst maybe 
 too late, and live a stinted life in a chill wind, or shrivel 
 on the stem. 
 
 So insensible was she to sight or sound that she walked 
 the garden's length beside a companion whom she had 
 not seen. But she started as a dog's tongue touched 
 the hand that hung listlessly beside her, and crying out 
 aloud : " Oh, Diarmid, Diarmid — darling dog — where 
 have you come from ? " knelt and bent down over him, 
 caressing his soft fur and beautiful ears, letting him lick 
 her face. And the first tears that had come freely from 
 her eyes fell in response to the dumb affection of this old 
 lover of hers, and were more ease than pain. . 
 
 The great hound, well content to be caressed by his 
 old mistress, whom he had missed, be sure! — for dogs 
 forget neither love nor hate — pressed up close to her feet 
 as she sat down on a stone seat, moss-grown, at the path- 
 end; and so crouched, throwing back his head to meet 
 her hand, darting out a long tongue when there came a 
 chance to touch it. So they remained, the dog and the 
 woman, silent in the stillness of the solitary garden. 
 
 Was that the footstep of old Bayle, the gardener? 
 " Why ask, when it could be no other ? " was Lucinda's 
 thought. No idea crossed her mind that the dog's 
 
302 'AN AFFAIE OF DISH0:N^0R 
 
 presence meant his master's near at hand; until, as the 
 step came nearer, he started up, and trotted away through 
 the arch in the wall — the garden's only entrance, for it 
 was a complete enclosure. 
 
 Then the knowledge came home to her mind that this 
 could be no other than Oliver himself, and had there been 
 another outlet to the garden she would have fled to avoid 
 him. The dog ran back a moment later, ahead of the 
 approaching footsteps, licked her hand, and again returned 
 to meet them. For dogs will do this thing, when in doubt 
 betwixt two friends, as though to make each alive to the 
 other's presence. Nearer came the footsteps — ^nearer 
 still! And Lucinda, who had started .to her feet, stood 
 motionless as a statue, pale as Death. And her words to 
 her own heart as she stood there were: "He slew my 
 father!" 
 
 Th-e dog vibrated between them quicker as Oliver came 
 slowly down the garden walk. More and more slowly, 
 till barely three paces farther would have brought him to 
 Lucinda's side. But her hands, outstretched towards 
 him, would have forbidden his nearer approach, even had 
 her face, hard set, relaxed its force of prohibition. Even 
 had the cry not come from her lips, with all the power in 
 them of the agony of her soul: "Go, Oliver, go! You 
 are my father's murderer." 
 
 Then said Sir Oliver, as he had said before : " I am no 
 murderer, Lucinda. Had it been given me to choose, is 
 it lik-e I would have slain him?" It was on his lips to 
 say : " I thought I was absolved of that guilt." But his 
 restless longing to plead his case had possession of him, 
 and he let it slip. So Lucinda remained unconscious of 
 this belief of his. 
 
 Her reply was quiet and short, under her breath almost. 
 
JfLN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 303 
 
 " I cannot tell. Only, go ! I cannot bear thig." A 
 dazed look was growing on her, as though the strain were 
 overtaking her, and she might swoon clean away at any 
 moment. 
 
 Then Oliver, knowing himself all the while a liar and 
 hypocrite, framed in his mind a cunning defence, or rather 
 counter-attack. " Oh, Lucy, think of this! '' he cried. 
 " Was it not all known to your father — had he not my 
 pledge ? Did he not know that you would hold me bound 
 by it ? Why did he need to force this meeting upon me ? 
 How could I hold back in honour ? What choice had I 
 but to answer his challenge ? " He paused a moment, 
 while she stood still and speechless ; then resumed :. 
 " Oh, Lucy — dearest of all women ! — only believe this one 
 thing of me ; that, when he and I crossed swords, my sole 
 idea was to hold him in play — disarm him — end a blood- 
 less encounter with a renewed pledge of fidelity to his 
 daughter, until I could compass my own freedom from a 
 bond I hated — ^yes, a bond that was forced upon a foolish 
 boy by interested guardians. . . .^' 
 
 " What is all this to me ? You did kill him ! " 
 
 Then Oliver told a deliberate lie. " Ay, Lucy ! — ^but 
 with a difference. My sword-thrust slew him, not my 
 heart. It was the strength of his blade, seeking my life, 
 that forced my hand, and made defence seem onset. . . . 
 Oh, Lucy, think of me at my best! Mix but a little 
 mercy with your blame ! This is God's truth that I tell 
 you." 
 
 Then again he was half in a mind to try if her memory 
 kept no hold of that seeming pardon that he clung to 
 despite misgivings of its reality. But before the words 
 could come Lucinda of a sudden broke into a long, 
 strained laugh, with an underthrill in it of such pain that 
 
304 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 Oliver half thought her mad, for the moment. " God's 
 truth ! " she cried. " God's truth from your lips! " Hesi- 
 tation came and ended with a sharp and searching ques- 
 tion : " Where are my letters ? " 
 
 Oliver flinched from the words. As he stood there with 
 bitten lip, and eyes that would not meet hers, he said to 
 himself : " The fool that I was not to see that she must 
 come to know that/' Not knowing how she knew, 
 yet seeing many possibilities of knowledge for her, 
 he stopped inquiry short. It was enough that she did 
 know. 
 
 But how much ? If her meaning was, " How came it 
 these letters were never delivered ? " what was there in 
 that that postal miscarriage would not account for ? But 
 suppose she knew more! What could he say unless he 
 knew her sources of information? And even their dis- 
 closure would have given him no defence. He had none, 
 and knew it. But he might find some plea, given time. 
 So he muttered, " All shall be explained,'' or words to 
 the same effect. To her next curt question " How ? " he 
 could say nothing. 
 
 Then it seemed as though her indignation at his 
 duplicity and fraud had, as it were, released her from her 
 love of him — that love which was the true cause of her 
 weakness against herself. Had it not been still surviving 
 speech would have been easy to her. Now the lock 
 seemed to fall from her tongue, and her anger to give her 
 strength of utterance, as it burst through the bounds that 
 held it. " Oh, you may well be silent, liar that you are — 
 liar that you have been ! " Her eyes flashed, and her 
 words came fiercely. " No, Oliver, no ! Speak not at 
 all! Keep to the silence you cannot break without 
 another lie. Listen to what you have done for me, and 
 
A:^r AFFAIR OF DISHO]S^OR 305 
 
 then begone and let me see you no more. I have loved 
 you, Oliver, and my love has been a true one, while yours 
 has been the love that kills, and leaves its victim to the 
 beast that feeds on carrion. I know now in my sad 
 wisdom what my lot was to have been. You have slain 
 my father. . . . Oh, my God, my dearest, my dearest ! 
 — Kiead — dead ! . . . my dearest who had no choice, as 
 men's thoughts bind them, but to cleanse the dishonor I 
 had brought upon him in blood. And he died — my 
 darling! — and there was I the while, never knowing. . . . 
 ]^o — listen still, Oliver, listen still ! . . . I believe in 
 my heart I must have loved you to the end, even though 
 we had never met again, but for the wicked deceit you 
 practised on me. I know it all now. I know now why 
 I was taken away at an hour's notice to Kips Manor — 
 to keep me in ignorance of his death. I know now your 
 fraud with the letters I wrote him — all to keep me in 
 ignorance of his death. I have seen all your device for 
 duping me — the empty sheets that made the letter still 
 seem my own, the seals you could let me place over them 
 while you laughed at your dupe in your sleeve — all, all 
 to keep me in ignorance of my father's death! . . . 
 Oliver ! — you have been a traitor to me, to the woman who 
 loved you truly. Now, begone ! " 
 
 " Lucinda, will you hear me speak ? Will you think 
 calmly? ..." 
 
 " I am quite calm. You can say nothing to make your 
 treachery less. Begone ! " 
 
 " How can you know, except you listen to me ? " Yet 
 he would have found it so hard to lay claim to a previous 
 pardon in the face of her vehemence, even had she been 
 willing to hear, that he was secretly half glad of her 
 unreason ; and, indeed, relieved that she did not answer — 
 
306 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOXOR 
 
 as she might well have done, for policy's sake — " Go on 
 with your defence. It is your right." 
 
 But for her all thought of policy was at an end, all 
 thought but how soonest to get safe parted from this 
 object of her love and hate. For the reason she could not 
 bear to be near him was less her hatred of him, real as it 
 was, than the equally real love that smouldered in her 
 heart. Could she but get away from him, her conscious- 
 ness of it might kill her, but it could not burst out, 
 branding her with disloyalty to her father's memory. 
 How she would have welcomed some inconceivable 
 palliation of her lover's guilt, that she might but once 
 again feel his arms about her as of old. For no woman's 
 love ever dies; and some few men in this are not unlike 
 women. 
 
 As to what followed, things being thus. Whether it 
 was that Sir Oliver, confident from wicked experience, 
 acted on a belief that no woman could long steel her heart 
 against his caresses, or that Lucinda's beauty, made re- 
 splendent by her flashing out at him in such anger, went 
 beyond his powers of resistance, none can say. But this 
 is certain, that such lame palliation of his conduct as he 
 tried further to make ended in an outbreak of the truest 
 passion, probably, — of the nobler sort, mark! — that he 
 had ever felt in his life. And that it was under mis- 
 apprehension of some concession on her part that he 
 approached close to her. Indeed, she may have just 
 wavered, at the old words of love, back again in the old 
 place where she heard them first. But her indecision was 
 of the slightest. For as, presuming on the encourage- 
 ment it gave him, Sir Oliver sought to take her once more 
 in his arms, she made no ado, but just struck him sharply 
 in the face — no light blow, but a real one — and fled before 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 307 
 
 he could recover from his amazement, and in truth before 
 his eyesight was fully his own again; for the blow had 
 blinded him in good earnest, for such time at least as she 
 needed to get out of his sight. When he saw clear again 
 she was gone, and the dog Diarmid had followed her. Sir 
 Oliver did not wait for his return. 
 
CHAPTEE XVIII 
 
 Vincent Mauleverek^ riding to the village, found 
 reason to turn from his intention of visiting a farm a 
 mile beyond it, hearing by chance that its tenant was 
 away at his brother's, the miller's, lower down the river, 
 which makes a curve at this point round Lea Down. It 
 was a ten minutes' gallop at the most, but over a soft turf, 
 tender to his horse's hoof, and welcome to its rider in the 
 sweet air of the morning. Little after the moment when 
 Oliver first recognised Lucinda in the distant garden, he 
 had reached the mill; and then, after a short chat with 
 his tenant, and a few words of greeting and gossip with 
 the miller his brother, he turned towards home, this time 
 making a short cut back across Lea Down. Five minutes 
 of careful riding through scattered gorse and stony ground 
 — a very warren of rabbit-burrows, tricky to the surest 
 horse's foot — brought him to the clear track along the 
 ridge of the Down, that Oliver had passed an hour since. 
 No need to touch his horse's mouth here, to get his best 
 service, for a loose rein on such a track brings joy alike 
 to horse and rider. 
 
 But he reined in suddenly, at sight of something un- 
 wonted a little off the line of road — a saddled roan, 
 browsing quietly in a coppice of stunted oak wind-swept 
 to the shape of the hillside. What could bring a rider 
 over Lea Down at this hour in the morning? If he was 
 a neighbour, why had he not come to the Hall, where all 
 were welcome, even in this saddened time ? If he were a 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISIIOXOK 309 
 
 stranger, the more need for hospitality. For that was 
 the way in those days where passers-by in the countryside 
 were scarce. At sight of this horse, Vincent was off his 
 own in a moment, and speaking with a boy who seemed 
 to be left in charge. 
 
 The boy was shy of talking with the Squire, and had 
 to be coaxed; questioned, however, he communicated by 
 nods and headshakes the main facts of his guardianship 
 of the horse. The difficulty was to get from him any 
 description of its owner. 
 
 " Come, Abs'lom^ old man! " said Vincent, who knew 
 the lad quite well as "Widow Price^s little chap." 
 " What do you say when you speak ? YouH^e got a tongue 
 in your head, haven't you ? '' The boy nodded. " Very 
 well, then, what's it for ? " 
 
 Absalom — it was his real name — seemed to cast about 
 in his mind for some answer that would go well with 
 catechism, the form in which he accepted any inquiry 
 from magnates, lay or clerical. He decided on, " For to 
 say my prayers with," and seemed confident that his 
 answer would be acceptable on grounds of piety. 
 
 " Good boy ! " said Vincent ; not laughing, for he saw 
 nothing to laugh at. " For to say your prayers with, and 
 to tell me who the gentleman was who gave you the 
 horse to hold. That's it, isn't it? Did you know the 
 gentleman ? " He only asked the question to prolong the 
 talk, and come gradually to the knowledge he was seeking. 
 He had no expectation of an affirmative answer. 
 
 But Absalom Price gave one; in fact, he gave several. 
 For he kept nodding to emphasize his first assent. 
 Thereat Vincent, surprised, but not forgetting that con- 
 ciliation and confidence are the surest roads to informa- 
 tion from a shy youngster, pressed gently, and in time 
 
310 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOXOR 
 
 discovered that the owner of the horse was " t' voother 
 Squire at t' Leasowes, bj Croxlej Village.'' 
 
 He left the boy to examine the horse, tethered a few 
 paces back in the thicket, and it recognised him as he 
 recognised it ; for horses are shrewd enough to mark those 
 who come about them. But apart from that, he could 
 tell the saddle-bow, a notable piece of Spanish leather- 
 work, as Oliver's, and the holster pistols. His eye 
 brightened as he thought to himself how soon he might 
 be face to face again with his father's murderer. 
 
 He walked a few paces back along the road to where he 
 had left his own horse browsing; and, leading it into the 
 thicket, tethered it out of sight in a little glade to a fallen 
 tree-trunk. Its hoof struck the hollow tree, and a snake 
 started out from a deep hole in its rugged boss, and 
 streaked, a zigzag glitter, across the short grass. The boy, 
 who had followed, ran on its track delighted with the 
 chase, flinging stones, boy-like, at the reptile, which was 
 too clever for him in the end, vanishing under pricldy 
 gorse. Then the Squire said to him: '^ You've got to 
 mind your own horse, Absalom. What did the other 
 Squire say he'd give you ? " 
 
 " Give oy ? A penny." 
 
 " You had best be a good boy, and earn your penny." 
 But Absalom hung back inexplicably, as though he 
 wanted to say something, but lacked the courage. Vin- 
 cent, puzzled, added interrogatively : " Well ? " 
 
 Then the boy found his voice. ^^ I do'ant want 'ere a 
 penny of his, in my poke," said he. . . : " Whoy not, 
 master? I tell 'ee — because of th' owd Squire, up to 
 Hall." 
 
 Absalom's silence did not seem to have been due to 
 any lack of words on his part, but only to rustic shyness. 
 
AN AFFAIE OE DISHOJ^OK 311 
 
 iVincent looked up sharply, awake to the oddity of his 
 inanner, as much as to the matter of his speech. ^' My 
 father ! " said he. ^' What on earth do we mean, I 
 wonder ? " He spoke half to himself ; but added, aloud, 
 to the boy : " Come here, my man, and tell me all 
 about it." 
 
 The little fellow still hung back a bit, but presently 
 gathered courage, coming close to Vincent, whom he 
 seemed to have decided not to fear, but to trust. He had 
 a tale to tell, and told it beneath his breath, f ragmentarily, 
 and with occasional help from his hearer, but very intelli- 
 gently for a lad of his years, which were eleven or twelve 
 at most. It w^ould be difficult of narration in his exact 
 words and accent, and would detain the story to no pur- 
 pose, for it was a tale the reader knows well. He was, in 
 fact, the boy spoken of as witnessing from a concealment 
 the duel that ended in the death of the old Squire. He 
 had, it seemed, locked up his secret knowledge of the 
 dreadful tale in his own heart ; indeed, had it come out, he 
 would certainly, young as he was, have been called on to 
 add his testimony to that of the other bystanders, the 
 slain man's second and the surgeon. But he was a silent 
 and reserved child, and kept his peace where many an- 
 other boy of his years would have paraded his experience^ 
 and shown it as a feather in his cap, and for the diversion 
 of his playfellows. 
 
 When he had come to the end of his tale, Vincent said : 
 '^' Where was it, then, the sword-point touched the old 
 Squire ... ay, the first time of all ? '' He spoke as one 
 putting a great control upon himself, but always with 
 affectionate encouragement for his young informant, who 
 was now half -sitting on his knee, as he himself sat on the 
 fallen tree-trunk. The child's face burned, and his eyes 
 
312 AIST AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 glowed. He seemed to imagine that his word was ques- 
 tioned. " A saw it/' said he emphatically. And then, 
 when Vincent asked again where was this wound, he 
 pulled aside his small jerkin and touched his body, well 
 below the ribs, saying : " Round by here, and a putten 
 t' hand to un, th' owd Squire.'' Then Vincent, who felt 
 sick as his mind saw the whole thing, as it were, pass 
 before his eyes, understood well how it was that this event 
 of the first wound had so nearly escaped the notice of the 
 seconds, who were on the right of the wounded man, on 
 the side opposite to the bush where the boy was hidden. 
 The other witnesses had suggested such an accident, but 
 had not held to their testimony. The brief and simple 
 tale of the boy carried conviction. 
 
 Vincent, then, feeling as though the fierce anger he 
 could not check might easily drive him mad, kept out- 
 wardly calm no longer than to tell the boy he might go 
 back to his watching of the horse. But he was to come 
 again soon, if he saw the Squire of Croxley on his way to 
 claim it. The boy readily promised to do this, and ran — 
 maybe glad to have the answering of no more questions. 
 
 Left to himself, Vincent had need of all the strength of 
 his soul, there alone, with the knowledge on him of the 
 manner of his father's death ! What could he do but pray 
 that the man who slew him, whose horse stood saddled 
 and tethered but a stone's throw distant awaiting him, 
 might soon return to claim it ? And yet — if he did ! All 
 the joy would go out of retribution for a father's murder, 
 if it involved a sister's desolation. IIow could he send 
 the traitor to his last account of guilt until he knew 
 for a certainty that Lucinda's love for him was dead. 
 
 Presently came the boy, running back. Vincent leapt 
 to his feet. " Is he here ? " cried he. " Is he coming ? " 
 
AlSr AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 313 
 
 ^' Koa, bean't! But a can see uii! . . . Wheer? 
 In t' lady's garden, nigh t' lady! You may see they, too, 
 as well as oy. Coom ! " Vincent followed him. A few 
 paces beyond where Oliver had left his horse, the thicket 
 opened out, showing a clear view of the Old Hall, with 
 Lucinda's rose-garden in the foreground, near enough 
 to show what was not hidden by the walls. ^' Theer 
 they be, master — the tway on 'em," said the boy 
 triumphantly. 
 
 It was just at the moment of Oliver's last appeal to 
 Lucinda that Vincent first saw them clearly. Even at 
 that distance any spectator might have judged that the 
 man was pressing earnestly some suit upon the woman, 
 and that she was repelling him, holding his importunity 
 in check. This went on for a few moments, her aversion 
 or resentment seeming to increase as, always coming 
 nearer, he forced his advances upon her, and would in the 
 end have clasped her in his arms. Only for those few 
 moments had Vincent the question hanging in his mind, 
 ^^ Will she — can she — forgive him ? '' Only until the 
 sound of her sudden cry of anger reached him through 
 all that intervening distance, and he saw, as Oliver's 
 blood-stained hands touched her, the way in which her 
 own struck fiercely out as in abhorrence of the thing they 
 sought to drive away. Then, indeed, Vincent's heart 
 leapt within him for joy, for there was no love left in a 
 blow like that. 
 
 He watched Lucinda's flight from the garden, saw her 
 emerge on the straight terrace-path to the house ; and then 
 noted for the first time that she was followed by a great 
 white hound he did not recognise, and that she stopped at 
 the entrance from the lawn to caress it lovingly, stooping 
 over it and kissing its face. It was no dog he knew. Then 
 
314 AN AFFAIE OF DISH0:N'0R 
 
 he saw Oliver turn to come awav, more feeling than seeing 
 his disconcertment and chagrin, and then lost him in 
 scattered coppices and buildings, till he came again in 
 sight of the bridge. 
 
 " Kow, Absalom Price, listen to me, and when the 
 gentleman comes for his horse, say to him just what I 
 say to you now." Absalom nodded his pledge of faith, 
 and his confidence in his own powers. " Remember to 
 say that the old Squire's son waits to see him, and bring 
 him round to me, there where the snake was . . . yes — 
 the viper ! " Vincent repeated the word, mimicking the 
 boy's pronunciation. 
 
 Absalom turned to go, eager to do his errand. But Vin- 
 cent called him back, to give him another charge; harder^ 
 perhaps, of fulfilment for a mere youngster. Did he know 
 where the barber lived in the village — he that tended the 
 old Squire's wound? For the village surgeon was the 
 barber too. Of course Abs'lom knew! Well, then, he 
 was to find him in all haste so soon as he had brought Sir 
 Oliver to the spot, and tell him to come forthwith, for his 
 services would be needed. He was to wait for no further 
 telling, but to go. Vincent saw that he understood, and 
 sent him packing. Then he retraced his steps and 
 waited. 
 
 His patience would be taxed, he knew, in the pause that 
 must elapse before Oliver's coming. But he would bear 
 it. What did a few minutes more matter now — now that 
 he was franked by what he had seen of the change of his 
 sister's heart-— freed by her action to take vengeance on 
 the man that had slain their father ? So, patience ! 
 
 What were the words that kept coming to his mind, 
 the Divine bidding to love our enemies, to forgive that we 
 should be forgiven ? " Mine enemies — ^yes ! " said Vinr 
 
AlSr AFFAIE OF DISHONOE 315 
 
 cent to his heart. " Mine enemies that face my sword in 
 the light of day ! Yea — the better they wield the sword, 
 the better I love them ! '^ And the tears coursed down his 
 cheeks as the thought came to him of his dear foe, Van- 
 heist, unburied in some forgotten corner of rocks jutting 
 out to sea, his face and limbs all mangled by the fishes. 
 But — the man whose treacherous love had betrayed his 
 sister, whose more than treacherous sword had slain his 
 father! It was not enemies such as he that our Lord 
 thought to name in that Sermon on the Mount, when He 
 spake as one having authority, and not as one of the 
 Scribes. Would not He Himself rather have spoken His 
 blessing on the sword of retribution for the sin He Him- 
 self denounced ? For was not the Commandment spoken, 
 ^' Thou shalt do no murder " ? and had not He Himself 
 said, " Till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle 
 shall in no wise pass from the Law, till all be fulfilled " ? 
 
 The laggard time seemed longer than its true duration; 
 no doubt of that ! He paced restlessly to and fro awhile ; 
 then stopped, and, drawing his sword from its scabbard 
 ■ — for in those days no man was parted from his sword 
 except it were by his own fireside, or that of a friend — 
 struck the air with it so that it sang. Then he paused, 
 with a doubt in his mind. The sword was a long one — 
 something over the standard length — and might be a cause 
 to delay the encounter. The soldier's right to a weapon in 
 battle as large as his strength can wield it is subject to a 
 new rule of chivalry in the duello. There the weapons 
 must be alike, weight for weight, inch for inch. The 
 apprehension was a damper to Vincent's glowing hope of 
 battle near at hand. But there came the sound of voices, 
 a boy's and a man's — yes! — Oliver's voice. Vincent 
 sheathed hie sword, and waited. 
 
316 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOXOK 
 
 " That need be no drawback, no more than that we are 
 alone/' So said Oliver, five minutes later, as thej faced 
 each other on the turf, free of superfluous garments and 
 all in trim but that, when their swords were held to 
 measure, the point of Oliver's came short of the hilt of 
 Vincent's. For it is thus the length of swords must be 
 tried when duellists are alone; neither parting with his 
 weapon. A second of either maj handle both weapons at 
 once, for a measurement. 
 
 " It is too great a miss, Sir Oliver. It shall never be 
 said I slew a man with a sword longer than his own, 
 off the field of battle. I can accept no grace, neither, 
 from my father's murderer. At the least, take you the 
 longer weapon." He proffered it, handle foremost, but 
 the response to his action was but sluggish. 
 
 Sir Oliver's longing for the encounter was not keen, and 
 it may have been that he would have welcomed any delay. 
 Now he knew quite well, for all his show of indifference, 
 that Vincent would never fight him at an advantage, and 
 may easily have seen that the surest road to a respite lay 
 through a mock-chivalrous refusal of his opponent's con- 
 cession. By holding back he foresaw that Vincent might 
 be, as it were, compelled to withdraw his challenge, and 
 that he himself might even be able to refuse a later one, 
 saying, " It is by no fault of mine, but your own, that the 
 affair miscarried. Was not I ready? What cared I for 
 the eighth of an inch on a sword-point ? " 
 
 But a middle course was open to him. He held out 
 the handle of his own sword, taking no hold of his oppo- 
 nent's in exchange, only saying, " A fairer shift would 
 be to cast lots ? " For he meant, if the lot gave Vin- 
 cent back his own blade, to accept the proposal that 
 was sure to come, of an adjournment till all the for- 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 317 
 
 malities could be complied with. So sure was he of hisi 
 man. 
 
 Vincent assented to the suggestion. A large and a small 
 pebble in either hand, and Oliver's closed right as he 
 opened it showed the smaller pebble. That settled it, 
 and Vincent, joyously seizing Oliver's sword, exclaimed; 
 ''The time has come. Look to yourself, Sir Oliver 
 Raydon!" 
 
 Sir Oliver was a fine swordsman, as the tale has seen; 
 but his memory of that encounter he had witnessed from 
 afar, on the ship's deck, unnerved him. In vain did he 
 repeat to himself that the vigorous use of a broadsword — 
 a ship's cutlass — in a melee, a tangle of combatants, ar- 
 gued nothing of a skill to match his own in mastery of the 
 rapier-point. He was soon painfully aware that he had 
 to contend against a strength greater than his own, how- 
 ever he had dared to hope that the finesse and subtlety of 
 his own hand, acquired from great masters of la scherma 
 in Italy, were absent from his opponent's. He was aware,, 
 too, that his position was that one least loved of all com- 
 batants, ineffectual attack on strength in reserve, ignorant 
 as yet what power may lie behind it. Do what he could^ 
 he could not pass that terrible steel point that was always- 
 between him and his object, that seemed immovable, a» 
 though held by a vice. He was conscious of continually 
 falling back before the relentless, impassable blade, never 
 regaining his lost ground; conscious, too, that he would 
 soon be stopped by a tree at his back, putting him at a 
 disadvantage; for the more reliance is placed on rapidity 
 and subtlety as against strength, the greater the need for 
 entire freedom of action. The doubt how soon his limit 
 would be reached was as bad as the reaching of it. 
 
 The treacherous minu'tes fled, each one in turn leaving 
 
818 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 
 
 him more keenly alive to his own loss of force, with no set- 
 off of gain to balance it. Still the same determination, 
 fixed, unwavering, in the stern eyes he had to watch, as 
 well as the sword-point that had begun, to him, to mean — 
 death ! And not far hence, if this went on ! 
 
 But, at least, his adversary should not go scot-free, 
 whether he himself lived or died. In his despair, a most 
 brilliant rally spoke well for Oliver's repute as a swords- 
 man. Had he been met by a like handling of his oppo- 
 nent's weapon, he might have scored a success, but he had 
 no chance against a point he could neither displace nor 
 pass, and his breath was goin^ quickly. The end had to 
 come, and came. A recoil from his last futile thrust — it 
 had gone dangerously near success! — a half -stumble over 
 a stone on his backward path, and a wavering seen plainly 
 by the stern eye always fixed upon him, and then he felt 
 his own sword-hilt caught irresistibly, and saw it whirled 
 away above his head, to turn and fall hilt-foremost into 
 the tree-trunk where the tethered horse still munched the 
 grass peacefully, all unknowing what had been the mean- 
 ing of the measured sword-clink, the ring of gliding steel, 
 so near at hand. Something of the spirit of the time and 
 its traditions from the past stirred in Oliver as he stood 
 there, believing he awaited death. ^' The hour is yours, 
 Vincent Mauleverer," said he. ^^ Make a brief end ! " 
 
 At that moment he seemed his best as a man to his 
 opponent; better even than he had seemed before as the 
 genial host, the courteous gentleman who had given such 
 generous welcome to a castaway. And thereat Vincent 
 could think a word of forgiveness to himself for the loving 
 of this man for awhile by the sister whose repudiation of 
 him he had but now witnessed. For the fearlessness of 
 death is a thing that softens even the hangman's heart, 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHO:^OR 319 
 
 though his knot be tightening on the throat of God's verj; 
 foulest creature. 
 
 The boy, who had done his errand quickly — indeed, by 
 a favourable chance he had met the surgeon before he 
 reached the village — ran well ahead of his company; for 
 more than one chance bystander was at hand to follow 
 them — if only in quest of excitement. He ran his best as, 
 coming nearer^ he heard the cruel music of the sword- 
 play through the copsewood ere he reached it- But the 
 sound had stopped when,, still hidden, lae could see the 
 combatants, the one standing at pause, his sword-point 
 dropped; keen eyesight for his late opponent only, 
 clenched jaw and knitted brow that surely meant death; 
 the other with an almost mocking ease in his folded arms> 
 almost a. smile in the defiant curl of his lip, as he re- 
 peated in the boy's hearing, " Make a brief end on't, good 
 Vincent! You wiU not change the past, but . . ." and 
 then some more his hearer could not catch. 
 
 The boy's heart thumped on his ribs, as, understanding 
 much for all his youth, he looked out from the bushes, and 
 saw where Oliver Raydon stood defenceless before the man 
 whose father he had slain, whose sister's young life he had 
 blighted past recall. 
 
CHAPTEK XIX 
 
 Nothing is, nor can be, more Avearisome to the heart than 
 the intrusion of the little vulgar things of daily life, when 
 thought and feeling are at their highest tension, at 
 moments when of all things our longing is but to get 
 away, to be alone ; to struggle, as may be, against remorse 
 or grief, or apprehension of some dreaded news to come. 
 Such was Lucinda's case, when, seeking no more than a 
 brief solitude, if only to be clear of tell-tale tears, she 
 encountered by the way a person who had never been 
 overwelcome to her at the best of times. At the stairfoot 
 that led to that room in the eastern turret she had so lately 
 come from, her anticipation of relief in its silence was 
 baulked by the sudden appearance of Rachel Anstiss, a 
 very epitome of all decorous obeisances, her manner a 
 living testimony to her willingness to overlook a fellow- 
 woman's frailty in her own interest. ^' Rely upon me to 
 know nothing," was written on her untempting cheek, 
 and confirmed by an indescribable subservience in a pro- 
 jection of upper teeth that quarrelled with her lower lip 
 about a lisp they should have shared between them. 
 
 My lady would pardon her importunity, she knew — this 
 was the substance of her exordium — seeing how honest 
 was the affection for her ladyship that prompted it. 
 Lucinda mistrusted this woman, and knew her for a liar. 
 But she was too gracious of heart to refuse to hear her suit 
 outright. What did she seek? — she asked. 
 
 " What should I seek, my lady," said Rachel Anstiss, 
 
 320 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 321 
 
 " but to serve you, when you return to your home. The 
 worshipful Sir Oliver . . .'' The woman stopped, not 
 because of any interruption, but because, until now, she 
 had not noticed her hearer's quick-coming breath and 
 ashy-white face. '^ I will speak to you of this later," 
 Lucinda said, and passed quickly up the stair. Mrs. 
 Anstiss could think of nothing to say, only, as she turned 
 to go, she closed her lips tight, and nodded more than 
 once. She may only have done this to lay claim to in- 
 sight, however vague was her idea of the cause of Lu- 
 cinda's distress of mind. 
 
 The great white hound had followed Lucinda from the 
 garden, but stopped at the stairfoot. He knew he was an 
 intruder in the house, but that the sin of mere entry was 
 venial, while the ascent of stairs was a thing forbidden to 
 dogs of his size, whatever might be the privileges of lesser 
 pets. So he stood at the foot, one forepaw touching the 
 lowest tread at times, with soft explanatory noises noAv: 
 and then, pleading for a suspension on his behalf of a 
 stupid rule. But his appeal was made to one who had no 
 soul for dogs, and the courtesy of his nobler nature made 
 concession to Rachel Anstiss, whose threatening action in 
 driving him out was indeed but a registration of her claim 
 to belong to the ruling caste, Man. For had he ignored it, 
 what could she have done? He trotted out, the way he 
 came, never questioning her jurisdiction. As for Rachel 
 herself, she hesitated, with brief nods; then returned to 
 the kitchen. She said to herself more than once by the 
 way that it was no concern of hers, and made that fact a 
 stepping-stone to the telling of this experience to such 
 others of the household as she found there. And these 
 were ready with speculation as to its meaning, and each 
 could account for her ladyship's demeanour in her own 
 
322 AN AJFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 way, and to her own satisfaction. Eut no one of them 
 knew of Sir Oliver's presence in the garden, an hour since. 
 Por this garden was quite unseen from the windows of the 
 house. 
 
 An hour passed, or little short of an hour. Then 
 Lucinda, who had remained alone in her room with a 
 swimming head that would not lot her think what had 
 happened, rose from the seat she had fallen into and never 
 stirred from, as the little Swiss clock on the mantel struck 
 ten, telling her how the minutes had run hj uncounted. 
 Surely Vincent should have returned from his ride hy 
 now. He had heen gone the best part of two hours. 
 
 She roused herself, and after slight adjustment of her 
 hair and dress, went down the stairway of the tyower, and 
 into a long corridor she had to pass to reach the broad 
 flight leading to the entrance-halL As she passed an open 
 window she caught the sound of much discussion in the 
 kitchen- It had continued without material variation 
 since liachel Anstiss set it afoot an hour since; every 
 soul, except the little kitchen-wench N^ell, whose business 
 was to be seen and not heard, having repeated the same 
 verdict at intervals throughout that time, without con- 
 tributing any new datum to the discussion. They might 
 have gone on thus for another hour, had not a sudden cry 
 from the corridor reached them, and brought them out 
 to find its cause. 
 
 For Lucinda, when she reached the corridor, saw an 
 unexpected sight. At the far end was the great dog 
 Diarmid standing true in the centre of the passage-way, 
 his tail beating from side to side, a slow expressive pendu- 
 lum; otherwise, a statue. But as the Memnon of the 
 Desert gives out — so travellers say — a note at sunrise, so 
 Diarmid, when he saw his mistress, uttered a little musical 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOI^OR 323 
 
 sound of admonition or welcome; then made a half-turn 
 back; as though to lead the way to something known to 
 him, but outside his powers of speech. Again turning, 
 he came to Lucinda's feet, crouching and doing his best 
 to tell of this thing, whatever it might be. 
 
 Then Lucinda, stopping to caress him, and on the edge 
 of a flood of tears — and little wonder, so near to the sweet 
 nature of the dog ! — was stopped by her own sudden cry, 
 that came from her in despite of herself. For there on the 
 green veining of the marble floor, where he had dragged 
 himself, crouching, to meet her caress, was a new streak 
 that had no kinship with the marble, for it was red as 
 blood. 
 
 Had it not been for all the tension of the morning, she 
 would have been more mistress of herself than to cry out 
 thus for a thing which might have many explanations. It 
 might even have been the dog's own blood. A scratch 
 beneath him as he leaped a fence would have accoimted 
 for it. But Lucinda's cry was one of relief as well as 
 alarm, for she had, as it were, a right to cry out for such 
 a cause. And it was heard in the kitchen, for all their 
 clack, as we have seen. All came running out. 
 
 "Why is it blood? What blood?— whose blood?'' 
 Thus Lucinda, speaking quickly through a growing ap- 
 prehension. She was ashy white, and her breath caught. 
 
 Then the three serving-women and Zachary Sharp the 
 butler, and Anthony the stable-help, who had no business 
 in the kitchen — for the girl 'NeW was, as Cook said, no 
 business of his — all looked about, and each at the other. 
 But none found words except Mrs. Langdon, the house- 
 keeper. " Sakes alive and save us. Miss Lucy ! " said she. 
 " There be no blood that I can see. 'Tis in your eyesight.'' 
 
 But Rachel Anstiss saw better, and found Dame Lang- 
 
324: AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 
 
 don to blame ; for that was her way. ^^ You need not be 
 so ready to correct my lady/' said she. ^' See the dog's 
 coat." And then Lucinda pointed to the floor-stain. 
 But none could have a guess of what the blood was. 
 Zachary the butler shook his head as though he could tell 
 something; but no one heeded this, none thinking him a 
 bit wiser than his neighbours. Lucinda alone had any 
 motive for suspecting bloodshed near at hand. 
 
 Presently she said, ^^ He is my dog Diarmid from the 
 New Hall. Take him and wash him." And Zachary the 
 butler said " Anthony ! " to the stable-help, as one quali- 
 iied to convey instruction from above, and make the will 
 of his betters known to those of humbler station. Thereon 
 Anthony said, as though his authority had been appealed 
 to : " Ah, that's what he is, he's Diarmid. Over by 
 Croxley." And the dog went with him, having first 
 looked round at Lucinda, to make sure it was her will that 
 he should do so. 
 
 She had known that the little Swiss clock in her room 
 was a runagate well ahead of tlie true time. But now the 
 tall clock in the hall testified, with slow decision, to the 
 outrageous lateness of the hour. And still no Vincent! 
 But she said nothing to any of the household of the un- 
 easiness that was on her. Only, she could not remain in 
 the house, but had perforce to go to the main entrance, 
 from which she could see the road either way, whether he 
 returned the way he went or not. For even if he had 
 gone round by Lea Down he would ride in at this front 
 gate. Of this she felt sure, and watched for his return 
 with confidence. 
 
 So absorbed was she in her watching, and so eager to 
 catch sight of him at the very soonest, that she gave no 
 heed to certain noises in the house behind her, betokening 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHO^^OK 325 
 
 that something* was afoot. Even when old Adam Anstiss, 
 the gatekeeper, said to her, '^ I think they be calling for 
 you in the house. Miss Lucy " — for he, too, had passed 
 a lifetime at the Old Hall, and would speak of her thus- 
 even then she did not withdraw her eyes from the road. 
 
 But soon comes the little kitchen- wench, or scullion, 
 !N^ell, running and crying; and to what she has to say 
 Lucinda must needs listen. It is all mixed with sobs, and 
 inarticulate with terror. The Squire has come back — 
 that much is clear. But, if he has come back, a-horseback, 
 and has given his horse to Anthony to bring round, who is 
 this the little maid speaks of whom ^' they are carrying up 
 to the red room " ; that is, the room her father breathed 
 his last in. Speed back to the house comes in the way of 
 a clear hearing; yet it would be ill economy to halt and 
 make it clearer. A few steps more will give the facts 
 themselves. A frightening prevision hangs in Lucinda's 
 mind for a moment. Has Vincent kept his saddle despite 
 of some bad injury, just able to reach home and fall 
 insensible? In another moment she has rejected the 
 idea. 
 
 It is scarcely a minute from the Lodge gate to the 
 entrance-hall of the house, even though one has to cross 
 the courtyard. But it seems an age to Lucinda, as she 
 almost runs, trying by the way to make sense of the child's 
 half-articulate report. Then one of the others comes 
 running to meet her, having first sought her elsewhere; 
 but on seeing her stops, and calls back through the door to 
 someone within, " Here comes my lady.'' Thereon her 
 fear for her brother is at an end, for he meets her at 
 the door, and his arm is strong to support her, and 
 welcome. 
 
 For she is sick with an apprehension she dares not utter. 
 
326 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 Yet it is something, and no small thing neither, to see 
 Vincent's face so grave and strong, and to feel the strength 
 of his arm about her waist. What is that he says ^ She 
 repeats after him, as not understanding his words, " He 
 may live 1 How ^ may live ' ? " 
 
 He alters the phrase. " It may be that he will 
 live." 
 
 She knows in her heart of whom he speaks. But, sup- 
 pose her knowledge is wrong ! ^^ Oh, Vincent," she cries 
 out, *' of whom do you speak ? Say his name, for God's 
 sake!" 
 
 " Oliver-^Sir Oliver Raydon." 
 
 Then she cried out aloud : " Oh, Vincetit, you have slain 
 him ! " And she thrust her brother from her, and would 
 have fled, though she knew not where. But her strength 
 stood her poorly in stead, and down she fell, not swooning 
 outright, but all dizzy and insecure of foot. He, for his 
 part, stood by her but for a moment, pityingly ; then raised 
 her in his arms as he might have raised a child, she moan- 
 ing the while, half-unconscious, perhaps, and carried her 
 to a room where there was a couch to place her, and knelt 
 beside her, keeping her hand tenderly in his, and smooth- 
 ing back from her brow the great mass of black hair her 
 fall had shaken over it. And then he found his voice to 
 speak to her returning consciousness. 
 
 ^' Oh, Lucy, Lucy ! It was not my hand, as the 
 chance was, but the hand of God — if indeed he be 
 slain. But that I know not. He lives still, and has 
 spoken. ..." 
 
 Her mind seemed to come back to her^ but she spoke 
 without unclosing her eyes, or rising up. 
 
 " Where is he ? " she said. " Where is he now ? " 
 
 " He is in the room where our father died," said Vin- 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 327 
 
 cent, but in a liiislaed voice, " We had no choice but to 
 place him there. I had told them to carry him to Roger's 
 room or mine, high up. But as he was borne by the red 
 room the blood came again, that was stayed for a time; 
 and the surgeon would have us place him on the nearest 
 bed, so that he should be spared further jolting oa the 
 stairs. . , .'^ 
 
 Lucinda started up — became, as it were, herself again, 
 but as one in panic. " Oh, let me go to him I ^' she cried. 
 " I must go. He is Oliver. Oh, how can I be so near 
 him when he dies? . . . and yet . . , no! — I can- 
 not go." And with that she sank back on the couch, 
 sitting on in a kind of despair, with little spasms now 
 and again of the clenched hands. 
 
 Then she repeated, ^' Xo — I cannot go," as though her 
 mind were made up. But she would be sure that the best 
 was being done that might be for Sir Oliver, and made 
 inquiry. Oh yes — so said Vincent — the surgeon was with 
 him, and he himself would return shortly to the bedside 
 of the wounded man. ^KTothing should be neglected. But, 
 said Lucinda, would it not be well that Anthony should 
 ride to Caistorbury to summon Dr. Phinehas, who was of 
 wider experience than little Cradock from the village, who 
 was but an apothecary and the village barber. " That was 
 ^ good thought," said Vincent. " I will arrange these 
 matters/^ he added, and left the room. 
 
 He was not long absent, and found when he returned 
 that Lucinda still sat as he had left her, to all -seeming 
 never having moved from her place, ^^ Now I will tell 
 you," said he, and went on to describe his meeting with 
 Oliver, and all the events we ali^ady know. What has 
 not been told he narrated thus : '^^ When I saw him stand- 
 ing there before me, and thought of our father lying dead, 
 
328 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOE 
 
 and all his villainy to you — ay! and to a hundred others 
 — I was hard put to it, my Lucy, not to send my sword- 
 point on a good errand of justice through his wicked 
 heart. But he was disarmed and defenceless, and I had 
 little liking for a task that was fitter for a hangman or 
 headsman in a land where none but traitors are con- 
 demned. So — to cut the tale short — I bade him take his 
 sword again in hand, for that I would not grudge him a 
 man^s death fighting, though no such grace was due to 
 him from me or mine. Brute as he was^ he had his 
 courtesies, for he acknowledged it. ^ I am your debtor,' 
 said he, ^ for a grace I have not deserved.' But I 
 thought even then he spoke with an ill-command of 
 tongue. ..." 
 
 Lucinda interrupted. " How ' even then ' ? " 
 
 " Wait, and you shall hear. It is quickest told just as 
 it chanced. He went to take his sword from where it had 
 fallen — as I told you. ..." 
 
 " Yes, I heard it. It had fallen in the hole of a tree- 
 trunk. I know the place well, and the tree-trunk. Amy 
 and I would place letters there, each for the other to 
 seek and find ... in the old days. ..." 
 
 " Well ! — the sword went hilt-foremost in, and the point 
 was left without, six inches of it at the most. I saw it 
 blaze in the sun as he stooped over it, reaching into the 
 hollow tree — let me tell all that you may know — and then 
 I heard the cry he gave, a bellowing as of some wild 
 beast. ..." 
 
 Lucinda cried out aloud, " Oh, Heaven ! — then it was 
 that 9 '* And then Vincent felt the hand that he held 
 clutch his with all its strength as her voice forced out the 
 words, " Go on. I know it now." He went on steadily. 
 " It was the cry he gave before — that day at Kips Manor. 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISH0:N'0E 329 
 
 I heard it come from him as he pitched headlong, fairly 
 on the sword-point. Had I been close I could have saved 
 him, I believe. ..." 
 
 " Oh, Vincent — my brother ! Saved him — saved him 
 to slay him after ! Oh, but you are mad ! " 
 
 " I cannot clip reasons close upon it, darling. I should 
 have tried to save him; that I know, without knowing 
 why. But his doom came too quick for me. . . . And 
 yet, he may live. . . ." 
 
 ^^ Go on — go on where you stopped — Oliver fell ! " 
 
 ^' He fell, and the fit was on him, and he lay foaming at 
 the mouth. But he slipped from the sword-point, falling 
 thus, sideways.'' Vincent showed his meaning by a move- 
 ment of his hand. '' Nevertheless, he was sorely 
 wounded; to instant death, as I thought then, for the 
 blood came quickly. But they came up iai time . . . 
 did I tell thee of how I despatched the boy to get the 
 doctor, even before we measured swords? . . . No? 
 . . . Well, I am but a poor storyteller! . . . Any- 
 how, that was so, and he came up before the fit subsided, 
 with others from the village. And the fit was not long; 
 indeed, shorter by a great deal than at Kips Manor. Lit- 
 tle Cradock would have it — and he has more wits than 
 you grant him, Lucy — that it was t! e blood-letting that 
 did it. But I know not." 
 
 '' But what could he do for him ? . . . Oh, Oliver ! '' 
 The pain in her heart came out in her cry; for what Sir 
 Oliver had once been to her, that he must needs be still, in 
 a certain sense, whatever his image had become. She was 
 wrested two ways at once by a double-seeming of his 
 memory. 
 
 " What could he do ? " said Vincent. " He could check 
 the hajmorrhage, and he did it, and cleverly, too. But 
 
330 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOls'OR 
 
 it was none too soon, and for my part I thought Sir 
 Oliver might die by the way, for the litter he was borne 
 upon was a rough contrivance at the best." 
 
 " Go to him now, Vincent — ^go and come back, and tell 
 me, will he live or die l . . . No ! dearest boy — I will 
 not come. . . . l!^o, I will never see him again* Never 
 again ! . . . But go you, now." Lucinda was not 
 speaking as under any great stress of excitement, but as 
 one whose mind was made up. Her brother made no 
 effort to change her decision. 
 
 As he left the room, she caught, through the door, as it 
 opened for tlie moment, the disturbance of the household; 
 the sense of hurried footsteps and quick speech in under- 
 tones, till, closing again, it left her in silence as before. 
 She could persuade herself that, whatever happened with- 
 out, she would do well to take no part in it Yet it was 
 hard to hold to this resolve, an easy one enough to keep 
 had she been sure her lover was not wounded absolutely to 
 death. She could have borne her renunciation of him well 
 enough had she not feared it might be made irrevocable to 
 her. Her inner soul was shuddering at a dire possibility 
 in the beyond; a fierce remorse waiting to spring on her 
 heart from the darkness — a knowledge that her own hard 
 will alone had stood between herself and Oliver at the last 
 moment. How should she face the extenuation of his 
 offences men would surely make for him when he lay 
 dead, let alone the fact that exculpation, well grounded, 
 might come to light? It is hard work to hate the dead, 
 even those for whom, when living, we had little love. 
 Oh that she too might die! — that was Lucinda^s 
 thought. 
 
 But was her life her own, that she should dare to wish 
 it ended ? She had asked herself this question more thaa 
 
'A'N AFFAIK OF DISH0:N^0R 331 
 
 once of late. It was a question few women would have 
 dared to say yes to, under Lucinda^s circumstances. 
 
 Presently the loneliness that had been a relief a mo- 
 ment ago became an oppression ; and, somehow, alleviation 
 must be found. Walking restlessly about the room waB of 
 no use. She went with sudden hasty energy to the door, 
 and, opening it, listened. No one was close at hand. A 
 long way off she could hear the voices of her old aunts — 
 but lately risen, no doubt — breaking in on the house- 
 keeper's, whose continuous current of speech was surely 
 narrative that shocked and terrified. ISTearer voices were 
 in the kitchen, each trying to bear down the other with 
 some sort of refutation. Her brother, the butler, and 
 Cradock the surgeon would all be in the wounded man's 
 chamber — the room she in her childhood w^ould watch to 
 see her father come from, in the early mornings, to kiss 
 her on the stairs, and go out with her in her own garden, 
 where she saw Oliver for the last time an hour since. 
 What had become of the dog? His love was so true and 
 sound, as far as it went, that she would have been glad to 
 have him back. So she called ^* Diarmid — Diarmid ! '' 
 He would be somewhere about^ and would now be washed 
 clean of blood. She shuddered as she thought that this 
 was Oliver's blood. 
 
 But the dog came not, only the little kitchen-maid ISTell, 
 asking, did my lady call ? Yes, she did. Where was the 
 dog — the great dog ? He had followed Mr. Anthony, who 
 had ridden to Caistorbury to bring with him the other 
 surgeon — the funny gentleman who was so deaf. The 
 girl knew all about it; Mr. Anthony had told her. Was 
 Eaehel Anstiss gone? — Lucinda asked, l^ell would see. 
 She thought not. 
 
 Her thought was right; for here comes Rachel, not 
 
332 a:n' affair of dishonor 
 
 content to ask if my lady had sent for her, without some 
 quite needless suggestion of presumption on the part of 
 the kitchenmaid, but all obsequious of her own part. 
 
 It then appears, in answer to inquiry, that she has come 
 lately from the New Hall, having just arrived when 
 Lucinda spoke with her at the stairfoot. She seems to 
 consider herself , provisionally Lucinda^s maid, awaiting 
 confirmation of the appointment, but in the interim 
 favoured or tolerated by Dame Cecily, the housekeeper at 
 Croxley. This morning, finding that Sir Oliver had rid- 
 den away early, telling John Rackham whither he went, 
 she has thought the occasion good to further her own re- 
 instatement; all the more readily that — being officious — 
 she could convey with her a letter brought in haste by a 
 special carrier for Sir Oliver but a few minutes after his 
 departure. 
 
 " Give it to me ! '^ says then Lucinda abruptly. " Why 
 could not the messenger ride on here with it himself ? '^ 
 
 " His nag was forspent, my lady. He had ridden hard 
 through the night, he said; and his orders were to carry 
 this letter, being of a great importance, to Sir Oliver 
 Raydon, at Croxley Thorpe, or to give it into safe hands 
 at his house, but no further instructions. 'Twas Mr, 
 Rackham's idea, and none of mine, that I should carry it, 
 saying he had no mind to saddle up his o^^m horse that Sir 
 Oliver should get a letter an hour sooner. So I took 
 upon me to bring it, riding behind Dickon Weaver, who 
 was taking cloth to market. I had no thought to 
 presume.'^ 
 
 " Give it to me," says Lucinda then again, and takes it 
 from the woman's hand, saying no more, and letting her 
 think as she will about the presumption. 
 
 But Rachel is concerned about this letter. " Will you, 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 333 
 
 my lady, be pleased to read what is wrote upon the 
 cover ? " Whereon Lucinda, who has had it in her mind 
 to let the letter bide till she has disposed of Mrs. Anstiss, 
 glances again at it, more closely, and reads, plain to be 
 seen, thus : — " He w^ho opens this letter had best have a 
 care to sprinkle it with vinegar, and not to handle it more 
 than is needed for a fair reading." Whereupon she, 
 noting also that this letter has three great black seals, 
 and feeling within her a shrinking from it as from some 
 new and strange danger, goes first to place it well out 
 of reach at the farthest end of the room, and then, re- 
 turning, says curtly to Rachel Anstiss that if, as she 
 supposes, her object in seeking her is to renew her situa- 
 tion of tirewoman, the sooner she gives up the idea the 
 better; and that in no case will she herself ever return 
 to Croxley Hall, whether Sir Oliver lives or dies. All 
 this she says as though each word gave pain, and as one 
 keen to make a finish ; ending with, " You know your way 
 out, Rachel Anstiss." Who, being thus dismissed, makes 
 courtesy and departs. 
 
 When Lucinda took that letter in her hand she had, like 
 enough, little idea of what the black seals meant, except 
 that they could only portend Death. But the reading of 
 the superscription gave her a chill. Of late terrible tales 
 had been coming thick and fast of the frightful epidemic 
 from the East, showing London as a plague-struck city, 
 where no man's life was safe for an hour. Tales of whole 
 households blasted with the irresistible contagion; parents 
 flying from children in terror and leaving them to die ; the 
 mother shuddering away from the sucking babe at sight of 
 the deadly plague-spot on its little body; the bridegroom 
 sickening at the touch of the bride's lips, unconscious of 
 the fatal taint still hidden by the bridal robes. Tales of 
 
334 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOE 
 
 the doors of houses closed and sealed on a household for- 
 bidden egress, for all but that one death had been known 
 within; all those who still were uninfected, or clung to 
 hope, striving to escape by roof or window, but driven 
 back ; yes — even of one who, falling with a crash from an 
 upper story, was thrust again, a broken cripple, into the 
 charnel-house that once had been his home. Of the 
 death-carts whose load was not always of the dead alone, 
 for the dying w^ere flung in the plague-pits ; and men went 
 mad who heard their cries, and had been known to cast 
 themselves in of their own choice, soon to be hidden by the 
 new loads, coming fast from all quarters. And these 
 hideous tales, be sure, had lost nothing in the telling. So 
 that Lucinda's mind was quickly alive to the meaning of 
 those words on the envelope, and might, indeed, have 
 augured ill from any letter having such funereal signs 
 upon it, coming as it did from a city that seemed singled 
 out above all others for the vengeance of God. But her 
 mind dwelt on a false aspect of this scourge that had 
 fallen on London, always conceiving that the meaner sort 
 of folk alone fell victims, persons of condition being 
 held secure by some strange preference of Fortune she 
 accepted without questioning or seeking to find the 
 cause of. 
 
 But she would have no one touch the letter but herself, 
 and made sure that it was well sprinkled with vinegar, as 
 the bidding was of the words on its cover. And then she 
 locked it away in a private drawer until Sir Oliver should 
 be well enough to read it himself, as might be ere long. 
 For the letter was his, and none other had a right to it, 
 and though he had been basely disloyal to her, she was not 
 the one to pay him in his own coin. But she never entered 
 the room where he lay betwixt life and death. And yet 
 
AK AFFAIK OF DISHOI^OR 335 
 
 she could not bring herself to listen to her brother's 
 counsel, and leave the house to find a home for a time 
 elsewhere, as she might have done. For there were a 
 many who loved her so well as to be willing to give her a 
 welcome, despite all her misdeeds, although they might 
 not altogether account her sinless. 
 
CHAPTEE XX 
 
 During the first day or two following his combined in- 
 juries — ^the stab and the fit together — Sir Oliver's tongue 
 wandered, and his words were silly, or seemed so. And 
 then two days later comes Vincent from his morning 
 ride, and, meeting Lucinda at the outer gate, where she 
 awaited his return, says to her: ^^We may look to be 
 quit of him soon, Lucy. Speech has come back to him, 
 and his wits.'' 
 
 Then Lucinda, who, despite herself, has been ever on 
 the alert to hear all her brother can tell of the wounded 
 man's progress, strives to conceal her eagerness to hear 
 more, and does it but ill. Vincent sees this, and is ready 
 with his report, and as he speaks is conscious of the grow- 
 ing interest all feel who watch the struggle between life 
 and death, irrespective of the sufferer's claim to be loved 
 or hated. 
 
 " He spoke well and clearly when I went to his bedside 
 an hour since. ' I would not have you think me a hypo- 
 crite,' said he, ^ and I am in no humour for a sinner's re- 
 pentance; but I would not grudge amends for the wrong 
 I have done, even for the sake of such as have been the 
 worse by it. To be short with you,' says he, ' I have little 
 stomach for the parson and his preaching, but I have as 
 little to die and leave my memory a cursing-stock for 
 Lucy.' And then he was still, as though he had used all 
 the breath he had, and lay silent." Thus Vincent, to 
 :whom Lucinda made no immediate reply ; so after a pause 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 33? 
 
 he continued : ^' If I had any true guess of his meaning, it 
 was that his mind ran on a wish he could make you his 
 wife, legal as well as actual." 
 
 Then Lucinda said coldly : " I am his wife in no sense ; 
 and were it possible I should become so, is he not our 
 f ather^s murderer ? How could I wed him 1 '' E'ow she 
 said this never imagining what news was contained in 
 that letter that awaited Oliver's fitness to read it. For it 
 was still lying where she had placed it, by the peremptory 
 advice of Dr. Phinehas, who would have it the result of 
 any sudden shock might be fatal to his patient, weak as he 
 was from loss of blood ; and a sufferer, too, from a serious 
 disorder. 
 
 But this revival her brother told of brought back the 
 letter to her mind, and she said to him as they rose from 
 the breakfast-table : " I suppose the letter may be given 
 to him now ? " And he replied : ^^ If the doctor permits 
 it. He must be asked." To which she said: " Of course." 
 But neither had then the slightest suspicion of the con- 
 tents of this letter. 
 
 Dr. Phinehas, being asked, raised no objection, but 
 would have the letter first fumigated as a precaution ; and 
 it may be he was right, so subtle are the conditions of con- 
 tagious disorders. Lucinda, having agreed to this, was 
 glad to leave the delivery of the letter in her brother's 
 hands and the doctor's, and to withdraw from mixing her- 
 self in any way with the matter, as one having no longer 
 any concern in the affairs of Sir Oliver. 
 
 So, as she goes away to ride for an hour by herself, 
 towards sunset — for this was late in the day, after Dr." 
 Phinehas had come and gone — Vincent her brother, 
 speaking somewhat lightly of the fumigation business as 
 but a needless farce, takes the letter, now supposed safe toi 
 
338 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 
 
 handle, and bears it straight to the bedside of the wounded 
 man ; still in his bandages, and like to remain so, for until 
 the healing is sure and firm, risk would be madness. Most 
 strange is his keen interest in his late opponent; and, in- 
 deed, that of the whole household, that this man should 
 recover, seeing what his deeds have been. But it is in 
 Nature that it should be so, for no fly is so poisonous but 
 that he who saves it from drowning wishes it quick 
 recovery. 
 
 So, as Vincent stood near the bed, having found its 
 occupant in a half-sleep, and seeing no reason to rouse 
 him to read a letter that had already lain three days in 
 the house, he felt his wish for the patient's recovery run 
 sharply counter to his memory of the past — a memory that 
 still held firm his sister's wrong and his father's murder; 
 for it was murder still, to Vincent. But the present had 
 the best of it, and when Sir Oliver, opening his eyes at 
 the sound of a footstep, spoke a greeting to him clearer 
 and better than heretofore, he could put a good heart into 
 his answer, and seemed to mean the hope he uttered that 
 in a while Sir Oliver would be fit to travel — at any rate, 
 the journey betwixt the Old Hall and the New. But do 
 what he would, he had to stop short of a protest against 
 his own speech, which might have seemed to desire an 
 unwelcome guest's early departure; although, indeed, he 
 had no such meaning. 
 
 '^ I have not deserved this of you, Mr. Mauleverer," 
 said Sir Oliver. ^^ I would say rather, I have deserved 
 nothing but ill of you and yours. But you take my 
 meaning? . . . Thank you! — yes, that is very com- 
 fortable." 
 
 Vincent, as he helped to raise the speaker on his pillow, 
 kalf formed the thought to say to him, " We have an en- 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 339 
 
 counter to finish, and 1 can well pray that your strength 
 may return quickly/' but he kept it unsaid, to choose a 
 better time for the saying of it, should all go well, saying 
 only : " Had the chance been mine. Sir Oliver, you would 
 have played the part that has fallen to me, and made no 
 stint — never doubt it! '^ This was all he saw his way to 
 the utterance of, a little grudgingly. 
 
 " I trust indeed I might have had the grace to do so," 
 said Oliver. ^^For are we not brothers, each bound to 
 take the other's part against the act of God ? " To which 
 Vincent replied nothing; for, though he was not sorry to 
 hear the patient speak thus like himself, the words spoken 
 had too much in them of a light impiety current at the 
 time to be altogether acceptable to him. But feelings of 
 this sort seldom went with him the length of a reproof to 
 another. He had the letter to turn to, and had no desire 
 to make his visit a long one. 
 
 " This letter, Sir Oliver,'' said he, ^' has been kept back 
 from you at the doctor's bidding, and has now been three 
 days awaiting your recovery. I am glad to say he thinks 
 you now well enough to read it." 
 
 " How the devil does his worshipful sagacity know 
 what's in it? " said Sir Oliver. " Will he be my security 
 that it is not a tailor's bill ? What is all this, wrote on the 
 cover ? " He was raised up on pillows now, and could see 
 the writing well as he took the letter from Vincent, who 
 explained briefly the nature of this superscription and its 
 reason, and accounted for the strange smell — for Oliver 
 put it to his nose — by telling of the fumigation. " Our 
 Dr. Phinehas is fanciful," said he, " but with a show of 
 reason now and again." 
 
 Then says Oliver, turning the letter about, as folk do 
 when they have no guess of the contents : " Here's a 
 
340 AN ATFAIE OF DISHOISTOE 
 
 gaudy show of black seals. Is the King dead ? " Whereas 
 had he supposed nothing therein unknown to him, he 
 would have broken the seals straightway, and no more 
 ado. But then of a sudden his face shows a change, and 
 clouds over with thought, and an eagerness to get at the 
 gist of these black seals. He rips them open with an 
 abrupt thumb, and is, in a moment deep in a close-written 
 missive in a lawyer's hand. So deep that Vincent says: 
 " I will leave you to the reading of this, Sir Oliver, and 
 return later — ^though, indeed, there is nothing we need 
 say " — and makes as though to depart. But Oliver checks 
 him with, " I pray you, one moment ! Bear with this for 
 one moment," and reads through his letter with a 
 ^' Humph ! " at intervals. Then he throws it from him, 
 saying : ^^ 'Tis an ill wind blows no man any good. . . . 
 Ay — read it if you have a mind, good Vincent ! '' And 
 then lies back on the pillow, as though his effort had cost 
 him dear, but in no great concern about the contents of 
 the letter. His part of the provisional suspension of hos- 
 tility he accepts cordially enough, so that, his showing of 
 this letter to Vincent does not seem to the latter to imply 
 that it concerns him more than another. He takes it from 
 the coverlid where it has fallen, without suspicion of its 
 contents. 
 
 But then Ms face, too, changes — indeed, more than Sir 
 Oliver's had done — and an angry flush grows upon it as he 
 reads, and now and again comes a look of horror, or, at 
 least, extremest concern. Time is needed for the reading 
 of it, and some of it calls for re-reading as soon as he has 
 finished it. Then he lays it again where it was at first, 
 saying nothing: but there is scorn or anger, or both, in 
 his glance at the figure on the bed, and in his lip and 
 nostril. 
 
'AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 341 
 
 " A tale to make the flesh creep, good Vincent/' So 
 says Oliver, not a whit moved; and then goes on, as 
 though some tale or ballad were the subject : — " Who 
 would have thought the Inns of Court could breed a 
 poet?" 
 
 " I fear he writes but facts that are afoot. Sir Oliver. 
 I see none of the poetry. I would I could think it were 
 so, and that he overstretched speech to arouse belief in 
 sluggard minds. But there be tales such as these on every 
 tongue now, and 'tis said that all who can are flying from 
 the city, even as Lot and his kith flew from Sodom." 
 
 " Spoke like a book, dear sir, and a good book to boot ! 
 Now I would give a crown to know — was Lot glad or sorry 
 at heart that the Lord should change his wife to a pillar 
 of salt ? What think you ? " But Vincent had by this 
 become again absorbed in the letter, having taken it frbm 
 the coverlid, of set purpose, perhaps; for Oliver's talk, 
 which would have been good for a laugh had a child spoken 
 it, grated on him, seeing the man it came from. At his 
 irresponsive silence, Oliver chafes a little, or it may be his 
 healing wound galls him. For the voice in which he says, 
 ^' Better read it — better read it aloud ! " shows a little im- 
 periously; a tone the relation of these two men scarcely 
 warrants. But Vincent shows no resentment on this 
 account. 
 
 " From the beginning ? " says he simply, as he turns 
 back to the first sheet. 
 
 " Heavens, no ! Spare us the compliments. Get to the 
 facts. What does he say of the card-players? — over- 
 leaf. ..." 
 
 '^ ^ Her ladyship had won great sums ? ' . . . will that 
 do ? . . .all right ! — I will go on there. ' Her lady- 
 ship had won great sums, and was in a mighty exultation 
 
342 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 for her success, and would fain have continued the play, 
 though it was daylight. But Monsignor Crecy, her part- 
 ner, complaining of a dizziness or nausea, having drunk, 
 he said, too freely of mulled claret, and she herself being 
 taken with a most violent sneezing fit, and thereto my 
 Lord Carlyon and his lady who made up their party, 
 swearing they had lost enough for two nights' play in one, 
 the card-play was stopped, and the Lady Arbella was 
 removed in her sedan, taking with her the whole of her 
 winnings in notes and gold, and under guard of an armed 
 footman bearing a loaded blunderbuss. For the City is 
 nowhere safe now, since this fearful matter of the new 
 Plague, from which I beseech your worship to keep away, 
 there being no safety for any man, even the strong and 
 healthy falling suddenly in the very streets, never reach- 
 ing home alive. ;N"ow, as I am informed, having made 
 the best inquiry I may, this armed man, following afoot, 
 and close to the bearer of the chair, quite without any 
 warning drops his blunderbuss, and lies groaning on the 
 pavement. By mere good-fortune this chanced near St. 
 James's Palace, where, by order of our gracious King, 
 there be litters standing day and night to bear away all 
 victims of this dire epidemic to their homes, if not too 
 distant, or, if they have wherewithal to pay charges, to 
 the nearest refuge, where they may be taken in if there 
 be room, as may have been the case with this man. But 
 of this I know nothing. The chairmen waited not to see 
 the outcome, but went on their way, telling the Lady 
 Arbella the knave was but drunk, and they would get 
 her home. But they seem to have been scared away by 
 rufflers or footpads, at whose mercy the chair and its 
 occupant were left, while they went to summon help. Re- 
 turning with the watch, they found the chair had been 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHON^OE 343 
 
 carried away, nor was it heard of again until midday, 
 when information came to her Ladyship's house that a 
 lady was dead of the Plague in a sedan-chair tight-closed, 
 near to the place that is called the Ducking Pond, by 
 Mayfair, no great distance from Buckingham House; and 
 that she was so found, but not long dead, her money and 
 jewels being still untouched. This, indeed, is all that 
 is known of the manner of he" death. She was borne 
 with all care to her house, but at great cost, none being 
 found with courage to venture on the task but a monstrous 
 bribe must be paid him. Thus also the undertaker of 
 interments will have no less a sum than one hundred 
 pounds for a leaden coffin, such as befits the quality of the 
 deceased, if he have to place therein the remains, which 
 now lie well sprinkled with lime in an out-house in the 
 garden of her Ladyship's late residence in the Oxford 
 Road. For the doctors say, and doubtless truly, that this 
 death shows a fearful energy in the specific virus of the 
 disease, quite out of the common, the whole duration of 
 the case not having exceeded eight hours. For they con- 
 sider that the morbific agent was already active when her 
 Ladyship sneezed at the card-table, of which fact my Lord 
 Carlyon is my informant ..." 
 
 Sir Oliver interrupted the reader, saying: "Do not let 
 me trouble you further. That is w^hat I wished to hear. 
 Perhaps it is as well that I went not to London." Then 
 he added, speaking with the easy manner of a perfect in- 
 difference : ." This Carlyon married a sort of cousin." 
 
 " Of yours ? " 
 
 " Of Lady Eaydon's." 
 
 Vincent then, feeling that his concern in this matter 
 belonged rather to the terrible calamity of this disease, 
 which was slaying men as the murrain slays cattle, than 
 
344: a:n^ affaik of dishojstor 
 
 to these special victims of whom he knew nothing, never- 
 theless conceived in the courtesy of his heart that their 
 case called for a word of mere human sympathy. So he 
 said — ^for he had no great choice of matter, so strange 
 were all the names to him — "^ This lady, who has come by 
 so terrible an end, was she a near friend of Lady Ray- 
 don's — this lady . . , ^ Arbella ' — was it ^ " He glanced 
 again at the letter, to make the name sure. 
 
 But before he raised his eyes from it, he could tell that 
 Oliver was laughing at him, but in a certain way cau- 
 tiously, keeping in view his wound. ^^ Why, God-a- 
 mercy, man,'' said he, ^^ she was Lady Raydon herself ! '' 
 And then he let himself laugh a shade more easily, for 
 the sheer enjoyment of the thing, despite the risk he ran. 
 " Lot^s wife — call her for the nonce — ho, ho ! " 
 
 Then indeed Vincent's brows knit, and his eyes were 
 stern, and his voice indignant, as he said : ^^ A week since, 
 Sir Oliver, I held you at my mercy. A many would cry 
 out upon me for a cowardly mock sentiment, that I should 
 spare a man fairly disarmed who had slain my father, and 
 done my sister wrong beyond his power to remedy. God 
 forgive me that I should regret my clemency! But I 
 cannot but do so when I hear you speak thus, close on so 
 terrible a death of the woman to whom you at least owed 
 a pretence of respect. At least, she was your wife, and 
 bore your name. Have you no heart at all, man! — not so 
 much as to affect decent speech beside a new-made 
 grave ? " 
 
 " I doubt it, good Vincent. On the whole, I incline to 
 think not. If there be any left, it is in the keeping of thy 
 Lucinda. As for the worthy woman who bore my name ; 
 as for Lot's wife — pardon me, I can't help laughing! — 
 all I can say is, I would she had died sooner, for my; 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHO:NrOR 345 
 
 greater convenience and the avoidance of a miscarriage 
 that may be, as you say, past remedy. But if it be so, be 
 my witness, I beg of you, that it is now by no fault of 
 mine. For look you ! — the remedy is in my hand now, if 
 Lucinda be not averse to the accepting of it. 'Tis for 
 her to choose." 
 
 Vincent heard him in silence, and seemed to doubt for 
 a moment whether he understood him rightly. Then he 
 spoke as though the interval had made it plain: 
 
 " She shall have the choice, Sir Oliver, though there is 
 blood on the hand you offer ! And you shall not be kept 
 waiting long for her answer." He rose and quitted the 
 room. But as he did so his words to himself were that 
 he knew the answer beforehand. And his anticipation 
 was true, for he returned within a quarter of an hour, 
 having met Lucy returning from her ride ; saying : " My 
 sister will none of your offer. Sir Oliver. And I do not 
 scruple to rejoice it is so, though a many might say a 
 good brother should grieve at it. . . . No — I have not 
 influenced her." For Oliver had half begun to speak, 
 with forecast of reproach in his voice. 
 
 ^' Never mind ! " said he. '' Let the wench bide ! She 
 may see reason to think better of it. V avium et mutabile 
 semper fcemina!'' For in those days catchwords and 
 quoted phrases of easy Latinity were more common 
 speech than now. 
 
 And, indeed, it did seem as though in this case woman 
 was a varying and changeable thing, for early the next day 
 comes Lucinda to her brother, and would speak with him, 
 and then told him that her mind was changed about her 
 refusal of Sir Oliver's proposal. " But this I charge you, 
 iVincent," said she, " that you ask me no reasons. Take 
 
346 AN AFFAIR OF DISHOIS^OR 
 
 my word for it, I would soonest have it thus, and blame 
 me not that I am ready to become the wife of the man 
 whose sword slew our father. I do this thing for no gain 
 of my own, nor even that I think it wrong to withhold 
 from Oliver such chance as may be of amends for his 
 share in our sin. I have my reason, and a good one ; else 
 should I stickle to ask thee, my brother, to take, as a 
 brother, a hand dyed in our own blood. I»J'ow, therefore, 
 dearest boy, press me to tell no more, but go straightway 
 to Oliver, and say that I am willing to become his wife. 
 Say no further than that — that if he has not wavered in 
 his intent, I for my part am willing to become his 
 wife." 
 
 Thereupon Vincent seemed for awhile lost in thought, 
 his eyes resting constantly on the beautiful face that 
 looked up at him, wherein he could find no trace of irreso- 
 lution or doubt. Seeing, then, nothing in its aspect to 
 warrant him in any hope that she would change her 
 intent, he presently said : " Well — I will go." But did 
 not at once go, gazing still gravely and thoughtfully on 
 her face. At length he said briefly : "I have guessed 
 your reason, little Lucy." And then either of them seemed 
 to know the other's thought, though she gave no assent 
 in words, and he left her, to tell Sir Oliver of the change 
 in her mind towards him. But this was strange, that 
 she should not offer to tell him herself. Yet by what 
 canon or rule of conduct shall we judge a woman in a 
 position in which no man can ever be placed, and but a 
 few women, for which God be praised ; and even then only 
 such as have in some sense broken His law, and slighted 
 His commandment! 
 
 So we need not wonder that speculation is at a loss 
 in seeking to account for Lucinda's shrinking from the 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHO:^OR 347 
 
 presence of the man she was so soon to call her husband. 
 Let it be! — for even if surmise were possible, it may be 
 language would be at fault to tell it, or hard to find. 
 This alone is certain, that during the days that had to 
 pass before the preliminaries of their wedding were com- 
 plete, she refused to enter the room where he still lay, 
 dragging on through a slow recovery, for the healing of 
 his wound was backward, and any movement would have 
 been a danger to him. Yet, more than once, when her 
 brother was (to her knowledge) in the room, on a visit 
 to the wounded man which he made at stated intervals, 
 she waited stealthily at the door, listening for the voices 
 within, but moving quickly and quietly away whenever 
 a sound came as of an interview that ends; a thing of 
 which one may easily judge from a tone of joyousness at 
 near parting, not in all cases easy to understand. l^J'ot 
 that she could overhear the words within, or had any 
 wish to do so ; but that she found a tepid pleasure in this 
 stinted presence at the interviews of Oliver and Vincent. 
 Mere longing for the companionship of human voices it 
 was not, for had she chosen she might have alleviated 
 her solitude in a thousand ways. But she denied herself 
 to all who sought her, even to many she had known from 
 childhood, and lived in her own heart making no con- 
 fidence with any, though she could not avoid seeing and 
 speaking with guests that came and went. But these 
 were usually received by the two old ladies her aunts, 
 who lived apart without hostility, under one of those 
 tacit compacts that grow in families; always joining 
 in family meals or family prayers, and retiring with 
 ceremony afterwards to their especial room; a practice 
 not to be accounted for, but religiously observed, and 
 seeming a part of the essence of things to the younger 
 
348 AN AFFAIR OF DISHOIS^OR 
 
 generation, for whom nothing had been otherwise since 
 childhood. 
 
 At this time these ladies were so far recovering from 
 the shock of their brother's death, and the almost worse 
 calamity, as they accounted it, of their niece's elopement 
 with a married man, as to encourage the visits of a few 
 very old friends of the family from the neighbourhood. 
 But though it was impossible for Lucinda to keep quite 
 out of sight, her intercourse with these was limited to 
 mere exchange of courtesies, and in the absence of her 
 foster-brother Roger Locke, she scarcely saw anyone but 
 her brother Vincent, and seemed best contented that it 
 should be so. And so the time passed until the day fixed 
 for the unostentatious ceremony which was to make her 
 the wife, in law, as she accounted herself in fact, of the 
 man who had betrayed her innocence, slain her father, 
 and strained deception to its utmost — a man who had 
 shown himself, too, so callous a brute to that poor victim 
 of the Plague, so miserably dead; the image of whom, 
 derived from Vincent's report of the contents of that 
 letter, hung in Lucinda's mind like a nightmare. That 
 lime-sprinkled thing that had lived and breathed so 
 lately, in the outhouse of its late home, none daring to 
 approach or touch it, was a sickening image to a mind 
 like hers. Was this woman not his wedded wife after 
 all ? They had quarrelled — ^yes ! But many couples quar- 
 rel, and live apart, and yet remain human. 
 
 Yet this manifest unveiling of the soul of this man, 
 its seeming callousness and cynicism, became no obstacle 
 to Lucinda's resolve to become his legal wife. And this 
 although her whole heart revolted against the received 
 idea of so many women that a past sin is wiped away by 
 the formal usage of the Sacrament, and vanishes before 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOIS^OK 349 
 
 the blessing of a priest. Although, too, she knew well 
 that the world's scorn of a successful man's captured 
 quarj-y would only be outwardly abated by it. All the 
 finger-pointings, the whisperings behind palms, the 
 chamber-chat and under-smiles, would go on just the 
 same about my Lady Ray don. Sir Oliver's second wife, 
 as they had done — never doubt it ! — about Lucy Maulev- 
 erer. Whatever of honour and respect was paid her 
 would be paid to her rank, to a position she had never 
 coveted; none of it to herself. Whatever the impulse 
 had been that changed her first resolve to leave her lover 
 for good, it had worked in spite — not with the help — of 
 any of the inducements that would have weighed with 
 another woman. So this impulse was a strong one, no 
 doubt; and the fact that no further allusion was made 
 to it by either herself or her brother looks as though she 
 was well satisfied that he understood her, and that he 
 for his part knew it. 
 
 The two old ladies, Aunt Araminta and Aunt Elsie, 
 when first told of the death of Lady Raydon and the 
 proposed marriage of their niece, placed themselves in an 
 attitude of meek revolt. How could they altogether 
 overlook the past? How could they receive their new 
 nephew, a rake and profligate, with their own brother's 
 blood upon his hands ? No ! — let Lucy marry her lover 
 if she would. It was not for them to stand in the way of 
 such repentance and expiation as might be; such amends 
 as the outraged honour of the family demanded. But 
 let them remain quite out of it. Why should their wel- 
 come to Oliver go beyond the claim of a formal necessity 
 they were ready to acknowledge for Lucinda's sake ? Let 
 the married couple, when the knot was tied, be off to the 
 New Hall and lead a life that would please them, no 
 
350 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOE 
 
 doubt, among friends of their own choice. . . . Oh 
 no! — they would not interdict all visits of the new- 
 married couple at the Old Hall. Certainly not! That 
 would only provoke gossip. All they meant was — ^let them 
 keep out of it ! Why not leave them at peace in their own 
 suite of apartments, where they neither made nor med- 
 dled with the outside affairs of the household ? 
 
 Vincent, on whom the task of negotiating with them 
 fell, made every concession to the attitude of reserve 
 they desired to maintain after the new state of things was 
 fairly established, provided only that they gave their 
 consent and countenance to the wedding, and attended 
 the ceremony. He pointed out the injury their refusal 
 to do so w^ould occasion to Lucinda, and to this they gave 
 their assent. But they nearly withdrew it on hearing 
 that Lucinda had decided to be married in black, saying — 
 very much to Vincent's surprise, for he had anticipated 
 their approval — that such a course would bring lasting 
 disgrace on the family. He could not understand this, 
 but to our thinking many women might have thought the 
 same; their idea being that though the past could not be 
 changed, it might at least be ignored. Men and women 
 see these things differently. 
 
 Lucinda made some concession about her dress; for, 
 what did she care ? She cared for nothing, in fact, what- 
 ever her motives were, but to go through with the thing, 
 having once agreed to it. 
 
 So the days pass on — the few days needed for com- 
 ])letion of needful arrangements, and for a greater safety 
 for Sir Oliver when the time comes for him to leave his 
 couch. There he is to remain to the last moment, to 
 have his fullest chance of a complete recovery. Through 
 these days Lucinda lives much alone, speaking little but 
 
AN^ AFFAIK OF DISHOXOK 351 
 
 to her brother; riding alone by choice; even without the 
 groom, when going no great distance from home. Much 
 of her day is spent in her own garden, — for the season 
 is still mild, and there is no rain, more than is needed to 
 keep the air fresh overhead and the turf green underfoot 
 — but some of it at the virginal, only that she never found 
 her voice to sing, seeming, too, to grudge speech and live 
 in a mute despair, neither taking joy from the prospect 
 before her, nor shrinking from it. Having chosen, she 
 was resolute. But she always refused to go to the bedside 
 of the wounded man, saying : '^ What can it matter to 
 Oliver that he should see me again a day sooner or later ? 
 Let him get well of his injury, and be content." And 
 in this she had the support of Dr. Phinehas. 
 
 It is a strange household during those few days: the 
 lonely woman, shunning all companionship, the silent 
 master visiting at intervals the murderer's bedside — for 
 he calls him by no other name in his heart still, for all 
 he is so soon to be Lucinda's husband and his brother — 
 the hushed voices of the servants, the weight of the 
 silence that is felt the more for the few sounds that break 
 it. Now and then, the shouted speech to the queer deaf 
 old surgeon when he makes his daily visit, or a distant 
 phrase on the harpsichord in the twilight. And in the 
 midst of it the cause of all, lying on the bed of the man 
 he slew; chafing now under the restraint, but not ventur- 
 ing to rebel; unrepentant in his wicked heart, even with 
 a sneaking triumph hanging round it, the triumph of the 
 gambler who has staked high and w^on. If there is one 
 throb in that heart that makes for his redemption, it is 
 the one that is stirred by the thought that Lucinda is to 
 be again his own. His own this time, not as a banquet 
 to mere satiety, to be flung away at pleasure; but as a 
 
362 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOE^OK 
 
 magic jewel to be worn, reflecting from its facets some 
 sun his eyes have of themselves no power of seeing, giv- 
 ing a light half-unwelcome at one time to his soul. It 
 may now penetrate to its recesses, to reach and slay the 
 foul insect-growths that light destroys. Or he may be 
 the Oliver we have known him to the end. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Of all sad ceremonials, a melancholy wedding is the 
 saddest. It might be less so, if usage and tradition would 
 but accept its sadness — acknowledge it and consent to 
 silence. But it is distinctly understood that marriage- 
 bells are merry; and the blacker the cloud that hangs 
 about the hearts of the principal actors, the more does 
 the complaisant guest conceive it his duty to be cheerful. 
 Yet a point may be reached where no grin can be feigned, 
 to make the celebration less like a funeral. 
 
 Such a point, at the wedding of Sir Oliver and Lucinda, 
 owed its being to the knowledge common to all, spoken 
 of by none, that the bride's father, beloved through all 
 the countryside, had died — and that not so long ago — • 
 by the hand of the bridegroom. The fact that the couple 
 had anticipated their opportunities before the tragic 
 death, from the Plague, of a wife who was tacitly assumed 
 to have been the only obstacle to a legal marriage, might 
 have been forgotten. For these things happen, one 
 knows; and if one is not prepared to forget them on 
 occasion shown, why come to the wedding at all ? 
 
 Lucinda held firmly to her resolution not to see Sir 
 Oliver ; and her first sight of him was at the little village 
 church where the marriage was solemnised. Or, rather — 
 would have been, had her eyes rested on him. But all 
 that can be said is, that if they did, none saw it. For, as 
 the guests who were bidden to the Hall followed the foot- 
 steps of the bride and bridegroom, returning, there was 
 
 353 
 
854 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 but one word among them, spoken above the breath of 
 none : ^^ She never looked at him ! " And the like 
 speech was current among the neighbours and villagers 
 who dispersed after the ceremony. 
 
 It seemed a common consent that there should be no 
 festivity. The guests departed early. Within a couple of 
 hours after the completion of the ceremony, all but one 
 or two were on their way home, talking over the story 
 of it all ; ascribing to the bridegroom a repentance for his 
 past misdeeds, on the strength of a pallor of face and 
 faltering step that were due probably only to his recent 
 loss of blood; and to the bride — for they were less 
 charitable to her — a harder heart than each of them, for 
 one, would ever have suspected in her. But they admitted 
 that, behind that stony demeanour, there might be some- 
 thing concealed. Who can penetrate the human heart? 
 And so on. Let them all go, and talk it out to their 
 own liking. 
 
 Sir Oliver was near the last ebb of his powers by the 
 time all had gone, and stood in need of assistance to reach 
 his sleeping-room, where he might lie down to recover 
 from what had been a great fatigue to a man slowly re- 
 gaining strength after so profuse a loss of blood. He 
 did so at once, and very shortly fell into a deep sleep, 
 and nothing was to be gained by disturbing him; more- 
 over. Dr. Phinehas, who had deprecated so much exer- 
 tion — saying if the wedding were to come off, it would 
 be safest to bring the parson to the patient's bedside — 
 was of opinion that Sir Oliver had best sleep on as long 
 as Nature should dictate. So he was undisturbed, and 
 did not wake, as every pains was taken to insure quiet, 
 until well on into the dusk. 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 355 
 
 Now the arrangement had been agreed upon, as Oliver 
 was still in this stage of convalescence, that no attempt 
 should be made to get him over to his own house; but 
 that he and the new-made, or newly-ratified. Lady Ray don 
 should remain for the present at the Old Hall, at least 
 until Sir Oliver should be safe in a saddle, a thing as yet 
 out of the question, except a mount could be found a 
 very miracle of meekness. His own horse, Alcibiades, 
 was scarcely that. For a slight shaking might renew the 
 haamorrhage, said Dr. Phinehas, and a recrudescence of 
 a wound is a double evil. And this arrangement being 
 made, by common consent, it was nowise strange that 
 the married couple should be left in sole possession of the 
 house; although in this case the occasion scarcely called 
 for the fulfilment of the usage which leaves new-wedded 
 folk to their own company. Nor was it altogether, for 
 the two old ladies still kept their part of the house, 
 showing their consciousness of the tenants of the other 
 part by speaking in undertones, and treading noiselessly; 
 a thing which had no foundation in necessity, but seemed 
 to comply with some unwritten law. 
 
 With the exception of Vincent, who was not sorry to 
 get quit of Sir Oliver without taking leave of him for- 
 mally, an observance that would have had its embarrass- 
 ments, Roger Locke was the last to quit the house; heavy 
 enough at heart, as may be imagined. Then Vincent 
 found himself standing alone with Lucinda, in doubt if 
 his wisest course would not be to say farewell in silence. 
 He had settled to go, at a friend's invitation, to a house 
 at some distance, definitely to remain there until Sir 
 Oliver should be able to return to his own home. Surely 
 it was impossible that they two should live under one 
 roof! The wounded man's wavering between life and 
 
356 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 death had made a curious relation between them possible 
 for the time being, due somehow — Vincent acknowledged 
 the oddity of this to himself — to the mere supineness of 
 the man he hated, helpless on a bed. But to see him 
 moving about the house ... his sister's husband! . . . 
 his father's murderer! . . . Vincent knew from his 
 short experience of the ceremony that life on such 
 terms would be unendurable. Yet he could not have 
 opposed the marriage — impossible! Oh, that he had 
 given short shrift when he had the villain at his sword's 
 point! Had he not perhaps thought more of a Quixotic 
 chivalry than of his duty to his father ? 
 
 Such thoughts mixed themselves with the unspoken 
 question, " What will my sister say ? " as he stood there 
 looking in her pallid, weary face; forgiving her all her 
 past, only in dread for her future. Even if he had not 
 known of her revolt against Oliver ; even if he could have 
 imagined that her old infatuation still lived, how could 
 he augur well of such an alliance, so made — with such a 
 man ? But, for Lucinda, it was the only road to a patched- 
 up honour, and, above all, the only justice possible to 
 that veiled future, the life of a babe unborn. He could 
 have no right to stand between his sister and the strongest 
 claim of Nature's scheming, the child's claim upon the 
 parent for an undishonored name. So he reasoned with 
 himself as he awaited her words to come. 
 
 But she never spoke; she left speech to her brother. 
 Her face touched his in silence, but it was with cold lips, 
 and he could feel the coldness of her cheek as it met his. 
 As he stood there, holding her in his arms, just about to 
 gay farewell, there shot across his mind a memory of old 
 days, that cut him to the heart. A memory of his own 
 parting from his two little sisters under that very porch 
 
A-N AFFAIR OF DISHOI^OR 357 
 
 on a windy morning in the spring, eight years ago; and 
 of Lucy saying with confidence, of the day of his return : 
 '^ We shall both be married when you come back, Vin." 
 Whereupon Amy had helped prediction boldly, saying: 
 " Yes. And Lucy's baby is to be a little boy. And 
 mine is to be a little girl." For Amy was very young 
 and inexperienced. But Lucy, better informed, had 
 said : ^^ Hush, Amy dear, you mustn't talk like that." 
 And then of his riding away in a rainbow shower, tears 
 in his eyes and his heart full to bursting — for he had 
 never left the girls before, only for school. But it shot 
 across his mind now, and the world was the darker to him 
 for the thought of that wild hour of childish recklessness 
 and hope. He found no words in the end, and had to 
 choke back a sob as he gave his sister his last kiss and 
 turned to go. Then she spoke. 
 
 ^' Oh, Vincent darling, do not go ! Wait — wait till 
 I can speak. ..." And then, in a lower tone, speak- 
 ing quickly : " You did understand me ? You do under- 
 stand me? I mean you understand why ..." 
 
 " Oh yes — ^yes, yes — I understand." He spoke a little 
 more, almost in a whisper, close to her ear. To which 
 she reolied aloud: ^^ That was what I meant." Then he 
 too raised his voice, and spoke more hopefully. " Making 
 the worst of things will not bring our father back to life. 
 ^Nothing will change the past, for us. At least let us give 
 the future a chance. I tell thee this, Lucy, that if Oliver 
 had not spoiled his act of grace, I might have had my 
 hopes of him. ..." 
 
 " Tell me how you mean — ^ spoiled his act of grace ? ' " 
 
 " I mean he might have had a decent respect, or made a 
 pretence of it, for that poor lady that is dead of the 
 Plague. But none can know he was in earnest over it. 
 
358 AN AFFAIE OF DISH0:N'0R 
 
 And he has shown some spirit of repentance in his bear- 
 ing to thee, my Lucy. It may be he will be a better old 
 man than a young one. Hope, Lucy, hope ! '^ But this 
 was only good will for his sister's sake, for he could not 
 for the life of him keep from adding : " And yet — he 
 slew our father! " 
 
 Then Lucinda made a curious speech. " I shall not be 
 much with Oliver," said she. But she said it so slightly, 
 and finished so quickly with " Better ride before the rain 
 comes! Good-bye, dearest brother — never fret about 
 me ! " that Vincent let slip his first impulse to ask her to 
 explain, and never recalled it until, a mile on his road, it 
 came back to him to wonder what she had meant. 
 
 Said Dr. Phinehas that evening, coming from Sir 
 Oliver's room, having been in attendance most part of the 
 day, as a precaution : " If my advice is taken, my Lady 
 Kaydon " — he was mighty particular about Lucinda's 
 style and title now — " the worshipful Sir Oliver will do 
 well to take entire rest after his exertions of to-day, which 
 have been to my thinking ill-advised. Your ladyship's 
 influence may work with an intractable patient that is 
 beyond my powers to control. I beseech you to use it to 
 the end that he may remain recumbent until all local pain 
 of healing has subsided." Then, after a word or two of 
 protest against Sir Oliver's attitude of revolt against all 
 medical advice, he took his departure, full of dignity. 
 
 Then goes Lucinda to the couch where her lover, now 
 her husband, is lying. He is in a half-doze still, his sleepi- 
 ness seeming unconquerable. She watches him for a few 
 moments in silence, then goes away to the window, and 
 looks out over the dusky land, now swept by a rain-drift, 
 though the sundown has left a long rift of light on the 
 horizon. Her face has no change or movement on it, but 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISH0:N^0K 359 
 
 tears are there, plain in the gleam to the little maid Nell, 
 who is attending to some small matter of the room's 
 arrangements. 
 
 Presently comes Oliver's voice from the couch : " Lu- 
 cinda — ^where art thou, silly girl? Dost thou know what 
 thou art, Lucy ? My wife, wench — think o' that ! " 
 
 She stands beside him white and nerveless; lets him 
 take her inanimate hand, but has no answer ready for 
 him ; — says only, '^ They are all gone now," meaning that 
 they are now alone in the house. 
 
 ^' Let them go or stay ! — what a plague care I ? Thou 
 art off the point, girl. Come, speak me fair, Lucy mine ! 
 Say I have done thee one good turn. There's never an- 
 other doxy of mine I would have done the like for. 
 What the devil, woman! — what w^ould you have a man 
 do?" 
 
 " I have no fault to find with you for this, Oliver. You 
 have done right by me, and the end is gained." 
 
 " Why, then — what more would you have ? What's to 
 fret and shiver about ? Dry thy tears, lass, and let's have 
 an end on't. 'Odsflesh, Lucy, where is thy Christian 
 forgiveness? Was it such a crime to keep thee a bit 
 longer in ignorance about that luckless thrust of 
 mine ? " . . . 
 
 " It was no luckless thrust, Oliver, but had a deadly 
 intent. You are my husband, but my father's blood is 
 upon you." 
 
 " Luckless or no, where would the gain have been to 
 thee to know it, till none could have it otherwise — a month 
 or so sooner or later. Where is the great grievance against 
 me that I played off a little act of policy to keep some bad 
 news back awhile, for thy ease and comfort as well as my 
 own, silly wench ? Besides, 'tis the old story of the gnat 
 
360 AK AFFAIR OF DISHOIs^OR 
 
 and the camel. He who can stomach the great brute, 
 hump and all, need not be so peevish about a mere fly. 
 Where was it so great an offence, to keep you in the dark 
 about the way the luck fell. . . . What? — you cannot 
 understand! What is it you cannot understand? . . . 
 Come, Lucy, you forgave me the mischance once — forget 
 me now the story of the letters, and be thyself again. 
 At least call me not murderer, after a clean shrift 
 once given. 'Tis a shabby trick, girl, to go back on 
 forgiveness." 
 
 This is all mystery to Lucinda, and complete bewilder- 
 ment is in her voice, as she says, '' What your meaning 
 can be, Oliver, I cannot conceive. Why — when have I 
 spoken a word of pardon ... of pardon, think of it! — 
 think of it! — for my father's murder. . . . But you 
 are mad, Oliver; this is madness." And she shudders 
 as she thinks to herself how Dr. Phinehas had told her 
 we must always beware of insanity in those subject to 
 the falling sickness. 
 
 But Oliver's bewilderment is equal to hers. He half 
 rises on his couch, crying out " Why, God-a-mercy ! . . . " 
 and then sinks back, exclaiming : " Was it, after all, a 
 trick of that jade's witchcraft ? " 
 
 " What on earth is all this ? " says Lucinda. And her 
 fear grows in her heart that Oliver is really insane, and 
 stops her speech. But she is herself again before he sees 
 his way to another word. *' Was what a trick of witch- 
 craft ? " she says, clearly enough. 
 
 He swings up from the couch, disregarding the doctor's 
 caution. " Have you forgotten ! " he cries. '' Can you 
 have forgotten that time in the dark, at Kips ? — after the 
 storm ? — after I told you ? " 
 
 She sits and thinks. " What do I remember ? " she 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISH0:N^0K 361 
 
 sajs. And then, " I left you, Oliver, lying in your fit, 
 upon the floor." 
 
 '' No more than that ? '' 
 
 ^' No. After that I rode away with John Rackham. 
 1. . . Yes — stop, though! I returned and kissed you; 
 shame for me that I did so! Then I rode away.'' 
 
 ^^ Yes — yes — yes ! But before you rode away ! We 
 spoke. ..." 
 
 " No! " 
 
 ^^ Yes, I tell you ! I rememher all plainly. I came to 
 my senses, and there you were, in the dark . . . yes — 
 I felt your lips on my face. ..." 
 
 " Oh, Oliver, how could that be ? You lay there in- 
 sensible . . . well ! — you never spoke ! " 
 
 '' I never spoke ! I spoke, I tell you, plainly, and you 
 spoke back. ..." 
 
 ^^ Never!" 
 
 " I tell you I did, . . . No — I do not recollect all I 
 said. But I did say ^ Have you not forgiven me ? ' And 
 you answered me plain, ^ Surely, Oliver, surely ! ' Why, 
 I can remember the very rings on your fingers — there 
 in the dark. And then you called Trant, to get us a light. 
 You must recollect that! The storm was over, and there 
 was never a gleam of lightning to see by, nor no moon. 
 Oh, but you must remember! " His voice has alarm in it 
 such as shows in the tones of one who mistrusts touch or 
 eyesight, or is conscious of something eerie afoot. 
 
 Lucinda controls the alarm she too feels, but it is for 
 his reason. " It was a dream," she says, quietly enough. 
 ^'Why — only hearken to tliis! I had ridden well past 
 Merrows Camp when the storm burst. How could I be in 
 two places at once ? 'Twas a dream, Oliver — a dream ! " 
 But she had a sort of pity too for him, that he should have 
 
362 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 built upon a seeming pardon, though it was only an hallu- 
 cination of a distempered mind. 
 
 This time, the thing has been spoken of, and he will not 
 let it pass. " A dream ! '' says he. '^ How could it be a 
 dream? If it were one, Trant dreamed it as well as I. 
 . . . How do I know ? Plain enough. She heard you 
 calling to her aloud to strike a light, and come. I heard 
 you call to her myself, after you left me — in the dark, I 
 tell you. No — no — no, Lucy! If I dreamed it, she 
 dreamed it too. ^Twas no dream." 
 
 " And this was after the storm ? " 
 
 "After the storm." 
 
 " And I was half a league on the road before the storm 
 began. Noj Oliver — ^you have told me too many lies for 
 me to receive that story. 'Tis a make-believe. ..." 
 
 " But why ? A make-believe of what ? " He is struck 
 with the extremest perplexity, and a fear for his own 
 reason, too. 
 
 " You would make me out a fool, Oliver. But you 
 speak so fair, and seem so sure, that I half doubt you 
 believe your own crazy story." 
 
 " Oh, Lucy — I know it. 'Tis more than believing. 
 How can I think it other than true ? " Then he beseeches 
 her to hear him tell again the whole tale^^ taking each point 
 closely in its order. But every detail brings with it a 
 new discrepancy. When Dame Hatsell heard the horses' 
 hoofs below, was it not before she slept? When Mrs. 
 Trant was called up from her bed to get a light, was it 
 not after? The folly of it all! How could Lucinda be 
 calling for a light, there in the house, two hours after she 
 had been heard departing? How could the stable be 
 empty — John Rackham roused from sleep, and two horses 
 saddled, almost as soon as Mrs. Trant came downstairs 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOIS^OR 363 
 
 with her light? Naj — how came her departure with the 
 groom to be noiseless? This last puzzle, strange to say, 
 strikes Oliver more than all the comparisons of time and 
 place. He cannot get over it. 
 
 At last he becomes in a sense frantic, flinging prudence 
 to the winds and angrily pacing the room. ^^ I tell you, I 
 tell you," says he, again and again, ^^ it is impossible I 
 should be mistaken ! " So convinced is she now that he 
 has been under an hallucination that she merely sits 
 silent, waiting for his violence to subside. She says 
 coldly at last : " You had better rest, Oliver. You know 
 what Dr. Phinehas has said." To which he replies : " To 
 the Devil with the doctor! Give him his fee and send 
 him packing." 
 
 Presently he becomes quieter, but is still in a ferment 
 of mind, struggling for a gleam of explanation. He sits 
 down by Lucinda, and it is the first time the bridegroom 
 of this strange wedding has been near the bride, 
 since a purely formal salute after the ceremony in the 
 morning. He takes her hand and closes his eyes as he 
 draws her fingers across his lips. She has half shrunk 
 away from him; but then, recognising his intent, says, 
 " Oh — that! " and leaves him her hand, adding, a mo- 
 ment after, " Well ? " as though asking for the sequel of 
 his thought. For she sees that he is once more trying to 
 rehearse that experience in the dark at Kips Manor. 
 
 " It was your hand, Lucy," says he, ^^ say what you 
 may ! It was your hand. I can tell each ring as I touch 
 it. There be the three diamonds, the emerald, and the 
 cornelian. And as for the ring that this day has dubbed 
 you my Lady Raydon — 'twas not upon the hand 
 then. ..." 
 
 She interrupted him. ^^ Now listen, Oliver ! This may 
 
364 AN AFFAIK OF DISHOIS^OR 
 
 convince you. When you sent for tKose rings that I 
 should wear them again at the wedding, did you not say 
 to Vincent that they were found by the mirror in my 
 tiring-room. Now I ask you, who took them there ? " 
 
 Oliver's face showed his bewilderment. " Yourself, 
 girl — or the Devil," said he. " Who else could ? " 
 
 " If they were on my hand when I came out and went 
 upstairs, no one else could, sure enough. But when did I 
 return to the inner room ? Tell me that. Oh, Oliver, 'tis 
 all a fantastic dream together.'' 
 
 Oliver assumed a cool tone of judgment due to his 
 superiority of sex. " E'ow look at this possibility," said 
 he. " Suppose the rings had been there all the time ! 
 How then ? " 
 
 " All the time your lips felt them on my hand ? " says 
 she. Then Oliver, having nothing else for it, becomes 
 impatient again, on a new line. " That fiend Trant was 
 in it, with her damned witchcraft." He mutters to him- 
 self, but she overhears him, and says, "At least, Trant 
 could tell us." 
 
 " If she be not burned at the stake for her practices, 
 or sent to the bottom of a pond." 
 
 " Oliver ! — what have you done with Trant ? " 
 
 " Done with Trant — I ? E'othing at all, 'pon my 
 honour — ho, ho! But what the King's Justices at Bury 
 have done with her — ^that's another matter. I warrant 
 she's got no more than she deserves, anyway ! " 
 
 A horror is creeping over Lucinda's face. '^ You may 
 as well tell me," she says. " What have you done with 
 Susan Trant ? " 
 
 " Zounds, girl, I did not know she was such a favourite 
 of thine! What would you have had me do with Susan 
 Trant, but what I have done ? " 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISH0:N"0R 365 
 
 " What have you done ? " 
 
 "Faith! — nothing at all, myself. But I have had 
 speech about her with a worthy magistrate at Bury, and 
 she will have to appear at the next Assizes for her pranks. 
 They may settle it off between them, as best they may. If 
 it goes ill with her, lay it to John Rackham's door. 'Tis 
 none of my deposition that will hang or burn her. John 
 Rackham must answer it." Then he told briefly how 
 he had waited on the magistrates at Bury, and had laid 
 an information against Susan, but had heard no further 
 thereon, and was little likely to do so, seeing the dis- 
 tance across country, and that all letters must travel 
 first to London, and indeed miscarried more times than 
 not. 
 
 But it stood thus with Lucinda, that so long as the 
 inward force of her love for this man, now her husband, 
 remained in her system like the virus of a disease, she 
 could see no offence but one of his in a true light. He 
 had slain her father, and she made no scruple to call 
 it murder; but for this action against Mrs. Trant, ma- 
 lignant as it might be accounted by others, she was ready 
 with justifications and excuses. Consider this also: that 
 in her day the witch was held to be truly in league with 
 the Devil, and entitled to mercy at the hands of no true 
 Christian. So that this action of Oliver's against Mrs. 
 Trant did not present itself to her mind as a cruel perse- 
 cution, but as possibly even an act of justice and public 
 duty. It may be that her love for Oliver, never extinct, 
 welcomed — so to speak — an offence she might forgive 
 without self-reproach. Yet not to the extent of abating 
 the coldness of her attitude towards him, and she re- 
 mained impassive and silent, making little or no answer 
 to his justifications of his conduct, which during the 
 
366 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOI^OE 
 
 remainder of that evening he mixed with recurrent at- 
 tempts to grapple with the unsolved problem of her seem- 
 ing presence at Kips Manor, when, by her own showing, 
 and his memory of Rackham's testimony, she must have 
 been well on her way to the London Road. 
 
 This perplexity he seemed in no mood to forget, re- 
 curring to it constantly during the next two days, and 
 visibly brooding over it; arriving at false solutions that 
 seemed at first plausible, then rejecting them as their 
 absurdity became manifest, usually from some shrewd 
 question or comment of Lucinda^s. She for her part main- 
 tained the same cold demeanour, just conceding to him 
 BO much wifely courtesy — the only phrase possible — as 
 would avert an open rupture and hold out hope of some 
 relenting in time to come. 
 
 This coldness ought, one might say, to have gone far 
 to check the healthier love that had come lately into 
 Oliver's heart. If it did, a countercheck was supplied by 
 piqued vanity, that would not accept a repulse; and 
 possibly by uneasiness of conscience, hankering unawares 
 after absolution for his past offences from the only person 
 that could give it. Lucinda's love, revived, would wash 
 away the stains on a soul that probably, but for his own 
 newborn experience of love, would have been little dis- 
 turbed by the memory of an opponent killed in a duel, or 
 some trifling expedients to hide a misdeed from his mis- 
 tress and keep her in the dark until he should tire of her. 
 From whatever cause, he thought best to show no resent- 
 ment at this coldness, nor to call in question Lucinda's 
 behaviour towards him ; a most unseemly one for a bride, 
 had she been a bride in the sense one gives the word in 
 daily speech. But it is a word that rings false in a case 
 like hers. 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISH0:N^0R 3^7 
 
 The time lagged on without any perceptible change in 
 this entirely strange relationship, through the first days 
 of a most miserable honeymoon. But were they to last 
 to the end of the term that the general consent of man- 
 kind expects disillusionment to follow? 
 
 Lucinda's cold attitude may seem open to explanation. 
 Oliver^s acquiescence in it is harder to understand, but no 
 doubt his delicate condition — for though his wound 
 seemed healed, his blood was still at a low ebb — ^made 
 him tractable from policy; and quite possibly his way of 
 regarding women as weak, subservient things made for 
 man's pleasure remained ingrained in his foul nature, 
 and he believed that a complete surrender and return 
 to him on the part of this new wife was a foregone con- 
 clusion. He had only to wait, and she would come to 
 his arms, all contrition, tears, and apologies. But he was 
 to be roughly undeceived. 
 
 " We have been wedded four se'nnights. Mistress 
 Lucy," said he one day, yawning and stretching on a 
 couch. And then again, with a slight varying of his 
 words : " We have been wedded a month, my Lady 
 Raydon." 
 
 She replied briefly : " Yes, a month." Her back was 
 turned to him as she stood at the window, looking out on a 
 dull landscape veiled in a drifting rain. So he only half 
 heard the words she added to himself ; " I wonder I have 
 borne it." 
 
 " What's the wench a-talking of ? " He rose from the 
 couch and shook himself, as one does in protest against 
 the irksomeness of a time that drags. " Let's have it 
 out. A good wife, thou knowest, has no secrets from her 
 husband." 
 
368 !AN AFFAIK OF DISHOKOK 
 
 " I will have no secrets from you, Oliver. I wonder I 
 have borne it — ^that is what I said but now. . , . My 
 meaning? — I will tell it you. It sits too heavy upon my 
 soul that I am the wife of the man by whose hand my 
 father died. Is it strange to you that I have found it 
 hard to bear ? " 
 
 " What the devil does the woman mean ? " 
 
 " This much, Oliver — for now I must speak." And yet 
 her speech choked her, as she struggled for a new begin- 
 ning. " Yes, I must speak — I must speak. ..." 
 
 " I have naught to say against it. Make a clean breast. 
 !Rever say I put a gag on thy tongue, Mistress Lucy." He 
 threw himself back on the couch, his hands behind his 
 head, his slightly raised eyebrows and mouth pursed to a 
 whistle made for cynical carelessness, half -indulgent to the 
 mad whim of a woman; but he did not meet her eyes, 
 now turned full upon him. 
 
 " I shall have to say it sooner or later. . . . We must 
 part." 
 
 Oliver started up, all his nonchalance dispersed or dis- 
 persing. ^"^ We must part ! — we must part ! — we must 
 part ! " he repeated. ^' Why — we are but just wed ! Was 
 ever such a crazy Jane-o'-Bedlam ! We must part, for- 
 sooth ! " And then he wanted to make a blustering laugh 
 of it, but it fell through. 
 
 " I will tell you why, or will try to. I am grateful to 
 you, Oliver, for making me your wife. But it is not for 
 my own sake that the bearing of your name is welcome to 
 me. Listen! There are children of yours in the world 
 who can never bear their father^s name honestly, as the 
 world counts honesty. My duty was to our child, and I 
 have done it." 
 
 Oliver, conceiving that she referred to some vague, un- 
 
AN AFPAIK OF DISHO:tTOE 369 
 
 certain future, some inheritance none could predict, took 
 her words quite wide of their meaning. " Is it not," said 
 he, ''a woman's first duty to her child to give it a chance 
 of life ? If we part, it seems to me the brat's chance goes 
 for good. ..." 
 
 " You do not understand me," she said. And there was 
 that in her voice that made him ^x his eyes on her, and 
 cry out : " What ? — what do you mean ? What do I not 
 understand ? " To which she replied, without change of 
 voice or manner : " You will understand me if you think a 
 moment. . . . You understand me now ? " — less as a 
 question than as a confidently spoken fact. 
 
 Then he burst out : " Then why — why — oh, why have 
 you never said so before ? " He started up, pacing ex- 
 citedly about the room, exclaiming vehemently : " God's 
 my life, girl !— could you not trust me ? What the devil ! 
 — a dupe — a dupe ! You have made me your dupe ! . . . 
 Yes ! — I tell you — ^you might have told me. . . . Why 
 was I to be kept in the dark ? " 
 
 Lucinda only said coldly, " You have given me such 
 good reason for trusting you, Oliver ! " — and then waited 
 for his vehemence to subside. It would have been hard to 
 say, as she sat there motionless and silent, whether despair 
 or determination were written plainest on her face. 
 
 Presently Sir Oliver's petulance, crude and ill- 
 restrained as a boy's, died away as a boy's dies, and he 
 said with a quieter self-command : " I have done ill by 
 thee, Lucy Mauleverer " — oddly calling by her old name 
 — " but you might have had that much faith in me. Tell 
 me, was it not something of amends that my first thought 
 when I had news of my luck was to give you the benefit of 
 it? I tell thee this, girl: there is never another I have 
 seen yet I would have done so much for. And here ends 
 
370 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOE 
 
 a month of mere sulking over a thing past recall ! Was 
 ever such a bridal ? And have I taken it amiss ? Come, 
 Lucy, do me justice." 
 
 " I am not ungrateful, Oliver. For all the wrong you 
 have done me, you made amends a month since. And was 
 not the sin mine, as well as yours ? Was not the slur on 
 our good name — mine, my brother's, my father's — ^^vas it 
 not rather of my casting than yours ? That might be for- 
 gotten ; and all that angered me to the heart — that day in 
 the garden — ^might pass and be forgotten too, for all the 
 resentment I should ever cherish of it. And we might live 
 on in happiness together, till gossip itself had forgot the 
 tale; and see our children grow up about us, never know- 
 ing aught of it. Ay, and their children after them ! But 
 it cannot be." 
 
 " I am a poor hand at guessing enigmas," says Oliver, 
 with a recrudescence of the supercilious tone, mixed with 
 one of impatience, that had given place for a moment to 
 concession and conciliation. ^^ I always give them up. I 
 shall have to ask you to tell the answer, good Lucy." The 
 half-sneer his words conveyed was a healthy stimulant to 
 Lucinda. She can say what she has to say more easily to 
 Oliver scornful and obdurate than to Oliver submissive 
 and yielding. 
 
 Whatever she thinks of his way of speech, she passes it 
 by, going direct to the point. "I can live with you no 
 longer, Oliver. If I do, I shall go mad. My father's face 
 is before me every hour of the day, reproaching me with 
 my sin, reproaching me with my wifehood, reproaching 
 me with his death. And so long as I am here I must 
 touch the hand that slew him. And I cannot hate it, for 
 it is yours. . . . Yes — you may think it strange, Oli- 
 ver, but so it is, and I tell you truth. Life would not be 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHOI^OK 371 
 
 to me the torment that it has come to be, if I could hate 
 you. Many a wife hates her husband, yet the yoke lies 
 light. Life has to be lived, and a way to live it is found, 
 be it welcome or no! But to have to love perforce what 
 my whole soul cries out upon me for not hating! . . . 
 Oh, Oliver, it will drive me mad — ^mad — ^mad! I can- 
 not bear it. I cannot — I cannot! Let me go.'' 
 
 " Sleep upon it, wench,'' says Oliver, nursing his dis- 
 belief in the reality of all this. A mere hysterical 
 outbreak, that will die! So runs his thought; but 
 he can afford to be magnanimous too, to reason with 
 this crazy wife his Quixotism has shown such indul- 
 gence to. " Come, come, Lucy mine," says he, " is it 
 well to be raking up old scores now? One thing I see 
 though. ..." 
 
 "What is that, Oliver?" 
 
 "I see that the sooner we are off to Croxley Thorpe the 
 better. 'Tis this place does it. Thy father's face is in 
 every corner of the Old Hall; little wonder that you 
 should see it in and out of season. Come away, and send 
 the blue devils packing. Had it not been for this ac- 
 cursed dig in the paunch my own sword must needs give 
 me, we might have ended our wedding-day with a ride 
 home. . . . But who's to say that I should ever have 
 sought to marry thee in that case ? 'Tis all the other way, 
 to my thinking. Had I never been lugged here on that 
 litter, but ridden back safe and sound to Croxley, I should 
 have been much more like to forget sundry promises I 
 may have made — though for the life of me I cannot say 
 when — and all the more for that box o' the ear you gave 
 me in the garden ! But there you were in the house and 
 about it; and, though you kept out of my sight, I had 
 the tokens of you, and knew you were to hand. . . . . 
 
372 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 How? — bj the sound of your voice — by the clavichord; 
 none too easy to hear thus far off, but good to tell the 
 tune. So, when I got the news of that bit of luck of 
 mine, I was in good trim for thought of thy claims, Lucy, 
 whatever they were. No — no! Saddle up and let's be 
 gone — that's the word now! To-morrow morning, if the 
 weather mends — time enough for a noonday meal." 
 
 Then her care for Oliver himself — that was only in 
 abeyance, never dead — outwent all else in Lucinda's mind. 
 ^' You are mad yourself, Oliver," said she, ^' to think of 
 such a thing. Remember what Dr. Phinehas said! — 
 * Walking fast would be danger ; riding, certain 
 death' ..." 
 
 " Dr. Phinehas may go to the Devil ! " 
 
 " You say so, Oliver, but which is more like to be 
 right, you or he? Think what a many wounded he has 
 tended in all his years of service with the army." Then 
 she dwelt on the old man's long experience — he was close 
 on eighty, and could actually remember the coming of 
 the great Spanish Armada and its defeat — and the 
 earnestness of his advice to Oliver not to grudge time 
 for a full recovery. She ended : " See what he said, too, 
 and I am sure he is right ; ^ A green wound is green till 
 it is healed.'" 
 
 " And who is to settle whether it be healed or no, 
 except the patient himself? Has the old fool been down 
 my throat to see ? Shall I never back a horse again, for 
 fear of an old quack's word ? And look you ! — every day 
 sooner I throw him and. his visits overboard is a guinea the 
 less in his pocket, and one more kept in mine. No, no ; I 
 may wait a long time before the old chucklehead says the 
 word that will stop his salary. We'll ride to-morrow, and 
 there will be an end of thy phantasies, silly woman ! . . . 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 373 
 
 What — leave your husband before the ink's dry on the 
 register ! What says divorce a vinculo to that ? " He ran 
 on thus, the outcome of it all being that if Lucinda for- 
 sook him, the legitimacy of the child would be impaired or 
 annulled outright. Whether this was true or not, how 
 could Lucinda say? All her experience of life did not 
 mount up to much, all told. And how could she face 
 down the word of an experienced man ? The habit of 
 thought that assigns knowledge to male man as his in- 
 heritance governed her woman's mind, and silenced it. 
 If her parting now from Oliver — supposing she could 
 achieve it — was to endanger the object she had in view 
 in marrying him, what had she gained by her marriage? 
 Besides, it was certainly true that Dr. Phinehas was very 
 fond of money. Was it not possible Oliver was right 
 about the old man's motives for retaining him so long 
 in hospital ? 
 
 So Lucinda, after wavering awhile, consented to ride 
 next day with her husband to Croxley, without admitting 
 to herself any change in her final purpose. She was suf- 
 fering from a torment of conscience at war with inclina- 
 tion, for her mere human impulse was towards Oliver. 
 And this was strengthened by his evident determination 
 to keep her, even while she revolted against his assump- 
 tion of power. He loved her still, somehow; and how 
 much that meant! She might have suspected her own 
 heart, from the readiness with which she accepted his 
 suggestion that her child's legitimacy would be flawed by 
 her leaving him while it was all such guesswork about 
 its birth. Anyhow, her final conclusion was compliance 
 with his wishes, until she could lighten the burden of her 
 father's death by leaving him, without fear for the future 
 of a babe unborn. 
 
374 AN AFFAIK OF DISHOjSrOR 
 
 She might have suspected, too, that she had softened 
 towards Oliver from her growing tendency to dwell more 
 and more on her own sin as the real underlying cause of 
 her father's death. How weak and wicked she had 
 been! — her only poor excuse being that she had never 
 more than half-grasped the nature of her own actions. 
 
 No — she would bear this life a little yet to make a foot- 
 hold in the world for that baby. Her decision was helped 
 by a thought she never dared to think out : " Had my 
 father slain my lover, could I have lived with him after ? '' 
 And though she varied the question " Could I not ? '' 
 she had no heart to answer " Yes." 
 
CHAPTEE XXII 
 
 Had John Rackham been in favour with Sir Oliver, 
 no doubt he would have been sent for to the Old Hall to 
 be in close attendance on him, as we have seen him be- 
 fore. But his revelation of the story of the duel, whether 
 through witchcraft or otherwise, had thrown him into 
 such disgrace with his master, that when Vincent, acting 
 on his sister's suggestion, proposed that he should be sum- 
 moned from Croxlej, Sir Oliver declined the offer, not 
 overcourteously. ^^ What the devil should the knave come 
 here for ? " said he. So Rackham remained at Croxley, 
 riding over once to inquire concerning his master's prog- 
 ress; and once, on the occasion of the wedding, when the 
 recognition of his appearance was too scant to encourage 
 him to do the same thing again. Not only was this so, 
 but, to add to his grievance, the young groom was sent for 
 in his stead, leaving him sole tenant of the stable quarter 
 at Croxley Hall. 
 
 As at Kips Manor, Rackham spent almost the whole of 
 his life in the stable-yard by day, and at night locked 
 himself into his own den, leaving a dog or two unchained 
 to give a first reception to intruders. He seldom did this 
 until after the household were asleep, or well on their way 
 to sleep. Now and again it would be long past midnight 
 before he thought fit to retire. It was so on the last night 
 but two before Oliver's return to Croxley, with his new- 
 made wife. 
 
 He had spent an unusual time in the composition of a 
 
 875 
 
376 AN AFFAIE OF DISHON'OK 
 
 ball for one of his horses, and that had thrown all his 
 work behindhand. It was the young colt that had carried 
 Lucinda so well on her bad journey from Kips Manor; 
 that, giving out in the end, had been left with the host of 
 the Three Sheaves, about four miles off, and sent on by 
 him, as instructed by Lucinda, to the l^ew Hall next day. 
 On this evening it had begun showing inexplicable symp- 
 toms, shivering and starting, and leaving the oats in its 
 manger untouched. Its breath came short, too, and was 
 hot, and altogether its condition puzzled the groom, who 
 thereon resorted to a special time-honoured concoction, 
 known only to himself and his father before him, but re- 
 quiring great care in the mixing and composition of the 
 ingredients. Had the horse not been in its own stable, at 
 the New Hall, he might have thought it bewitched, as 
 before; but Eackham could not conceive of any witch so 
 bold as to molest a horse in such a sacred surrounding. It 
 would be all right after it had swallowed his panacea. 
 But he could not expect any effect for a few hours yet. 
 So he went to bed. 
 
 The rain had lulled an hour since, but there was more 
 in the sky to come down; so he had said as he locked the 
 stable-door. A moon near the full, rim-blurred through 
 the mist, and halo-circled, made the same prediction. 
 But its fulfilment was delayed; for the mist grew less, 
 and the moon brighter, and Eackham could see by its 
 light a woman's figure near the turn in the road, a hun- 
 dred yards away. An unusual sight, long after midnight ! 
 So unusual, that a superstitious man, not more than half 
 awake, would have thought it a ghost, past doubt. The 
 groom was neither, so he rolled himself up to sleep 
 unconcerned. She was no affair of his, whoever she 
 was. 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOXOK 377 
 
 The dogs broke out in a chorus directly after. Well ! — 
 they would do that till the wanderer had passed the house. 
 Kackham remained unconcerned, and continued the ar- 
 rangement of his attitude. It was to outlast daybreak. 
 
 But the dog-chorus did not die down as he expected, 
 and he had cursed the beasts twice or three times for an 
 excess of duty, when an unwelcome sound broke through 
 his reluctance to move — the jangle of the gate-bell, loud 
 and sudden in the silence. It left him no choice but to 
 get up and look from the door in the gable of the adjoin- 
 ing loft, that opened on space, and showed to him who 
 cared to risk a fall out, a partial view of one outside the 
 gate. This one was a woman, Rackham thought; obvi- 
 ously the one he had just seen along the road. 
 
 '^ Be off ! '^ shouted he to the disturber. He was so 
 utterly convinced that she could not be any concern of his 
 or anyone in the house — probably a wandering lunatic — 
 that he had no scruple about his form of speech, so far. 
 But he softened it down, adding, " Who be you ? ISTo 
 good, I warrant ! '' — the last to himself partly. 
 
 " Come down, Master Eackham," answered a voice he 
 knew. He was half-prepared for the name that followed, 
 spoken as though the speaker took recognition for granted : 
 " Susan Trant." 
 
 His anticipation of it was not so clear, though, as to 
 intercept a long, low whistle, and " My word ! " But he 
 would go to the gate; that he settled on promptly. 
 One or two garments had to be supplied or adjusted. 
 So he said, " Bide tiU I come," and went back to his 
 kennel for the purpose. 
 
 The story tried to hint, some while since, that Rack- 
 ham's sentiments towards Mrs. Trant were not unmixed 
 with a certain vulgar appreciation. This had been marred 
 
378 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOIsTOE 
 
 or thwarted for a time by his resentment against the 
 thraldom he had endured at her hands. But this resent- 
 ment had abated after he had helped to hand her over 
 to the rack or the stake. He was even with her; so his 
 mind phrased it. At any rate, it had now become easier 
 to forgive her, and to go back to an estimation of her 
 personal charms akin to his recognition of the points of 
 a fine mare. So that as he found his way down the ladder 
 that led from his dormitory, he was nursing an image in 
 his mind, mainly founded on that of Mistress Trant when 
 she spoke to him through the window of Kips Manor, 
 while she was still beguiling him into her spider ^s web. 
 This image was a tempting one, and his anticipation as 
 he threw the gate open was very different from its 
 fulfilment. 
 
 Haggard, stooping, soiled, and splashed with dirt from 
 head to foot, limping as she walked, and seeming like to 
 fall, with some indistinct damage on her face that Rack- 
 ham could not define in the dim light, the woman that met 
 his eyes was a greater contrast to the image he expected 
 than his slow mind could assimilate. " You lie, who- 
 ever you be, mistress ! " said he. " YouVe gotten the 
 voice of her, too,'' he added. " Come you in." But 
 he found it hard to believe that this was truly Susan 
 Trant. 
 
 Whoever she was she staggered in across the yard. 
 There was a truss of fresh hay and some sacks against the 
 stable-door, and on these she sank down, leaning against 
 the wall. It was plain she was faint to death ; worn out, 
 one would have said, with fatigue, hunger, rough usage, 
 what not! She showed no apprehension of harm from 
 the dogs, though their excitement seemed quite unusual. 
 Kackham drove or kicked the free ones back into their 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISH0:N'0R 379 
 
 kennels, and chained them. Then he returned to the 
 woman. 
 
 She tried for speech, saying — so thought her hearer — 
 " They went nigh to killing me. Master Rackham." But 
 he could not have sworn to the words. 
 
 He was at a loss, but could take his own time to work 
 it out. Presently he bethought himself of a bottle of 
 true Irish usquebaugh, treasured for gradual consumption. 
 He could spare a mouthful, at a pinch. Apart from all 
 other considerations, he did not want this woman to die 
 on his hands. 
 
 The usquebaugh was effectual, and she spoke, saying: 
 ^' I have scarce tasted food this day." Rackham brought 
 her whatever scraps he could lay hands on, rough fare 
 enough, but she devoured it as one famished. Then she 
 got speech, and began to tell him how she had come afoot 
 all the way from Bury, walking for eight whole days, 
 having escaped from persecutors; and other matters more 
 or less confused, of which even had he been a shrewder 
 hearer, he could have made but little. Sleep was coming 
 on her apace; seeing which, and being well-disposed to- 
 wards sleep himself, Mr. Rackham cast about to extem- 
 porise a rough bed in an empty stall of the stable, of fresh 
 hay and a sack of oats for a pillow. " Lie thee down 
 and snore, mistress," said he, throwing her a horse-cloth 
 for counterpane, and then found his way up his ladder 
 and slept himself. 
 
 When he awoke, well on into daylight, he was half 
 inclined to believe he had dreamt it all. But then, there 
 was the woman, who he could now see was Susan Trant, 
 as he looked out over the stable-yard and saw her, afoot 
 before himself, moving with a limp, and seeming to peer 
 about, to catch a sight of the house, of which the main 
 
380 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOE^OR 
 
 portion was not fully visible from the stables, which were 
 under the side wall. 
 
 " I see it be you, now, mistress, pretty plain," said he, 
 when he got within word-distance of her. " But someone 
 has made free with your nose, or my eyesight^s tripping 
 me up." For he saw now what it was that had struck 
 him as strange about her face in the half-dark. The nose 
 had been badly cut, and the wound had healed ill, and 
 meant to leave a bad scar. 
 
 The woman's answer seemed to take its hearer's under- 
 standing of the case for granted. " A good housewife 
 helped me after I got away from them," said she. " She 
 strapped the cut with a plaster. I took it off but yes- 
 terday. 'Tis a wonder to me it should have healed at 
 all. . . . Yes — Master Rackham, I am hungry and 
 sore, and a good breakfast would be a glad sight." 
 
 The groom asked no more questions then, having a 
 slow instinct that he would hear the tale better later. 
 He went away to provide the breakfast, and how he con- 
 trived to get it is not clear. But this was not the first 
 time he had applied to the housekeeper to provide for 
 an unexpected inmate; and if any of the household had 
 seen that this inmate was a woman, it would only have 
 led to a discreet avoidance of the stables ; such discretion 
 having been an understood practice in Sir Oliver's time 
 at the New Hall. However, of course, it is possible that 
 the rough plenty of the great house could ignore so small 
 an additional demand as two or three new-laid eggs and 
 an extra rasher or two of bacon. As for small beer, which 
 was the early morning drink of that time, none ever 
 counted its quantity or cost. All this was well for Susan 
 Trant, who in an hour's time was able to make her story 
 clear^ and account for her unexpected appearance. 
 
AN^ AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 381 
 
 The substance of it is all that is needed here, the actual 
 telling being often broken, and interspersed with ex- 
 planations. She had been haled before the Justices at 
 Burj, on the information, as she had since learned, 
 of Sir Oliver Raydon, and of John Rackham himself, 
 whose share in the matter she seemed to slur over, with 
 a kind of suggestion that he had acted under orders, 
 and was the merest subordinate. ^^ It was not my desert 
 at your hands, Master Rackham," said she. ^' But your 
 word was at the bidding of another, and well do I know 
 where the blame lies." At her first examination she had 
 given herself up for lost, seeing her guilt was taken for 
 granted except she could prove her innocence; as was 
 common in witch-trials, the offenders being almost always 
 women, and not entitled to the benefit of a nicety of 
 Law that holds men innocent until they can be proved 
 guilty. Rut during her detention in the common gaol — 
 for, of course, if any bail had been forthcoming it would 
 have been refused — she turned over in her mind, as one 
 desperate might do, all manner of devices to escape 
 the penalties she knew awaited her. For, except she could 
 find a better, her only chance would be that she should 
 remain alive under water; seeing that if she floated on 
 the surface, she would afterwards be burnt at the stake, 
 as hundreds had been before her. The end of which 
 cogitation was, that at her second examination this 
 Susan, being called on to confess, did so with much show 
 of contrition, giving many and amazing details of her 
 temptation by the Evil One, in the form of a little man 
 with crop-ears, and a sweet voice, and how he had pre- 
 vailed upon her to let him suck her blood, though but a 
 little quantity, in exchange for an owtch of black jet, 
 that is to say, a trinket, which had great and magic 
 
382 AN AFFAIR OF DISH0:N^0R 
 
 virtues, and would give her power over all who should 
 handle it. Whereat the Judge having inquired of her 
 was this the toy wherewith she had so besotted Mr. 
 John Rackham, in the service of the worshipful Sir Oliver 
 Raydon, she had replied " Yes," and that she had it upon 
 her now, and his lordship might handle it, and see his 
 face in it if he cared to look. But whether its old virtue 
 were in it still, that she could not say, seeing that very 
 like the little man with the crop-ears might be angered 
 against her now she had betrayed him. 
 
 His lordship, however, would have none of it himself, 
 but ordered the Clerk of the Court to examine it, and take 
 charge of it as a necessary evidence; who, being in great 
 terror to touch it — for had it not been handled by the 
 Evil One himself? — was fain to protest against being 
 compelled to do so, having a family of twelve children, 
 and a third wife expecting in November. So he made 
 this petition to the Court, that before he was compelled 
 to take this Satan's trinket in his charge, it should be 
 handled by the Very Reverend the Dean of St. Mary's, 
 who was then present, by virtue of whose holy office the 
 evil spirit would surely make but a short stay therein, 
 leaving it innocuous to a mere layman like himself. 
 Which being granted, and the Reverend Dean having 
 discerned in the locket no more than any other female 
 gaud or fairing, only that it showed his face amiss for all 
 it was so polished, the learned Judge was of a mind to 
 examine it himself, and did so. Thereon each man then 
 in Court — and many were folk of weight and condition — 
 would take his turn to look into this piece of polished 
 jet, and each in turn said what the Reverend Dean had 
 said, that the reflection mirrored in it showed his face 
 askew, however clear it made his features. And one 
 
AIsT AFFAIE OF DISHOIS^OK S83 
 
 made a deft turn with his finger, to show the manner of 
 this twist. Then says Mistress Susan, with due apology 
 and humble reverence to the worshipful Court and the 
 Very Reverend Dean, that so had John Eackham said, 
 and she rejoiced thereat, for surely now he would 
 die too, if she should be sent to the scaffold or the 
 stake. 
 
 On hearing this strange speech, the learned Judge 
 directed that it should be entered on the minutes, and 
 further required the accused to explain her meaning, and 
 not dally with the patience of the Court. For if she did 
 so, she should surely be rackt, or at the least well pricked 
 with pins for to bring her to some reason. 
 
 But Susan was ready with her explanation, saying that 
 now she would withhold nothing, to show her true re- 
 pentance. And her meaning was easy to tell, being 
 simply that there was a virtue of prediction in this in- 
 significant piece of polished jet, whereby it should be 
 known whether its owner, or any chance person who 
 looked at his image therein, should live the longer. But, 
 said his lordship the Judge, by what token should this 
 be known? How could she know that Mr. Rackham's 
 decease would follow on her execution, which she heartily 
 deserved, if only for her unchristian rejoicing over the 
 death of an unoffending man, who had told no more than 
 the truth, by her own showing. Thereupon Susan shed 
 tears, saying his lordship had most clearly the right of it, 
 and taking great blame to herself that she had so spoken 
 in haste. For it was her Christian wish to die at peace 
 with all men, and make amends for her many yieldings 
 to the instigation of this cunning Satan. She ought 
 rather to pray that John Rackham might live, but in 
 truth she feared that nothing could altogether remove 
 
384 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 
 
 the inward powers of the stone, not even the touch of the 
 most worshipful and reverend Dean. She only spoke 
 what she understood the little crop-eared man to say — 
 that he who saw his face atwist to the left would die of 
 a certainty, within but a few days of herself. But he 
 ■ whose face was set askew to the right might enjoy long 
 life, whether she should die or live. 
 
 Then the Reverend Dean and my lord the Judge both 
 went very pale, and spoke uneasily. And others in the 
 Court who had looked in this piece of jet would look in 
 it again, though each accounted the woman but a liar, 
 seeking to frighten them. The end of it was, after much 
 discussion, in which the Reverend Dean used all his pow- 
 ers of persuasion with the Court to get this witch let off 
 scot-free, in view of her evident repentance and turning 
 from the paths of Satan, that Mrs. Trant was liberated, 
 undertaking with many tears and much show of contri- 
 tion, to lead a godly life and shun the Black Art, and all 
 the wiles of the Evil One. 
 
 At this point Rackham interrupted the story, which 
 had taken time in the telling, to say : ^^ But this was all 
 a damned lie, I'll pound it. Mistress Susan." 
 
 To which Susan answered : " 'Twas a lie, as you say. 
 But it did me a good turn, though it would have been a 
 better one had they opened their doors to me when all the 
 neighbours were abed. For the town was against me, 
 and I tell you this for a truth, Master Rackham, that 
 when I came forth of the gaol-door that opens on the 
 market, there by the cross in the middle was a crowd of 
 folk a-listening to a godly minister of religion, who was 
 preaching a discourse touching the commandment of our 
 Lord, ^ Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' And no 
 sooner had they sight of me — just a poor woman, all 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOiS^OR 385 
 
 alone, for none of mj kith had the courage to stand by; 
 me ..." 
 
 "Yoiir good man, mistress," Rackham interposed, 
 ^' seems to have played mighty small in the matter. 
 Stopped at home, I lay." 
 
 Susan broke into a bitter laugh. " He might have 
 done so. Master Rackham, for all the good he ever did 
 me! Why — ^when he was asked a question, what does 
 he answer? Says he believes he wedded me through 
 some witch-poison I put in his drink. The liar! — ^he 
 wedded me for two hundred pounds out of the pocket of 
 the Squire's mother, she that gave me this cloak I carry 
 now — 'tis a marvel for wear, for 'tis none so bad to look 
 on even now, after eighteen years gone. ..." 
 
 But Rackham's wits could not follow digressions. 
 " You see 'em a-coming, mistress," said he. ^' I under- 
 stood you to say so, by your words." 
 
 " Yes — I saw them coming, all shouting to kill the 
 witch — kill the witch! It was the worst bout of it all. 
 They were just so many devils broke loose. I can only 
 half-say what happened. I heard one shout, ^ Slit her 
 nose o' both sides ! ' but I could not have sworn to the 
 doing of it, for the life of me. Who's to say what comes 
 about when she can see no way out of Hell, look where 
 she may? All the thought I could have was for what 
 might come next. ..." 
 
 " And what come next ? " said Rackham. For the 
 speaker had paused, with the horror of the memory upon 
 her face, as though the telling of it was beyond her powers 
 of speech. 
 
 " The next I know, to tell clearly, was that two men 
 had me by the arm, one each side, and were walking me 
 along the road out of the town. One told me the end 
 
386 AX AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 
 
 of it. The Justices had no mind I should be killed, and 
 stopped the riot. But they would not have me in the 
 town, and these two were to see me well on my way, and 
 turn me loose to make shift for myself. One of them 
 I knew from a boy. But he thought me a witch, and 
 his heart was hardened." 
 
 " But what money had you, mistress ? " 
 
 " Not a penny — they had taken it all. But the 
 Reverend Dean had sent me a crown, being unwilling 
 I should starve outright. And the little brooch they sent 
 me back too, being mightily afeared of it, and even 
 af eared to destroy it." 
 
 She then described how the officers of the Court had 
 been only just in time to save her from the mob, one of 
 whom had a tale to tell of how the nose of a witch being 
 fairly slit of both sides, her powers for mischief would be 
 gone for good. And thus it was that when these officers 
 left her she, finding all her bosom bloodstained, and guess- 
 ing the nature of her wound from the pain of it, went to 
 seek for help at a cottage, saying she had fallen and was 
 badly hurt. The goodwife at this cottage, being kindly- 
 hearted, not only tended the cut, strapping it together 
 with a plaster, but kept her in her cottage a day, giving 
 her time for rest, which she needed all the mor^ that her 
 leg was lame from a bad kick, given in the crowd. After 
 which she went on her way, having made up her mind 
 to seek Sir Oliver at his own home, though with what 
 intent was outside John Rackham's powers of surmise. 
 He presumed that Mrs. Trant knew her own business 
 best. 
 
 She had not been at any loss to find her way, having 
 often heard tell of the wayside places betwixt Kips Manor 
 and Croxley, and the crown the Dean sent her was enough 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 387 
 
 to stave off exhaustion by hunger. But she had to beg 
 shelter, sometimes in barns; and once she had slept 
 beneath the sky, in the warmth of a brick-kiln. She 
 was near the end of her strength when she arrived at the 
 New Hall, havings learned the description of it from the 
 host of the Three Sheaves, four miles off. 
 
 " And now you've got here, mistress, what be you 
 thinking to do ? '^ So spoke Mr. Rackham, adding : '' I 
 can't have you here — that you'll understand without 
 telling.'^ 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Rackham, how can you think I would thrust 
 myself on you! 'T would be unseemly. No — no! So 
 soon as Sir Oliver is out of bed, which I take it will not 
 be long now, I will go to him, and make my petition to be 
 allowed to remain on in the house, and be of what service 
 I may. 'Twas too late last night, and they said at the 
 Three Sheaves where I should find Master Rackham.'' 
 
 " Sir Oliver is away. And if he comes back, mistress, 
 I doubt he won't be best pleased at the sight of you. And 
 so I tell you." 
 
 " Best pleased at the sight of me ? " She laughed a low 
 laugh, uncomfortable to hear. But John Rackham w^as 
 not impressionable. She went on : " Why — he thinks me 
 safe in gaol ! " Then she made as though she was ready 
 for a greater confidence, going nearer and speaking lower. 
 " You might not think it, but there was a time when 
 Squire Raydon — I mean Sir Oliver — ^would have laughed 
 to be told he would want me burned or hanged. He was 
 a devil to me, but 'twas another sort of devil." Her voice 
 dropped almost to a whisper, and her hearer was aware 
 that all this was not without its gratification for him. 
 It tickled him in some way not quite definable, except 
 in so far as it implied mere homage to his vanity. But 
 
388 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOE 
 
 any coarse man licks his lips over an insight into a 
 woman's story, told by herself. 
 
 He beamed with reciprocity and understanding. A 
 wrinkle towards a half-closed eye helped, and a knee-slap 
 added emphasis to '' Wouldnt I have thought it ? 
 Odscockles, Mistress Susan, I've said it myself, over and 
 again ere now. To think of that now — ^you and Master 
 Oliver! But he was a rare one." He dwelt upon his 
 young master's gay career of glorious wickedness with a 
 noisome glee, not altogether unpaternal. Then he 
 laughed till the tears came, saying piecemeal : '' He's a 
 sad rogue — he's a woundy rogue — among the girls ! But 
 they can't resist 'un. Catch they ! " 
 
 ^^ Do you think I have much love for him now, Mr. 
 Eackham ? 'Not overmuch. But did you say he was not 
 here now ? " Then it was the man's turn to tell the tale 
 of what had happened to Sir Oliver since his return, but 
 he was not so glib with it, and it did not seem a source 
 of pleasure to Mrs. Trant, except it were the part that 
 related to his second duel, and his narrow escape from 
 death. The story of his marriage brought an angry flush 
 to her face, teeth clenched for a moment, and a knitted 
 brow. The anger of true jealousy outlives all its allied 
 conditions and interests. Susan had now nothing to gain 
 or lose by any change in Sir Oliver's surroundings, yet 
 she felt a new pang of anger at his actual marriage with 
 Lucinda. Her consolation for her own lot had always 
 been that the victims who followed her had fared no bet- 
 ter than she. Why was this one to score a success ? 
 
 Eackham grinned at the visible signs on her face of the 
 storm within, and said : " You'll maybe get a chance to 
 give the master a bit of your mind to-day or to-morrow, 
 Mistress Susan. I take it, not unlikely he's on his way 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 389 
 
 here. That young man you see at Kips . . . Oh — gone 
 before you came, had he? . , . well, he rode over yes- 
 terday to tell Dame Cecily the master was coming— him 
 and Lady Raydon. Ah — Lady Raydon in earnest now I '' 
 
 The woman's eyes rested shrewdly on him a moment, 
 and then she seemed to consider, and finally to adopt 
 some resolution. A tone of cajolery came back to her, as 
 she said ; ^' Come now, Master Rackham, you'll never say 
 you believed all that tale you told the magistrates. It 
 was put upon you to say it." 
 
 Rackham fired up. '' What will I never say ? Why — 
 plague take it all. Mistress Susan, are you going to say a 
 word of it was false ? Who set me down to stare my eyes 
 out at a cursed little jiggumbob with a devil in it? Who 
 shut 'em up tight for me whether I would or no? Who 
 set me on to blabbing Master Oliver's affairs ? " For he 
 used, speaking hotly, the name his inner soul always gave 
 to his employer. 
 
 Susan, despite of her nose, could be scornful still, with 
 those two green eyes to help her, watching for the dawn of 
 new embarrassment in Mr. Rackham's mind. " If men 
 are such fools as to believe all one tells them, what's to 
 make them wiser? Just think of that silly rooster-cock 
 with a chalk line down his beak! Why does it stick so 
 tight to the barn-floor? Dost think the Devil comes to 
 hold it down, John Rackham? JSTot he! — no more than 
 he came to shut thine eyes, silly man! He has other 
 matter on hand than that, trust him ! No — no ; the bird's 
 a fool, and there's the whole of his story. And thou art 
 a fool, and that's the whole of thine," She spoke to the 
 old man as to a child of ten, 
 
 Rackham, speechless with indignation at first, found 
 his voice at last in spite of the gaze fixed on him. 
 
300 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOIS^OR 
 
 " What — will you stand to it there was no Devil, when I 
 saw him and his imps, plain as I see you now? If you 
 be not in the DeviFs confidence, Mistress Trant, never 
 woman was ! " 
 
 " You saw the Devil and his imps, Mr. Kackham ? 
 Very like — in a dream ! A dream is the wind over a hill 
 — for if it be never so loud this night, to-morrow it may 
 be still/' She half-said, half-sung, the words of an old 
 ballad ; then harking back on it, would have sung a verse 
 aloud, " Sweavens are swift, quoth little Johan . . . '' 
 
 But Rackham, incensed and fuming, cut her singing 
 short with, " A dream — a dream ! Why, God-a-mercy, 
 woman, what shall we have next? Shall I be a dream 
 myself? I tell you this — I saw him plain as I see you 
 now. . . . How big, did ye say? — why, nothing to 
 make one's teeth chatter, but no smaller than a big tom- 
 cat. . . . What's to snicker at in that, mistress ? " For 
 Mrs. Trant had burst into a laugh as at something 
 irresistible. 
 
 " Oh, the fool, the fool that thou art, John Eackham ! 
 Why — 'twas the cat itself — this imp of darkness ! " 
 Then, with a sudden gravity : " Come now — be a fool no 
 longer! Think of what you say — all this monstrous tale 
 come of a simple brooch my mother gave me to wear the 
 year my father died! Take it in your hand, good man, 
 and see thine own folly, to lay such a power to the door 
 of an innocent little stone, just polished up . . . nay, 
 don't be feared of it — keep your cowardice for a good 
 occasion, not to shudder at a harmless trinket." 
 
 " I'll none of it," said John Rackham, putting his 
 hands behind him. And then, with suspicion in face and 
 voice : " Why would you have me handle it, mistress ? " 
 But all the while he was conscious of a need to resist a 
 
'A'N AFFAIE OF DISHOXOE 391 
 
 certain appeal this woman's comeliness made to whatever 
 of youth was left in him, strangely qualified now by the 
 injury to her nose. It was odd it should be so! — but so 
 it was. He felt that that slur on her face helped him. 
 against the cajolery of her voice. 
 
 '^ Be at peace, friend ! " said she, with the same half- 
 mocking tone, as one speaks to soothe a child that is not 
 really hurt. ^' Thou shalt not handle the awful thing 
 then. See here — it shall go in here — safe out of the way — 
 there ! Be happy, Master Rackham ! '^ She slipped the 
 apple of discord into her bosom, out of sight. 
 
 But Rackham was not happy. He could not choose but 
 protest against the affront to his manhood. A little 
 ridiculous shiny brooch ! Perhaps after all he had only 
 been his own dupe, and Mrs. Trant was no witch. He 
 could forgive her lips, her eyes, her palm, unclosed as it 
 left the trinket in hiding to show all fair ; but he slightly 
 resented her nose. However, that would improve with 
 time. Only, her contempt of his terrors rankled; and 
 presently, as probably she had foreseen, he broke out awk- 
 wardly : ^^ Get un out again — diet's have a look ! '' 
 
 " I'll warrant it to do no harm," said Susan, and Rack- 
 ham could see the stain of bloody still on her bosom and 
 undervest, as she fished up the brooch from some recess 
 in it. ^' There then — touch it and hold it ! " Her voice 
 had in it such mockery that he half repented of his re- 
 assertion of his dignity. 
 
 But he could not go back now. He took it in his hand, 
 turning it over. Had he been daft, to allow this insignifi- 
 cant thing to bedevil him so ? 
 
 " If you give it a rub and look in when it's shiny, you'll 
 see why my lord and the parson — all the fools — were 
 feared for their safety." Susan spoke in a comfortable 
 
392 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOIS^OR 
 
 sort of way, and went closer, to help in looking in to see. 
 Rackham would have met this with some vulgar famili- 
 arity had he been a bit younger, and she any easy young 
 Moll or Betsy of his early days. But the truth is he was 
 afraid of her. ^ot, however, to the extent of shrinking 
 from her proximity; quite the reverse! He rather main- 
 tained his inspection the longer for it, as a satisfaction 
 he could appreciate, provided it committed him to 
 nothing. 
 
 It was ill for him that he did so. For while he was 
 still trying to decide what way the reflection warped his 
 features, a drowsy fit — or something that resembled one, 
 yet left him broad awake — came over him. But his eye- 
 sight did not serve him well, for it was only by a sense of 
 touch that he knew that the woman drew her hands down 
 each side of his face, which was far from unpleasant to 
 him. He accepted her doing so as reasonable, but could 
 not guess why he did so. Because he knew perfectly well, 
 look you, that it was i^nreasonable ! 
 
 Neither did he at the moment question her half-singing, 
 half-saying a sort of song or rhyme that was surely gib- 
 berish, yet seemed plausible too — somehow applicable to 
 themselves and something undefined, that spun round. 
 However strange it may seem, that most nearly describes 
 his consciousness of something that he knew had hap- 
 pened when, coming as it were to himself, he heard Mrs. 
 Trant say, plain enough: "-We shall do now. .. . . You 
 see. Master Rackham, 'tis as I told you — no harm in it at 
 all! Now give it me back.*' And then felt her take the 
 brooch from his hand. Then he felt curious about what 
 had happened. 
 
 " What was you a-singing of to yourself V , . • 
 
 "When?" 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOE 393 
 
 '^ But now. A minute agone." He seemed suspicious. 
 
 " Oh— that ! ' Three thick thimbles.' That is naught." 
 
 " Ay !— but what is it ? '' 
 
 '^ Just a lilt of the nursery. The children sing it. . . . 
 iWhy did I? Sheer idleness of tongue, I take it. Why 
 should I not?" 
 
 ^' 'Twas none of your bedevilments ? " 
 
 ^^ Out upon it, Master Rackham ! You're just besotted 
 with your fancies. Is it like I should play off any tricks 
 on you — a poor weak woman alone here ! " 
 
 " I wouldn't trust ye, mistress." He seemed neverthe- 
 less a little disturbed by the song-incident, and went 
 away abruptly, saying ^' I have gotten a sick horse to 
 see to." 
 
 If, as it would appear from all this, Mrs. Trant had a 
 second time bewitched her victim, no visible result came 
 from it that day, unless it were that the groom showed a 
 singular docility, assenting easily to her remaining at the 
 stables, and complying with all her wishes, although some 
 of them were capricious enough, and whimsical. The 
 story is silent as to any other influences she may have 
 brought to bear — many such may be imagined — and 
 seems to imply that these enchantments were fruits of the 
 Black Art, not such as are every-day occurrences. Some 
 of her most reasonable requirements, too, were those most 
 difficult to satisfy; as, for instance, her desire to replace 
 the garments she had on with -others, fresh and unsoiled. 
 How Rackham came by some he provided her with does 
 not appear, nor is it important to know it, but the fact 
 that he did so shows how completely he had again come 
 under her sway, magical or otherwise. His compliance 
 with demands less reasonable shows this even more con- 
 vincingly. As, for instance, when on the second day of 
 
394: AN AFFAIK OF DISHO:^rOE 
 
 her sojourn with him, after sunset, she says to him: 
 ^' Master Rackham, open me the door through into the 
 garden. I have a mind to see the big yellow moon off 
 the terrace. Here the stable hides it.'' 
 
 " That door never be opened, Mistress Sukey.'' He 
 was conscious of his subjection, but fitfully in revolt 
 against it. And the keeping of this door closed was a 
 kind of chronic religious observance with him. He had 
 only opened it once in eighteen years, on the morning 
 when Sir Oliver came back from the duel. 
 
 " You will open it for me. Master Rackham.'' 
 
 " 'Tis no use asking me, mistress. That door never 
 he opened.'' 
 
 " I did not ask thee, good John." She spoke to him 
 more than ever as to a child. " I did but say you would 
 open it, whether I asked it or no ! Bide in patience, and 
 see if it do not prove so." And she says not a word 
 more, but sits on, taking no heed of his grunted negative, 
 her green eyes fixed on him. It is strange to watch their- 
 effect, as the free bird is said to flutter to the serpent's 
 jaws, trapped by his cold, persistent gaze. She seems 
 content to wait. He will do it in the end. 
 
 Presently he speaks : " I'll be damned or ever I open 
 yon door, for thou or any woman," says he. To which 
 she replies, unmoved : " You will do it ere then, I take 
 it. Master Rackham. !N'ot very long hence. Time enough 
 for me to see the yellow moonrise." He grunts again, 
 as one who says defiantly, " We shall see ! " 
 
 But strange to say, in a little while his fingers itch to 
 take a bunch of keys from the pocket of a coat that hangs 
 on a nail by the little stable window — for it was there this 
 conversation took place — and it is to him like some chance 
 irritation of the skin that one may make oath against 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISH0:N^0R 395 
 
 touching or rubbing, but tbat is ever victorious in the end. 
 He has to look for those keys, will he nill he. Having 
 found them, he goes up his ladder, and taking from a 
 locker a larger key, returns with it down the ladder, mut- 
 tering to himself at intervals. 
 
 But Susan Trant says never a word more, seeming still 
 content to wait, until he actually goes out, key in hand, to 
 all seeming to do her bidding. Then she takes from a 
 hook where she has hung it her cloak with the hood that 
 w^as the gift of the Squire's mother, and follows him out, 
 going towards that garden door. The kick she got in the 
 crowd has still its effect on her gait, and she goes with a 
 limp. 
 
 Rackham had the key in the door as she approached 
 him. He turned to her as he opened it, saying : ^^ What 
 tale shall you tell to Dame Langdon if you meet her? 
 Ah ! — or to ere a one of them, for that matter ? " To 
 which she replied : ^' That concerns me. Master Rackham. 
 Draw water in your own pail: leave me mine." 
 
 He had stood a moment wondering what could have 
 possessed him to act thus — to depart from a time- 
 honoured usage at the whim of such a woman as this — 
 when his ear was caught by the sound of horses' feet. 
 He had a keen ear for the footstep of a horse, and he 
 would have sworn that was Alcibiades, Sir Oliver's roan, 
 that he rode away on six weeks ago. Now, although he 
 did not closely analyse why it was that he was so un- 
 willing Sir Oliver should meet Susan Trant face to face, 
 he was sure he would be glad to get her out of the way, 
 provisionally. But when he tried to follow her through 
 the open door, he found he could not. He stood with his 
 feet glued to the ground, unable to stir from the spot. 
 
 Presently, back she comes; locks the door and slips the 
 
396 AK AFFAIR OF DISHOISTOR 
 
 key in her pocket. " Where's the need to stand there 
 looking like a fool f " says she curtly, but with an under-i 
 laugh at his expense. " There's the master and her 
 ladyship — her new ladyship — coming along the lane 
 a-horseback. See you be ready to receive them." Then 
 she goes straightway up the ladder, and hides herself in 
 Rackham's bedroom, where certainly none will come to 
 look for her. 
 
 As she goes, he comes to himself, with occasional 
 grunts of astonishment, and a disposition to slap his 
 limbs and examine his hands, as though he needed tangible 
 evidence of his own existence. The sound of hoofs comes 
 nearer, and the voices of the riders. What's that her 
 ladyship is saying? 
 
 " Woman on the terrace, sweetheart ? What woman ? 
 You'll turn all the milk sour, Oliver mine, if you look 
 like that. What's all the to-do f Why not a woman on the 
 terrace ? " 
 
 But Oliver pays no attention to Lucinda's rally. Hq 
 is knocking at the stable gate with the butt-end of his 
 whip. " Where's that lazy knave, John Rackham ? . . . 
 Ho — there you are — Master John ! Who's yonder woman 
 on the terrace ? . . . None of your lies — I saiv her ! " 
 By now, the gate is open, and the young groom, who has 
 ridden up from the rear, is dismounting Lucinda. 
 
 '^ If there's e'er a woman there. Master Oliver," says 
 Rackham slowly, ^^ she's one I know nowt about, except 
 she be Dame Langdon or one of the serving wenches. It 
 be they — one or other on 'em! " 
 
 Oliver is seriously disquieted about this woman, and 
 Lucinda cannot see why. Had it not been for catching 
 sight of her, Oliver would no doubt have passed the 
 stables, and ridden on to the house-door to dismount — a 
 
AlSr AFFAIE OF DISHOI^OE 397 
 
 more ceremonial home-coming for such an occasion. E'ow 
 he is off his horse, and throwing the rein carelessly to the 
 young groom, strides into the stable-yard, calling for the 
 key of the door — the key of the door! Get him the key 
 of the door at once! 
 
 Rackham dares not venture on an attempt to recover 
 the key from Mrs. Trant, for the window of his den where 
 she has hidden herself opens just above the door in the 
 garden wall, and every word would be audible to Sir 
 Oliver and Lucinda, waiting for his return to open it. 
 So he makes a pretence to hunt for it in the stable itself. 
 Oliver and Lucinda suppose themselves alone, and speak 
 freely. 
 
 " Crazy Oliver ! " says she. " Let the woman be ! One 
 of the maids, or Joan Cockerell, the gardener's wife. 
 Why such a to-do ? " 
 
 '^ Old Joan ! As if I should not know old Joan ! No, 
 no ! — this is some trick, or the Devil's in it." 
 
 " What can you mean, Oliver ? " She speaks seriously, 
 for she is always haunted by that fear about his brain. 
 
 " I suppose it's that infernal dream I dreamt . . . 
 yes — I told you once, I know. A damned dream about my 
 mother — rest her soul! — on the terrace here, limping 
 along. She limped, you know. . . . But I told you of 
 it? . . ." And then, John Rackham coming back with 
 some tale of why he could not at the moment lay hands 
 on the key, he rated him well for his carelessness, and of 
 course Lucinda asked no more about the dream and the 
 figure of the woman on the terrace. 
 
 But every word they had said together had been heard 
 and marked by Susan Trant in the room over the stable, 
 quite close to them. 
 
CHAPTEK XXIII 
 
 Those who have lived under extreme tension, knowing 
 that some great predominating misery fills their lives — 
 losing it, if ever, only in sleep ; waking to it always in the 
 raw cold daylight — these know, too, how the actual we 
 have to face thrusts its petty claims upon us, and will be 
 heard, even though we stop our ears against it. So, for 
 the moment, when the man Lucinda loved and hated had 
 his foot on the stirrup for the first time- since his trial of 
 strength with Death, her thought was, " Will he bear it ? 
 Is he safe ? " For he was still Oliver, with it all ! Love 
 outbid Hate, for that moment; and then, when she saw 
 him safe, or seeming so, gave place again to the ever- 
 present imaginings that shadowed her heart and made 
 her life funereal. Was not this the Old Hall, her home; 
 with, as Oliver had said, a memory of her father in every 
 room, an echo of his voice in every sound ? And who, 
 she asked herself again and again, was the more guilty of 
 his death — she or Oliver? She had called her lover 
 murderer; had she the right to brand that name upon 
 him? At least, she should share it with him — share the 
 burden of a penitence she hoped might be his one day; 
 praying daily, as she did, that a time would come when 
 his evil deed would lie less light upon his soul. 
 
 For, in truth, one thing that made her lot hardest to 
 bear was Oliver^s equanimity; it was but too plain that 
 the panoply of a worldly morality shielded him; kept 
 conscience at bay, sheltered his heart unstung, and let it 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 399 
 
 harden in security. Yet may it not tave been that his 
 guilt was really less than hers ; for, after all — what course 
 had been open to him ? She was sufficiently imbued with 
 the ideas of her time to regard the refusal of a challenge 
 as impossible in practice. And might not his plea be al- 
 lowed weight, that his action had been forced upon him 
 by the skill of his opponent. Yes — he may have, must 
 have, meant to end a bloodless duel by some shift that 
 would yield a satisfaction to honour, and even build a 
 bridge for reconciliation. But her father's sword, and 
 his determination, were too strong for that. 
 
 Had Oliver fallen and her father lived, to plead for 
 pardon for the slaying of her lover, would he not have had 
 to confess that it was he that had provoked the duel, not 
 Oliver ? It was a thought always more or less in her mind, 
 and very strongly now as she rode away beside him, with 
 the consciousness also upon her of the vows she had spoken 
 to him but a month since, believing always she should 
 never bring herself to observe them. Then, again — look 
 at this : had Oliver but come to her with the fresh stain of 
 blood upon his hands — had he confessed all and thrown 
 himself on her mercy — then how infinitely stronger that 
 plea would have been, that only a narrow^ chance had 
 made him the survivor! 
 
 So long as she was in her old home, Lucinda could 
 see nothing in this plea but a mere law quibble, an 
 evasion. She could not split straws over her father's 
 grave — could admit no question of his conduct. But as 
 she and her companion drew away to the open down, and 
 left the Old Hall and her childhood behind, she was able 
 at least to admit the thought that she herself was answer- 
 able for his death as much as her husband. Her conduct 
 had left him no choice, in her brother's absence. It was 
 
400 AN AFFAIE OF DISHOKOK 
 
 purely a question of honour against dishonor. And her 
 course of action had been of her own choosing; no com- 
 pulsion had been put upon her. It was all honest, 
 straightforward guile on Oliver's part. Things were held 
 fair in love that are held treachery in war ; but, then, con- 
 sider — women are only women, when all is said. 
 
 At least, Oliver had made such amends as he could, 
 such as would be judged so by the same Court that defines 
 Sin, and damns it. Need she, this being so, stifle a 
 feeling akin to gladness that he rode so straight, never 
 flinching at the movement of his horse, seeming to give 
 the lie to all Dr. Phinehas's gloomy forebodings ? It was 
 no disloyalty to a beloved memory, surely, to grant to 
 Oliver as much of concession and pardon as she would 
 have granted to her father himself had the position of the 
 two men been reversed. 
 
 The young groom, dispatched the day after that on 
 which we last saw Oliver and Lucinda, to give notice of 
 their arrival at Croxley the same evening, was a prema- 
 ture herald. For Dr. Phinehas was so urgent that one 
 more day at least should be given to absolute rest, that 
 Sir Oliver made that much concession grudgingly. The 
 morning after saw the newly-wedded, but previously 
 married, couple — surely the best description of the fact? 
 — on their way back to their future home. They were 
 alone; their only escort, the same young groom, having 
 left them a mile from the house, to take another route 
 as far as the Abbey, where he was to rejoin them. 
 
 There is nothing that stirs life to exultation more than 
 the rhythmic lift of the horse's body beneath its rider; 
 the rejoicing of the creature in its speed and power is a 
 thing irresistible. Even the strong swimmer that breasts 
 the light ripple of the sea-waves in the morning sunshine, 
 
AJSr AFFAIR OF DISHONOE 401 
 
 and forgets the land in the splendour of his freedom, is 
 not more divinely intoxicated with the joy of living than 
 the rider at one v^ith his horse on some long stretch of 
 level golden sand, or smooth sound slopes the flocks have 
 cropped to sheer perfection while generations lived and 
 died. Who can resist it, when a whispered suggestion of 
 the bridle sends the glorious creature that bears him hot- 
 foot across the glorious land, through the sweet air the 
 skylarks fill with music above, striking responsive music 
 from the sweet heart of the turf below? It was not in 
 Lucinda to feel no healing to her wounded soul, no 
 counter-stress to her misery in such a new-found exulta- 
 tion; with all her youth to back her, and a love she could 
 not quench for the man who rode beside her still poison- 
 ing — if you will have it so — the sources of her being. 
 
 And yet, when he and she reined in their steeds at the 
 end of a scour across the down she could not but exult 
 in, she felt disloyal to the dead ! 
 
 If the dead are a memory and no more, what is their 
 profit from the lamentations of their survivors, each bound 
 to take his turn of Death in the end ? But if those lamen- 
 tations reach them still, powerless to make us hear their 
 voices, may not every tear we shed count only to their 
 loss? — add only to the bitterness of an enforced silence? 
 Such a thought would have seemed to Lucinda an aggrava- 
 tion of disloyalty, and she shut the door of her mind 
 against it. But it hung about the threshold. 
 
 It was not the only plea in waiting there, on the watch 
 to unsettle her resolution to remain with Oliver no longer 
 than was needed to gain her end. It had been easy to put 
 aside their unexplained talk about her supposed forgive- 
 ness by saying it was an hallucination of Oliver's, and 
 calling in Susan Trant's necromancies to help. But it 
 
402 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 
 
 was hard to believe it heart-whole. May not she herself 
 have said something to warrant the delusion, or produce 
 it? Could she be sure of anything she said or did in so 
 terrible a time? 
 
 Anyhow, her bewilderment at this story came back to 
 her as they went slowly, slowly, down the steep descent 
 above the old bridge that the floods had spared for cen- 
 ries in the face of prophesied disaster. It became unen- 
 durable as she dwelt upon the man beside her, and tried 
 to see in him the victim of hallucination. How conceive 
 it, now that nothing was there to suggest the malady that 
 might have touched his brain? But so it often is, with 
 epilepsy, health and strength remaining unimpaired in 
 the intervals of the attacks. How else could Julius Caesar, 
 who is said to have suffered thus, have won and kept sway 
 of the whole world in such intervals except they found 
 him free? 
 
 And yet . . . how about the moment close following 
 upon an attack? Her lover's was so recent, that time 
 at Kips. The fit had but just left him. . . . Yes — it 
 may have been an arrant delusion. But . . . 
 
 She could not bear the speculative conflict in her mind, 
 and spoke suddenly. " Oliver ! What was it ? '' For 
 she forgot that he knew nothing of her thought. 
 
 " What was what ? " said he. 
 
 " What was it that made you think I had forgot- 
 ten. ... I mean, that made you tell me that tale of — 
 of — my hand and the rings ? " She chose what she re- 
 membered best, for identification. 
 
 " Faith ! I'll be hanged if I know. 'Twas a true tale, 
 for my own part in it, and that's the most I can tell you, 
 Lucy mine ! " 
 
 " Then you really believed . . . ? " 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 403 
 
 " Believed it was you ? That's so, right enough. And 
 you believed it was me, at the time." 
 
 " Oh, Oliver! — what a foolish speech! / was not there. 
 I was past Merrows Camp before the storm came. There 
 were just a few big drops of rain when Rackham and I 
 rode away, but all the storm was over the sea — black. 
 And yet you say that there was I — my hand and my rings 
 — ^when all the rain had stopped. Do think upon it, 
 Oliver!" 
 
 " Where's the good to come of thinking, silly wench ? 
 'Twas only there in the seeming of it, and we shall never 
 be the nearer, think how we may ! But 'twas all one, for 
 the upshot. Call it a dream if you will — it was a dream 
 that made for my acquittal, and a welcome fantasy 
 enough. I would it had been true, Lucy, for thy sake 
 and mine. . . . What, girl ! — why did I say nothing 
 of it that day in the garden ? Indeed, I might have done 
 so, Lucy mine, had it not been for that clout on the 
 head. ..." 
 
 " Oh, think of the provocation, Oliver. But I was wild 
 and beside myself, and, indeed, I only half knew what I 
 did. Forgive me that ! " 
 
 But Oliver made light of the blow Lucinda had given 
 him — had only a laugh for it. " Thou shalt do it again, 
 my girl," said he, " and I shall deserve it." The more 
 easily he took it, the nearer he came to her old ideal of 
 him. The readier he was to overlook this mere trifle in 
 her treatment of himself, the more she suspected her inner 
 soul of nursing overmuch resentment for a death that might 
 well have been his own. Think what turned on the slip 
 of a steel point, one way or the other. And then, also, 
 what would she have felt towards her brother had her 
 husband's late wound been from his weapon, not a wild 
 
404 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 mischance of Oliver's? Yet Vincent had a double 
 justification. 
 
 But it is hopeless to follow all the movements in the war 
 of irrepressible love and extinguishable resentment, of 
 which Lucinda's soul was the battlefield. Human im- 
 pulses fought on the side of her love for Oliver, while 
 the memory of the dead interposed on the extinction of 
 her anger against him. More and more she found solace 
 in self -censure — ^was not the blame finally and really her 
 own? But whether this was secretly dictated by a long- 
 ing to justify her love for Oliver, and sanction it, who 
 can say? 
 
 She can only be judged by her actions. She was very 
 silent as they got gradually down the steep hillside; was 
 silent but for a word or two of indifferent matter till they 
 had crossed the bridge and passed beyond the mill, and 
 were again in the lonely road that made a short cross-cut, 
 for riders only, to Croxley Village and the E'ew Hall. 
 The cart-road was longer and less tempting to the feet of 
 ridden horses. 
 
 At Ashen Mow, where is what is called the Giant's 
 Tomb, she spoke out sudden again, " Oliver ! '' and he 
 replied : " Oliver what ? — Oliver why ? Tell thy thought, 
 my Lucy." He kept a yawn under, to say this. 
 
 " Did you believe — could you believe that I ever spoke 
 those words to you? My father's death — think of it! " 
 
 He warmed to more interest. " Believe it ? How 
 could I doubt my own senses ? Maybe the time and place 
 have got wrong; but the words, girl, the words . . . 
 No, no ! — I heard you say the words, my Lucy, some time 
 that night, if it was not then." He spoke with an ear- 
 nestness unlike his everyday self and she could not but 
 believe him truthful. 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOI^OE 405 
 
 ^^ And when you came to seek me that day in the gar- 
 den, you were thinking all the while that the past might — 
 might be forgotten ? " 
 
 '' JSTot with an entire confidence, dearest ! But I had 
 had my hopes of it — ^yes." There was a growing tender- 
 ness in his voice; half-calculated, but half -genuine. At 
 least, he had never known himself so earnest. It was this 
 woman's amazing charm. He had only to picture to him- 
 self some movement of hers, some change of face, to bid 
 defiance to repentance of his marriage, and keep it at 
 bay. There was no one like her. 
 
 " Oh, Oliver, it was hard on you — to think that, and 
 then to have me do as I did ! " His calculations had been 
 right; his truthfulness a good investment. His soul is in 
 the balance now, and his two selves at grips for the 
 mastery. Which will have the best of it ? 
 
 He thought a moment what was wisest to say. Forgive 
 his policy — ^was it not a good ambition to seek to seem 
 loving, just, contrite for wrong done? He decided on: 
 ^' Forget it all, my Lucy ! I would that all things had 
 been otherwise. But he who meddles with a sword-point 
 has to do with death; it cannot be else. For the meeting 
 with thy father — well! — how could I avoid it? I was 
 rash to think I could handle the matter, and bring all to a 
 safe end. What wonder I could not find the heart or the 
 tongue to tell of such a dire mischance ? . . . " There he 
 stopped, knowing he could not say more and leave all his 
 crafty devices that followed without apology or explana- 
 tion, which he would have found it hard to give. So he 
 changed the current of his pleading, knowing all his argu- 
 ment, so far safe, might suffer wreck. What end was to 
 be gained, said he — and his voice seemed true and earnest 
 — by dwelling on what was past recall? His one great 
 
406 AJSr AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 crime that lay behind it all was his passion for Lucinda. 
 Therein he was guilty, and his guilt was great. He had 
 tried to stifle his love, but in vain. He should have fled 
 from her, but he could not. He had fled from her, but 
 her image had been ever present to him — and much more 
 of the same sort, which none knew better how to word than 
 he; all the hackneyed phrases he had used so often, for 
 the ruin of so many dupes ! In this he was a liar, for in 
 the early days of their meeting he knew nothing of Love, 
 the divinest of all passions, and was, indeed, no better 
 than a man. And he knew that he was now using a knowl- 
 edge she had taught him, to throw a false glamour over 
 those early protestations. Yet is not this the least un- 
 lovable of the lies this story has heard him tell ? At least, 
 he had learned to love ; and, for him who has learned that 
 lesson, there is always hope, be he man or brute. 
 
 Be sure that this language, all that a woman loves best 
 to hear, lost nothing from a warmth that made it ring 
 truer now in his own ears as he uttered it than it did in 
 those earlier days when it was at best the mere stock-in- 
 trade of a man of pleasure, to be paid for in sterling gold 
 from an unsuspicious heart. It came to Lucinda, in the 
 bitter desert of her unhappiness, as a mirage of the Sahara 
 that is all unlike the cheats that went before it; and is, 
 this time for certain, sweet water and green fields. And 
 even as the parched traveller welcomes it for the sheer 
 joy of believing them true, so her soul welcomed what it 
 had not the courage to doubt. 
 
 "Oh, Oliver — Oliver!'' she cried out into the middle 
 of his passionate discourse. " The crime was mine — the 
 crime was mine! And, oh me! — the coward that I was, 
 to shift the guilt on thee to spare myself! Oh, my love, 
 it is I that should be asking you to pardon me. Pardon 
 
AN AEFAIK OF DISHOJSTOR 407 
 
 me now, my dear, mj dear, and help me to bear my life — 
 for it is bitter to live and know . . . and know ..." 
 She shrank from saying roundly that she knew herself 
 guilty of her father's death. 
 
 Oliver flinched from the torrent of her remorse and 
 self-accusation. But a woman's fancies must be hu- 
 moured. If, now, he could only think of something 
 Biblical to say, solemnly! It would seal the compact of 
 a peace negotiation — ^help the ship, as it were, into safe 
 waters. Then there would be an end of this sort of thing. 
 Was old Ralph the only man that had ever been killed 
 in a duel ? 
 
 One or two memories of Scripture floated hazily in 
 Oliver's mind. " Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," 
 would sound well, but Oliver was uncertain of the con- 
 text. ISTeither did it seem to him reassuring. " Joy in 
 Heaven over the sinner that repenteth " was more so, 
 but — he could not have said why! — it seemed somehow 
 to disclaim his own guilt. E'o — that line would not be 
 safe! Why not resort to mere sincerity? It would be 
 the safest shift, surely! 
 
 " What — my Lucy! Art thou to answer for thy father's 
 death ? Out upon it ! No — no ! Let him who sows reap. 
 As to the guilt of it — ^to my thinking, the guilt lay in the 
 crossing of swords at all. That was none of my provoca- 
 tion. Share and share alike, at least! Was he not to 
 blame, as well as I ? At any rate, dearest, it was no fault 
 of thine." 
 
 The sentry-scouts that flew, black across the Abbey 
 Meadows, to tell their fellow-rooks that someone came, 
 may have been tale-bearers, to the best of their cawing, of 
 how the man's horse and the woman's, close abreast, had 
 stood awhile so still the lips of either rider met the other's, 
 
408 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 and had outstayed as much as might be of a half-embrace, 
 balked by but little distance. For these birds see and 
 know, and tell their knowledge to those that have ears and 
 can hear, though they waste but little speech in the telling 
 of it. 
 
 Thus it was that the relations of this husband and wife 
 had undergone a change in that short two hours' ride. 
 Such a change that John Rackham, hearing their voices, 
 as they rode up to the stable-gate, could never have 
 guessed the strain there had been between them since 
 their marriage a month since. 
 
 Lucinda remembered well enough Oliver's reference to 
 his curious dream. But she remembered, too well, the 
 occasion that brought him to speak of it. She would say 
 nothing now to revive the recollection of that moment, 
 and its terrible sequel. 
 
 But Oliver would not let the figure on the terrace be 
 forgotten. He questioned all the women-servants, and 
 could get no light on its identity. The hour fixed itself — 
 it was when he rode up to the gate, or just before. If it 
 was one of their own number, why not admit it ? It was 
 no contravention of any law of his making to go on the 
 terrace. Why not tell the truth? But it was soon 
 plain they were telling the truth. Evidently, none of 
 them had been on the terrace, or knew anything of the 
 matter. 
 
 " You must have been mistaken, dearest," said Lucinda, 
 not unwilling that the thing should be forgotten. 
 
 " Lucy mine, how could I be mistaken ? I saw the 
 terrace plain — through the gap in the yew-hedge. One 
 sees through plain from the turn of the road. Come and 
 look at it." They were walking, a day later, about the 
 
AlSr AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 409 
 
 gardens and near paddocks of the Hall, and it was a three 
 minutes' walk at most that he proposed. 
 
 ^' See now, Lucy," said he when they arrived. " She 
 came along limping, just like that wretched nightmare 
 dream." . . . 
 
 *' How could you be sure of the limp, thus far off ? " 
 
 '' H'm ! — I might be unsure about the limp. And I 
 might be unsure about the cloak. But the woman was 
 there, or I'm forsworn. And who the Devil was she ? " 
 
 John Rackham, catechized, was uncommunicative. 
 How could he know what was happening t'other side of a 
 ten-foot wall ? There might have been a rare company of 
 wenches on the terrace for anything he could naysay. He 
 suggested that the household were untruthful — that un- 
 defined conspiracy was afoot, to mislead. As to any 
 woman having passed through his door — ^well! — the key 
 was lost. You could see that for yourself. 'Eo light was 
 thrown on the subject by Mr. Rackham. His manner, 
 that of a reasonlessly unwilling witness, was put down by 
 Oliver to constitutional obstinacy. Lucinda may have 
 noticed its abnormal oddity, and her silence about it may 
 have been due to her wish that the incident should be 
 forgotten. 
 
 She was strangely happy during the next few days, 
 seeing how tragic her life had been for so long. Her love 
 for her husband was a reinstated infatuation, and he was 
 cunning enough to know how to strengthen his case for 
 absolution. Do not blame her! Think how glad we all 
 are to make accommodations between choice and duty. 
 Do not grudge her this little spell of sunshine and calm 
 weather. It was not for long. Her father's memory, too, 
 was ever with her, and Oliver was not slow to see that his 
 interest lay in affecting a sincere admiration and regard 
 
410 AN AFFAIK OF DISH0:N0K 
 
 for the man he had slain. He was careful to seem to keep 
 this back — to have it forced unwillingly from him. Thus 
 it came out — one can see it ! — how good and noble was this 
 man's inner heart, how cruelly he had been entrapped by 
 misadventure into an outward seeming of an assassin and 
 a traitor. It was craft, but it was craft he half-believed 
 honest, and it was the less ignoble seeing the end it was to 
 gain. The tear was almost real that he talked himself 
 into shedding over old Ralph, and the torrent it provoked 
 from Lucinda came as a luxury of grief to a heart half- 
 broken. 
 
 Meanwhile Susan Trant was safe in her haven of ref- 
 uge. Whether her influence over the old groom whose 
 domicile she had invaded was necromantic, and not of the 
 sort that Holy Writ limits and defines, but does not for- 
 bid, is a question to which in after days some said yes, 
 some no. If the latter alternative, the transgression was 
 beyond doubt, for Trant the farmer was not trampled by 
 a bull and gored to death till two years later. Probably 
 all who knew anything of the witch-trial at Bury, and 
 John Rackham's deposition against her, decided that this 
 time, too, he was bewitched. For is it likely that a 
 woman would intrigue with a man who had done her so 
 ill a turn — and he an old groom of sixty ? He was ready, 
 no doubt; but, then, do not some say no man is ever so 
 old he will not soften to a woman? . . . yes! — if she 
 be not uncomely out of all reason. 
 
 The denial of the witchcraft in this case, and the ready 
 acceptance of the other explanation, may be due to a 
 proneness to discredit all supernatural causes in human 
 affairs, or to an overstrung belief in the omnipresence and 
 omnipotence of Love, the only name we have for one 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 411 
 
 passion of many natures. The story, as it reaches us, 
 seems to warrant the adoption of the former theory, in the 
 face of its intrinsic improbability. 
 
 Whether she had some motive, such as the discovery of 
 a means towards revenge against Oliver — or, quite as 
 likely, against Lucinda — is another question that must 
 remain unanswered. It is not absolutely necessary to 
 suppose any motive, beyond the desire to lie safely in 
 hiding until she could show herself again in her native 
 place without risk of persecution. But motives may be 
 imagined. Could she have compassed the death of either 
 Lucinda or Oliver, she would by doing so have revenged 
 herself on both. She may have been hatching such 
 schemes, although no light is thrown on them by any- 
 thing that followed. 
 
 Scheme or no, declaration would have served no pur- 
 pose. John Rackham was under her thumb, of course, 
 but Sir Oliver and Lucinda were, so far, beyond her reach, 
 and free. If it crossed her mind to try her luck with 
 Lucinda, make a clean breast of her old relations with 
 Oliver, and appeal to the kindness of heart of a hated rival 
 for shelter and protection, she may easily have put the 
 idea aside at once as purely fantastic and absurd. Far 
 more likely that she dreamed of, and hoped for, some un- 
 defined revenge — some knife or poison still beyond her 
 reach. For she could see, herself unseen, enough of the 
 life at the New Hall to make sure that its master and mis- 
 tress were on no unloving terms. He that visits the New 
 Hall, now a hundred years have passed, will find the old 
 stable still unchanged, and he will be shown what folk still 
 call The Witch's Squint, an opening made slot-wise and 
 aslant in the wall of tlie stable-loft, where Mrs. Trant had 
 compelled her host, or rather servant, to devise a harbour- 
 
412 AN AFFAIK OF DISHO]^OK 
 
 age for her, well out of view of all who came to the stables, 
 and only accessible by a little winding stair, with a locked 
 door at the foot, whereof she got and kept the key. This 
 stable is in part an adaptation of the older building that 
 gave place to the ^N^ew Hall in the days of Harry the 
 Eighth. 
 
 How far this concealment was favoured by a readiness 
 of the young groom to wink at a supposed escapade of Mr. 
 Rackham's we cannot know. But if it were so, such a 
 connivance was no new thing at the Hall since its owner 
 came to manhood — just a part of daily life, and no more. 
 Now, this young man was the only person, Rackham ex- 
 cepted, who came and went at the stables without let or 
 hindrance. 
 
 However, after all, the story only needs to know that 
 Susan Trant's presence at the New Hall did remain un- 
 known to the household — why trouble to throw light on 
 the why and wherefore of any ascertained fact? Noth- 
 ing came to light, apparently, until Mrs. Trant, a short 
 while before her death, made a full statement of her own 
 share in the business; one that left her motives in the 
 dark, perhaps, but that fully accounted for the many 
 things that called for explanation. 
 
 It is fortunate that this confession of Mrs. Trant^s has 
 come down to us, clearly written by Absalom Price, the 
 secretary of Lord Fotheringay, from whose grandson the 
 documents came from which this story has been part piece- 
 mealed, part abstracted. No doubt this Price was the boy 
 whom we saw some pages back, charged with the care of 
 Sir Oliver's horse on the day of his duel with Vincent. It 
 is fortunate, because the principal source of our informa- 
 tion fails us at this point, the manuscript being abruptly 
 torn across; and, although some portions remain, they 
 
AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 413 
 
 would not alone insure a completion of the narrative. 
 Letters referred to in it are also missing. 
 
 But enough would be left, without Susan's confession, 
 to supply material for conjecture. The surviving frag- 
 ments are full of a story that got about that the ghost of 
 Oliver's mother, the Dowager Lady Raydon, walked on 
 the terrace at the Hall as she had done in her lifetime, 
 identified by her dress and her limp. It was first current 
 among the servants, and then reached the ears of the new 
 Lady Raydon, who, however, earnestly besought all who 
 knew it to keep it from Sir Oliver. It seems to have 
 reached him — it was sure to reach him somehow in the 
 end — through Rachel Anstiss, who took this opportunity 
 to revenge herself on Lucinda for her continued refusal to 
 employ her as tirewoman. 
 
 There the tale ends, if it were not for the sequel sup- 
 plied by Absalom Price's manuscript. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Mrs. Trant seems to have been bedridden when Mr. 
 Absalom Price took down the following deposition, but 
 still in full possession of her faculties. He seems not to 
 have added a word to it beyond his note at the end. In 
 another handwriting the actual date of her death is given, 
 nearly two years later, so that the document has hardly 
 the character of a death-bed confession. But if the 
 truth of her statements had been doubted at the time, 
 surely some word to that effect would not have been 
 wanting. 
 
 The MS. begins abruptly, as though in answer to a 
 question : — 
 
 " ^Ne'er a one but myself knows aught about it, Master 
 Price, though a many know what came after. But for all 
 that went before, and made the outcome of it, there's no 
 soul living can tell you a true word but I. And I'll tell 
 it, and stop while you write it. 
 
 " It was in May-time that year the young Squire came 
 to the Manor House by the sea, and rode over to the 
 May games when I was crowned the Queen. Oh, but he 
 was beautiful to see! They stacked the hay early that 
 year, but before the first cart came to the ingathering, I 
 knew him for the liar that he was, and that all my good 
 days were over. An old story. Master Price! 
 
 " But no woman should ever be the worse for him, said 
 Squire Raydon. His tenant Jonas Trant would be the 
 
 414 
 
AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOK 415 
 
 better for a wife, and if he wanted one of his own choos- 
 ing, let him look for another landlord. Trant got two 
 hundred pounds from the Squire's mother, to close the 
 bargain. What could I do ? I had to wed him, but what 
 was he to me ? There was no love thrown awaj 'twixt me 
 and Jonas Trant. 
 
 " But the Squire, though he married before the old 
 Lady Raydon died, would come to Kips Manor still, time 
 and again. And he brought comely company with him, 
 be sure — ^young wenches in want of a tirewoman. And 
 when my father died, my mother had the keeping of the 
 house, and I was always to come from the farm to prank 
 them up to his liking. But though I might hate him 
 between whiles, he had but to beckon me and say a sweet 
 word or two, and I was all his own again. Oh — ay! — I 
 know 'tis shame to me to tell it, as the world goes. . . . 
 
 " Well ! — a woman's looks are not for ever, and the 
 time came for the end of it all. But he did me a good 
 turn that year when they were for burning helpless women 
 by the score, for witching sheep and cattle, and what not. 
 For they would have it 'twas I had overlooked neighbour 
 Turle's child, and stricken it with the falling sickness. 
 But Squire Raydon rode in, and had me up behind his 
 saddle, and rode me over to Kips, and he was too strong 
 with the gentry for the townsfolk to dare to say him nay, 
 and they were feared of the butt-end of his riding-whip 
 to boot. But Constance Pratt and Apple Trounce were 
 done to death that day at the stake, in Bury market- 
 place, having confessed on the rack their dealings with 
 the Evil One. 
 
 " Of which and suchlike doings I, Master Price, have 
 ever been innocent. For the misleading and deception 
 I put upon John Rackham at Kips Manor to dupe him 
 
416 AN AFFAIK OF DISHO:^OE 
 
 into the telling of how Lady Eaydon's father came by his 
 death at the hands of her husband — but she was not 
 married then, and was no better than I — this deception, 
 I tell you, had no more to do with the Evil One than with 
 the Pope of Rome, being nothing but a mere side-trick 
 anyone may play off on another, to his confusion or hers, 
 being as may be man or woman." , . . 
 
 What follows is entirely description of the incidents 
 at Kips Manor already known to the reader — of the appre- 
 hension of the accused culprit by the constabulary on her 
 way back to Trant's Farm; of her maltreatment during 
 detention, pending the arrival of the magistrates; and of 
 her examination and escape, which has already appeared 
 in the story as narrative to Rackham. This brings us 
 to the point of interest, her arrival at the New Hall. 
 She goes on as though answering a question: 
 
 *^Why did I come to Croxley? Where else should I 
 go, with all the folk against me crying out to burn the 
 witch! — burn the witch? Of all that had any heart for 
 me at all there was none but was afraid, and the man I 
 was married to turned against me, and would have it I 
 had bewitched him! 
 
 " How many folk ever come to know what it feels like 
 to be hunted? 'Tis a knowledge that teaches to seek 
 cover where one may. I had not spent my life in the 
 making of friends, to find one at any pinch. But I knew 
 if I could get here I might find something better than 
 friendship — service. I was hopeful to command the poor 
 old fool, John Rackham, and to make him do my bidding. 
 It was an easy task, as it turned out. But no evil spirits 
 in it, good lack! There was neither God nor Devil in it, 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 417 
 
 to my thinking, but only Mother I^ature, who will have 
 her japes, mark you, and we know it. Shall the trees 
 that hatch out young goslings from their pods meet 
 denial for no better reason than that thou and I have 
 never seen one? As soon say there be no eggs with two 
 yolks, because your hen never laid one, nor mine! 'Tis 
 some such freak, a mere hap, and no reason shown, where- 
 by one may get the knack of ruling another's will, and why 
 I should have chanced to learn it I know not, more than 
 another. But there was no Devil in it ; that I know ! 
 
 "Yes — it was an easy task to get Master Eackham 
 again into leading strings. But he never knew, look you, 
 but what all he did was of his own free-will. He shel- 
 tered me, at my bidding, in the upper story of his stable, 
 where he was master and none could gainsay him, unless 
 it were Sir Oliver himself. And as for him, why — if 
 he had seen me, he would but have looked the other way, 
 or said some word of jest about Rackham's grey hairs, 
 and how he should patch up for Heaven before it was too 
 late — and he, poor man, with never a choice in the mat- 
 ter ! So I was safe sheltered, for a time ; and that was all 
 my thought, at first. . . . What ! — do you doubt it ? . . . 
 
 " Well, Master, I am sure I had no other thought. Ex- 
 cept you will have it one thinks the thought one puts 
 away. Will you. Master Absalom, be so ready to tell all 
 the thoughts you have forbidden to enter your mind! . . . 
 E'ot murder, I grant you ! But a many other thoughts a 
 man may be more shamefast in the telling of. Children 
 are not packed off to bed to keep a tale of murder from 
 their ears. . . . 
 
 " I will tell you, then, and make a clean breast. Down 
 at Kips Manor I had no more hatred for Mistress Lu- 
 cinda Mauleverer, soiled and spoiled and all ashrink from 
 
418 A-N AFFAIK OF DISHONOK 
 
 her fellow-women, than I had for any other of his quar- 
 ries. She would have her life to go through, as I had 
 mine. But when it came to my Lady Eaydon! — to the 
 seeing of my gentleman at her feet! . . . then I grant 
 you I did lean a little off the balance of my mind to 
 think of a pointed knife, swift to her heart — of the drug 
 the gipsies make and sell, that rots slowly through the 
 liver of the strongest — of any vengeance I could compass. 
 For that October was not so chill but they could walk in 
 the Box Walk — so they call it — in the midday warmth. 
 And they would come close to my outlook, so I could hear 
 them plain, at every turn about. 
 
 " 'Now did I tell you this — ^that when they first re- 
 turned, what must Sir Oliver do but catch sight of me 
 on this same Box Walk or the terrace beyond, where I 
 had walked out for curiosity, to view what I might of 
 the house before my lady and gentleman should return? 
 He saw me somehow, from the road, and was in a great 
 taking because of the hooded cloak I wore; one of his 
 mother's, one she gave me. And then says he to her 
 something of a dream of her, or her ghost, going with a 
 limp. I had heard of that before, through the door that 
 night at Kips, but only a very little. Afterwards, John 
 Kackham told me 'twas the Box Walk. And Sir Oliver — 
 so I understood from him — ^was of the mind that he had 
 seen his mother's ghost. 
 
 " So there it was ! I can't be off a laugh about it now, 
 to think of the fools I made them all. But it served my 
 turn well, for I had very little liking for being in gaol — 
 and what else was it, if I was shut in all day, mewed up 
 in a hayloft above the horses? I had the Box Walk to 
 myself soon enough, for the folk of that household kept 
 clear of a ghost, once seen. And see now! — suppose I 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOE 419 
 
 had thought to pay off my score against my lady, as many 
 a like score has been paid ere this ! — see the chance it gave 
 me. . . . But I would rather she had died, than he. 
 
 " It was all as one, in the end. Only mark you this, 
 Master Absalom ! — I was not answerable for the Squire's 
 death — none can say it, and tell truth. 
 
 " Ay — ay — ay ! I'm coming to it. E'ever fear I shall 
 die and disappoint you and my lady. She did well by 
 me when I came out of hiding, but I never told her I 
 saw her husband fall, nor the share I had in it. I made 
 up a tale and she listened to it with all her ears. And 
 John Rackham, he bore me out. Little choice he had — 
 John Rackham! . . . 
 
 " One day they sat just without, where I could hear 
 them plain, on the seat nigh the door to the garden. I 
 was ready to catch every word. And I would have heard 
 it all, but for the noises in the stable-yard, the combing 
 of the horses and their hoof-clack on the cobble-stones, 
 and young Kenneth singing ^ Arthur a'Bradley.' 'Twas 
 a Sunday morning, warm like a spring day, and there was 
 a many sounds about. But I had a shrewd ear, and 
 caught the most of what they said. First she was telling 
 him about the ghost. They had all seen it, Oliver dearest ! 
 — all but herself. There was old Cicely, twice ; and now 
 she wouldn't come to this side of the house ; and Awdrey 
 and Maud, and little JSTell from the Old Hall, and Rachel 
 Anstiss before she went back . . . well ! — she was in a 
 great rage, dearest Oliver . . . and Reverstoke the but- 
 ler — indeed, all but Rackham and Kenneth ; but then they 
 never came hitherward of the garden-door. I^ow was it 
 not a strange story? All of a tale, and about the same 
 hour — in the very early morning. Except Reverstoke, 
 who saw it coming back from the Thorpe, near on to 
 
420 AN AFFAIK OF DISHONOR 
 
 midnight. * Come, say it was a strange story, Oliver 
 dearest ! ' 
 
 " The Squire made a poor hand of ridiculing my lady's 
 wonderment; for he had seen the ghost himself. But he 
 could try to make his own seeing of it into so much ex- 
 planation of the whole. Of course the first one to see 
 it had the tale from him, and the next would follow on 
 with a fancy bred of both, and so on in order, each ghost 
 to match the other. But, said my lady, none had ever 
 known aught of what he saw. To which he answered 
 pish! — one must have known it, else how could any have 
 answered for that hooded cloak, and the dot-and-go-one 
 limp? 
 
 ^' But I could hear in the tone of his voice that he but 
 half-believed in himself as he said it. Then, too, he was 
 keen to know a many particulars, as to whether one of 
 them had sight of the ghost's face, or could hear its step 
 on the gravel, or could say at a guess whether the right or 
 left was the lame leg that made the limp; but all things 
 none who thought the figure a mere phantasy would care 
 to know. 
 
 "Then, having proved to his liking that no ghost had 
 appeared at all, and that all had lied severally, though 
 like enough each thought the rest spoke true, he must 
 needs turn up new soil, swearing it was clear it was a 
 trick of some mischievous jade or boy — ^most like the lat- 
 ter. Let him but lay hands on him, that was all! He 
 would teach him to play ghost! But then and there I 
 lost the hearing of his words, only that he spoke loud and 
 outvoiced my lady, showing an exasperation out of all 
 measure with the cause of it. 
 
 " I was beginning to weary of my concealment and to 
 let myself doubt its necessity — saying to myself that now 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISH0:N^0E 421 
 
 surely all fear of persecution of the witch was over — when 
 the thing came about I have to tell you of. 
 
 " You remember the place where he was found ? Yes, 
 the stone fountain in the middle of the Box Walk — at 
 least, it was a fountain once, but now it has no water. 
 That was where I saw him. 
 
 " How do I mean — I saw him ? Why, 'twas thus. 
 It was the early morning when none was out of bed, as I 
 thought. The sun had not risen, or barely — one-half to 
 be seen at most, red in the ground-mist that goes with rime 
 frost. It was cold — ^yes! But the air was sweet, and I 
 had waked at cock-crow, for the loud bird was but two 
 yards away from my bed's head. And when the air is 
 sweet and still, and one looks for the sunbreak any minute, 
 a crisp dawn is nothing to one who has worked on a farm. 
 I was glad to quit the stable-smell, and breathe the scent 
 of the fresh frost — you know it? 
 
 " I walked the length of the Box Walk twice, glad to 
 find none afoot so early; for though 'twas sport to see 
 them run from the ghost, there was danger in it . . . 
 why! — I had no mind to be in disgrace for the playing 
 of a trick when I did come out of hiding, as to my think- 
 ing I was bound to do in the end. So I was not sorry 
 to be free of them, and wished the cold might keep them 
 all abed yet a little, and was vext to hear a footstep and 
 a rustle in the hedge at the end of the walk farthermost 
 from me as I turned to go back the third time. 
 
 " But it was none of the household. It was the Squire 
 himself, dressed as he often would be if he came from his 
 room o' nights, in a silk dressing-gown with a broidery of 
 jessamine flowers. But he had no warm wrap against the 
 cold, and in my day he had not been one to face needless 
 hardships. 
 
422 AlSr AFFAIK OF DISHOISTOK 
 
 " Then I had to make my choice, whether to try to slip 
 away from him down some side-alley; or to meet him 
 boldly, trusting he would take me for the ghost I had 
 played off so successfully on the silly household. To do so 
 would be daring ; but I had run risks with him before, and 
 not done ill. For better or for worse I chose the perilous 
 way, walking straight for him, adding always somewhat 
 to the limp I had brought with me from Bury, that was 
 now greatly on the mend. My heart was in my mouth 
 to know what would come of this. 
 
 ^^ As I advanced to him, so he came forward to meet me. 
 And no sooner was I near enough to get a plain sight of his 
 features, than I saw that he was not himself. . . . What 
 do I mean. Master Absalom? Why — thus: . . . 
 
 " Have you never chanced to meet, or hear tell of, one 
 who would rise from sleep as though he were truly waking, 
 and then, still sound asleep and dreaming, go forth and 
 wander hither and thither with no form or purpose, see- 
 ing with eyes agape without intelligence, choosing his path 
 sure-footed and without danger to himself, so long as he 
 be not roughly waked by a foolish interference ? . . . 
 What — a somnambulist? — is that the name? I have 
 known such an one to be called a sleep-walker. But what- 
 ever be the name, 'tis one thing — and that thing was what 
 I meant when I said but now that I saw that the Squire 
 was no longer himself. 
 
 " And now I can see it all again. I see — ^most strange 
 to say ? — that his eyes that meet mine with a vacant glare 
 see not me, or, if they see me, look beyond and heed me 
 not ; and yet it is plain he sees, for he steps aside to avoid 
 the low stone parapet — the fending curb — of the fountain 
 basin. I had feared he would stumble over it, and fall. 
 
 " Yet he does not fall ! He walks clear, as one who sees 
 
AN AFFAIK OF DISHOI^TOE 423 
 
 and sees plainly, and turns at the angle as though to walk 
 round and about it; then stops. He is in my eyesight's 
 memory still, standing as one who seems perplexed with 
 something he would count, and cannot. 
 
 " And will you believe me in this. Master Absalom ? 
 As I came nigher, I could hear his speech, for he was 
 speaking. It was gibberish, but I noted every word. 
 Write them plainly for my lady. ^ Six — six — six. I 
 counted six — one to each corner. Solid gold — solid gold. 
 A mine of wealth! And John Eackham in the water! 
 Could I tickle him like a trout, I might catch him in the 
 gills.' Yes — gibberish as it was, I mind all that plain, 
 and him a-saying of it, and laughing to himself. But 
 those were the last words — all but — I ever heard from the 
 Squire's lips. . . . 
 
 " Well — see what we had been, he and I, in the years 
 long gone! Women are so — and you must even be pa- 
 tient. Master Absalom . . . 
 
 " But, mind you, this was not the first I ever knew of 
 this disorder of Sir Oliver's. Ask her ladyship what I 
 told her at Kips Manor ; it was when she herself had seen 
 something of it, and spoke of it to me. But I could not 
 tell her of all the times I had seen it. Too much would 
 have come to light over that. 
 
 " Only, mark you — the most that I had seen in old 
 years fell short of this. To wander out so far from his 
 sleeping-room, all ill-clad and exposed to the cold morning 
 air, unlocking in his sleep — for so he must have done — 
 some securely-closed door! ... it was outside all I 
 knew of him at his worst. So that, to see him thus, I was 
 as nigh confounded as I might have been had I come fresh 
 to the sight of it. I was afeared — and that's the truth ! 
 
 " However, I was not too frightened to see one thing 
 
424 AN AFFAIE OF DISHONOE 
 
 plain ; that I could pass him, myself unseen, and get away 
 at my quickest into concealment again. There was no 
 time to lose, for he would be missed, and followed, to a 
 certainty. Now, no path led to the stable-door except the 
 Box Walk itself, unless, indeed I had risked meeting 
 someone coming from the house to search for the wan- 
 derer. So I walked straight on. 
 
 " Sir Oliver turned from the fountain basin, and 
 walked towards me as I came. I was not very near him yet, 
 but I could see that he seemed laughing to himself, though 
 his eyes had no expression. He stopped, after a few paces. 
 
 " You can recollect the place, Master Absalom, to know 
 where and how we stood ? . . . Well — what follows be- 
 fell thus. I walk on, mark you, to pass him by, he 
 being in mid-pathway. Of a sudden I see his face change, 
 as though he waked. His eyes are fixed on mine, and he 
 understands. I, too, understand, and then I see that my 
 only chance is the ghost. So I wrap my hood close in, 
 that he may not see my face, and press straight on. You 
 take the way of it ? — how it happened . . . ? 
 
 " Then his voice comes in a cry — all his own voice, 
 barring the terror in it — and his words come quick: 
 ^ Keep off — keep off — keep off — ^keep off— keep away ! ' 
 and then, ^ Ah — ha — ah ! ' a cry with no word in it, only 
 fear! His hands were thrown out forward — to stop me 
 like — as he stepped back quicker and quicker. 
 
 " Had I spoke out then and there, in my own voice, I 
 might have saved him. But one is wise when all is over, 
 and time comes for thinking. All my thought was to get 
 by him, and away into hiding. 
 
 " He saw me coming, and went back and back. So 
 far only as the parapet. It tripped him, and he fell 
 backward across what there was of water, striking on a 
 
AlSr AFFAIE OF DISHONOR 425 
 
 stone edge-up, some leaving of the figure that stood there 
 once — ^no shape in it ! It struck well into his back, below 
 the shoulder. 
 
 " That was all I saw. But I heard him cry out : 
 ^ What — what is it all ? Lucy, where are you ? ' But it 
 was pain, as well as terror, that time. 
 
 " I heard them come from the house ever so soon as I 
 could listen through my window slot. I heard them find 
 him, and my lady a-crying out : ' Oh, my love — my love ! 
 They have killed him.' For she thought him murdered. 
 She was in a great taking. But what rights had she in 
 him that I had not ? " 
 
 " This foregoing was written by me, Absalom Price, 
 on July 12, 1692, word for word as it came from the lips 
 of the old woman who was called Dame Rackham, who 
 lived with John Rackham, the caretaker of the [N'ew Hall 
 at Croxley Thorpe, through all the years in which it stood 
 untenanted, and afterwards by the bounty of Sir Ralph at 
 a cottage at Blean, where the man died a few years since, 
 nigh upon a century old. I have done this at the desire 
 of the Lady Fotheringay, Sir Ralph's mother, whose first 
 husband. Sir Oliver, I saw twice in my boyhood, now 
 thirty-seven years since, I being then but eleven years of 
 age. This woman Rackham had an ill name, having lived 
 with this man as his wife for two years before the death of 
 her lawful husband. Farmer Trant, of Warplesdon Farm, 
 near Bury. It is not certain that she and Rackham were 
 ever lawfully united, but she passed as his wife. She had 
 the repute of being a witch too, and it was said that she 
 had narrowly escaped the stake. This is confirmed by her 
 own narrative, which also appears to admit the truth of 
 some of the accusations against her. 
 
426 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 " Until Mistress Trant made this statement, Sir Oliver 
 Raydon's death was not connected with his habit of walk- 
 ing in his sleep. He was supposed to have gone out at 
 this early hour of the morning to test the truth of the 
 reports that had got about that his mother's ghost walked 
 every morning at sunrise in the place where his body was 
 found, just dead. His scanty clothing on so cold a morn- 
 ing was held by some to call this in question; otherwise 
 the thing was not improbable in itself. The cause of his 
 death was always believed to be the same as what the old 
 woman's story gives us; that is, that he stumbled over 
 the parapet and fell, striking his body on a stone, no great 
 distance from the wound late healed, which broke open 
 internally, injuring some vital part. There was profuse 
 haemorrhage from the mouth, none from the wound, which 
 was thought by many to account for the suddenness of his 
 death. 
 
 " The only person present but myself when Mrs. Trant 
 made this deposition was my wife, whose name is here 
 appended beside my own as a witness to its truth. Her 
 attestation is also to that of the narrative itself in a 
 measure, as she was herself among the first to find the 
 body of Sir Oliver, being in the employment of the family, 
 though a very young girl. She remembers also much of 
 the story told at the time better than I do myself, being 
 over three years my senior. 
 
 (Signed) " Absalom Price. 
 
 " Eleanor Price, wife of the above," 
 
 THE END 
 
WILUAM DE MORGAN'S JOSEPH VANCE 
 
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 Drinker Cope, by Marcus Benjamin; Josiah Willard Gibbs, by Edwin 
 E. Slosson; Simon Newcomb, by Marcus Benjamin; George Brown 
 GooDE, by David Starr Jordan; Henry Augustus Rowland, by Ira 
 Remsen; William Keith Brooks, by E. A. Andrews. 
 
 Other Volumes contracted for, covering Lawyers, Poets, 
 Statesmen, Editors, Explorers, etc. Leaflet on application. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS (vii 'lo) NEW YORK 
 
FOR YOUNG FOLKS 
 
 "VAMBA'S'* THE PRINCE AND HIS ANTS 
 
 By LuiGi Bertelli. Translated by Sarah F. Woodruff, with 
 
 introduction by Prof. Vernon L. Kellogg. With eight 
 
 colored plates and many text illustrations. i2mo. $1.35 
 
 net; by mail, $1.48. 
 
 The story of a boy who became an ant and had many 
 
 thrilling adventures with other ants, and wasps and bees, and 
 
 of his sister, who became a butterfly. 
 
 " Very delightful . . . adventures many and most exciting. . . . 
 
 Good, sound entomology, but no child reading the book would suspect 
 
 that he was acquiring scientific knowledge. For the tale is told so 
 
 quaintly and delightfully that it has all the charm of a fairy story." — 
 
 New York Times Review. 
 
 " Youngsters . . . charming and natural. The reader will be glad 
 
 to make the acquaintance of Gigino, the luckless little hero of Vamba's 
 
 * Ciondolino ' . . .an interesting and amusing book with excellent 
 
 pictures." — New York Sun. 
 
 CONSTANCE D'ARCY MACKAY'S 
 THE HOUSE OF THE HEART 
 
 Ten well-written one-act plays to be acted by children. A 
 satisfactory book to fill a real need. $1.10 net; by mail, $1.15. 
 
 " Each play contains a distinct lesson, whether of courage, gentle 
 manners, or contentment. The settings are simple and the costumes 
 within the compass of the schoolroom. Full directions for costumes, 
 scene setting, and dramatic action are given with each play. All of 
 them have stood the test of actual production." — Preface. 
 
 CONTENTS: 
 
 "The House of the Heart" (Morality Play) -"The Gooseherd and the 
 Goblin" (Comedy, suitable for June exercises)— "The Enchanted Garden" 
 (Flower Play, suitable for June exercises)— "Nimble Wit and Fingerkin" 
 (Industrial Play)— "A Little Pilgrim's Progress" (Morality Play, suitable 
 for Thanksgiving) — "A Pageant of Hours" (To be given Out of Doors) — 
 "On Christmas Eve"— "The Elf Child "—" The Princess and the Pixies" 
 —"The Christmas Guest" (Miracle Play). 
 
 " An addition to child drama which has been sorely needed." 
 
 —Boston Transcript, 
 
 »•• If the reader will send his name and address the publishers will send, 
 from time to time, information regarding their new books. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 34 WEST 3 3D STREET NEW YORK 
 
MARY BLAIR BEEBE'S and C. WILUAM BEEBE'S 
 OUR SEARCH FOR A WILDERNESS 
 
 Mr. Beebe is the Curator of Birds in New York Zoological 
 Park, and author of " The Bird ; Its Form and Function." 
 With 165 illustrations. $2.75 net; by mail, $2.92. 
 Trips into tropical wildernesses of Venezuela and British Guiana. 
 
 " Fascinating ... it will be very difficult for anyone to compete 
 with Mr. and Mrs. Beebe in anything except the description of purely 
 superficial conditions . . . for bird lovers in particular . . . reveals 
 people and customs and adventures in a thoroughly satisfying as well 
 as delightfully clever manner. . . . The amiable captain was full of 
 legend and superstition . . . the mate enthralled the crew with dra- 
 matic and sentimental tales." — New York Sun. 
 
 " No reader who appreciates the delightful surprises of tropical ex- 
 ploration and the charm that lies in the study of wild nature can turn 
 these pages with indifference. The excitement of interest ... is 
 contagious; the thrill with which they happen upon strange and rare 
 animal or plant life is communicable. They tell their story very well, 
 with simplicity and often with humor ... at every turn something 
 amusing happened." — New York Tribune. 
 
 " The authors carry something of the brilliant coloring 'of their tropical 
 surroundings into their narrative . . . will appeal to the unscientific because 
 of their newness and to the scientific because of their fidelity and in- 
 structiveness." 
 
 BEEBE'S THE BIRD; ITS FORM AND FUNCTION 
 
 By C. William Beebe, Curator of Birds in the New York 
 Zoological Park, American Nature Series, with frontis- 
 piece in color and 370 illustrations from photographs. 
 496 pp. 8vo. $3.50 net; by mail, $3.80. 
 
 The story of the evolution of birds unlocked from technical 
 language. The treatment is popular, and the volume is 
 intended for all nature-lovers and students, and as an ac- 
 companiment to the identification book. 
 
 " It is no little compliment to Mr. Beebe's book to say that among 
 American works it invites comparison only with Part II of the late Dr. 
 Coues's classic * Key to North American Birds ' (published separately only 
 in England), and the present volume is the first in this country to be devoted 
 wholly to a study of the relations existing between a bird's structure and its 
 habits. 
 
 " So many of the 370 odd illustrations were made by the author 
 from living birds, either in nature or in captivity, that they constitute 
 an actual addition to our sources of information." — The Nation. 
 
 " Told in simple language, by a man who has made bird life the 
 study of a lifetime. ... A new departure in the literature of bird 
 study." — Review of Reviews. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 34 WEST 3 3D STREET NEW YORK 
 
LATEST VOLUMES IN 
 
 THE AMERICAN NATURE SERIES 
 
 (Prospectus of entire Scries on request) 
 
 THE CARE OF TREES IN LAWN, STREET, AND PARK 
 
 By B. E. Fernow, of the University of Toronto. Illustrated. 
 $2.00 net. 
 
 Written for amateurs by a forester, this volume furnishes information 
 such as the owner of trees or the "tree warden" may need. 
 
 " Truly admirable . . . eminently practical. . . . His list of trees desirable 
 for shade and ornament is a full and most valuable one, and the illustrations 
 are enlightening."— A^. V. Tribune. 
 
 HARDY PLANTS FOR COTTAGE GARDENS 
 
 By Helen R. Albee, Author of " Mountain Playmates." 
 Illustrated. i2mo. 
 
 A personal and very readable record, illustrated by photographs, of the 
 author's success in assembling within a limited area, the choice varieties of 
 hardy shrubs, annuals, and perennials, so arranged as to give a succession of 
 bloom of pure color in each bed. With a list giving manner of growth, 
 height, time of blooming, exact color, special requirements of soil and 
 moisture, " easy ways" taught by experience, and many et ceteras of vital 
 importance. 
 
 SHELL-FISH INDUSTRIES ^^^f'^wmiam^cXge. 
 
 Illustrated by half-tones and original drawings. $1.75 net. 
 
 Covers classification, propagation, and distribution. 
 
 " Interests all classes, the biologist, the oyster grower, the trader and the 
 eater of oysters. The science is accurate, and in some points new ; it is 
 made perfectly comprehensible and the w>'olebook is very readable."— A^ez«/ 
 York Sun. 
 
 FISH STORIES: Alleged and Experienced, with a Little 
 History, Natural and Unnatural 
 
 By Charles F. Holder, Author of " The Log of a Sea 
 Angler," etc., and David Starr Jordan, Author of " A Guide 
 to the Study of Fishes," etc. With colored plates and many 
 illustrations from photographs. $1.75 net. 
 
 "A delightful miscellany, telling about fish of the strangest kind, with 
 scientific description melting into accounts of personal adventure. Nearly 
 everything that is entertaining in the fish world is touched upon and science 
 and fishing are made very readable."- iVl?z</ York Sun. 
 
 INSECT STORIES By Vernon L. Kellogg. 
 
 Illustrated, $1.50 net. 
 
 Strange, true stories, primarily for children, but certainly for those grown- 
 ups who like to read discriminatingly to their children. 
 
 The author is among a few scientific writers of distinction who can 
 erest the popular mind. No 
 delight and ^TOht.."— The Nation. 
 
 interest the popular mind. No intelligent youth can fail to read it with 
 )fit."-: 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
McPHERSON'S TRANSPORTATION IN EUROPE 
 
 By Logan G. McPherson, lecturer on transportation at Johns 
 Hopkins. i2mo. $1.50 net; by mail, $1.63. 
 A rearrangement and amplification of the author's re- 
 ports to the National Waterways Commission, which were 
 critically scrutinized by high European officials, when he 
 was in Europe. It covers The Development of both Water- 
 ways and Railways, Railway Passenger and Freight Traffic, 
 The International Rail Traffic of Europe, and The Effects of 
 Governmental Administration. 
 
 McPHERSON'S RAILROAD FREIGHT RATES 
 
 In Their Relation to the Industry and Commerce of the 
 United States. With maps, tables, and a full index. 8vo. 
 $2.25 net; by mail, $2.42. 
 
 Not only valuable to anyone having to do with railroad 
 freight traffic either as a railroad official or as a shipper, but 
 also a fascinating exposition for the general reader. 
 
 " An exceedingly important book. . . . Not only the best existing 
 account, but it is easily the best book on American railway traffic. 
 . . . We have little hesitation in expressing the opinion that it will 
 stand as the standard reference work for a good many years, and 
 from the standpoint of public policy we are exceedingly glad that 
 the book has been written. The country would be better governed 
 if the legislator, state and national, had to pass an examination upon 
 it before taking his oath of office." — Railroad Age Gazette. 
 
 McPHERSON'S THE WORKING OF THE RAILROADS 
 
 i2mo. $1.50 net; by mail, $1.63. 
 
 " Simply and lucidly tells what a railroad company is, what it does, 
 and how it does it. Cannot fail to be of use to the voter. Of exceed- 
 ing value to the young and ambitious in railroad service." — The 
 Travelers' Oihcial Railway Guide. 
 
 " The most important contribution to its branch of the subject 
 that has yet been made." — The Dial. 
 
 CARTER'S WHEN RAILROADS WERE NEW 
 
 By Charles Frederick Carter, with an Introductory Note by 
 Logan G. McPherson. 16 full-page illustrations. 8vo. 
 312 pp. $2.00 net; by mail, $2.16. 
 
 A history of the every-day difficulties, discouragements and 
 triumphs of the pioneers who built and ran the early railroads. 
 With many anecdotes that add to the abundant human interest. 
 
 " Full of interest. Besides the general chapter on the beginnings, it 
 gives the early history of the Erie, the Pennsylvania, and the Balti- 
 more and Ohio, of the Vanderbilt lines, the first Pacific railroad, and 
 of the Canadian Pacific. Very readable." — New York Sun. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS (vii '10) NEW YORK 
 
VIOLA BURHANS'S THE CAVE- WOMAN 
 
 A novel of to-day that commences in a cave so dark that 
 the hero can see nothing of the woman he meets there. It 
 ends in the same cave, and much of the action occurs in and 
 near a neighboring summer hotel. Robbery and mystery, as 
 well as love, figure in the plot ($1.50). 
 
 " An excellent detective. . . . The action moves quickly. . . . 
 Many sidelights fall upon newspaperdom, and the author tells her 
 story cleverly." — Boston Herald. 
 
 " The most delightful of grown-up fairy-tales of modern times. . . . 
 The characters . . . are finely various and their conversations 
 piquantly fresh and edifying ... a dramatic climax of great strength 
 and beauty . . . clean, clever, captivating." — The Boston Common. 
 
 " A very charming, very elusive and quite modern young lady . . , 
 a very delightful story." — Bellman. 
 
 M. UTTLE'S AT THE SIGN OF THE BURNING BUSH 
 
 A novel of such universal human appeal that locality makes 
 little difference. It starts as a satire on Scotch divinity 
 students, tho there is said to be "not a word of preaching 
 in it" ($1.50). 
 
 " Characters drawn with a sure hand, and with unusual subtlety. The 
 story broadens and strikes deep roots into human nature and human 
 life ... a story that seems as if it might have been made out of 
 the real experiences of flesh and blood, told with humor that is some- 
 times biting and sometimes gentle, and with very great humanness."— 
 The New York Times Review. 
 
 GERTRUDE HALL'S THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY 
 
 A young widow comes to New York to investigate various 
 
 business interests of her late husband, and finds herself face 
 
 to face at the outset with the two most vital problems of a 
 
 woman's life ($1.50). 
 
 " Her people are alive. They linger in the imagination." — Boston 
 Transcript. 
 
 " Seeing life with sincerity and truth . . . she has a rather big 
 idea for a working basis." — The Bookman. 
 
 " Retains the charmed interest . . . the quiet, thoughtful style, and 
 the vivid, if restrained, humanity. The tale is so natural, so lifelike. 
 . . . The author's evident faith in the eternal Tightness of things." — 
 Chicago Record-Herald. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
NOTEWORTHY AMERICAN NOVELS 
 
 SKID PUFFER 
 
 A tale of the Kankakee Swamp and of the Desert. Illustrated 
 by F. T. Richards and Victor Perard, and from photographs. 
 ($1.50.) 
 
 " The tale of adventure and danger is as good as is the study of vernacular 
 humor. . . . Best example of typically native fiction that .has appeared since 
 • Partners of Providence.' "—N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 " The first half of the book brimful of humor."— iV. V. Times. 
 
 " A real American story, rife with vernacular humor. . . . Abe Puflfer (an 
 American Micawber) and Skid (who is delightfully reminiscent of Huckleberry 
 Finn) skip merrily through lives that are crowded with adventure, love and 
 humor."— Leslie's Weekly. 
 
 " A new classic has been added to American literature."— CAzca^o /nier-Ocean. 
 
 "Fresh and original . . . just such a book as the sportsman will delight to 
 stow in his grip."— CAzca^o Record- Herald. 
 
 " As certain to be an American classic as anything ever written by Mark 
 Tvfain."— Boston Common. 
 
 " Interest sustained to the end."— Boston Advertiser. 
 
 " Full of life and fun . . . pictUTesque."—Fhiladelphia Inquirer. 
 
 " Full of action and adventure."— ^cw Francisco Chronicle. 
 
 E. LAWRENCE DUDLEY'S THE ISLE OF WHISPERS 
 
 A sea story of the good old sort. The scene is laid on a 
 mysterious island off the New England coast. ($1.50.) 
 
 " Reminds one forcibly of ' Treasure Island ' although original both in incident 
 and treatment. . . . He keeps the attention as closely expectant to his bold 
 sketching as does his great prototype to his more finished pictures— more 
 finished, but hardly stronger. In one very great essential Mr. Dudley has 
 undertaken— and successfully— a more ambitious piece of melodrama than is 
 ' Treasure Island.' His terrors and agonies are less of the concrete, of the flesh. 
 They quite minimize death and physical torture. The loss of esteem and love 
 and honor are the more overwhelming disasters that threaten."— Hartford 
 Courant. 
 
 " A most satisfactory tale. . . . Handled with such an ingeniously novel twist 
 that the result is something worth reading to the end. ... A young woman- 
 all that such a young woman ought to be in a story of this kind."— A^<?z</ Vork 
 Tribune. 
 
 "Delicious spinal shivers . . . straightforward, convincing style. . . . The 
 story moves along rapidly and with a certain well-bred dash ... all incident 
 and excitement."— A^^zf York Times Review. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
ALGERNON BLACKWOOD'S 
 THE EDUCATION OF UNCLE PAUL 
 
 By the author of "John Silence." i2mo. 
 
 How Uncle Paul, a bachelor of forty-five, returns to England 
 after years spent in the Canadian woods. How his nephews and 
 nieces taught him many things, and Nixie led him to "the crack 
 between yesterday and to-morrow," a book full of sympathy 
 with Nature, poetic feeling, and a cheery optimism. One of 
 the best-known American critics who saw the advance sheets 
 writes, " There is a mixture of Wordsworth's * Ode * and * Peter 
 Pan' in the book." 
 
 The Spectator (London): "Marked by a sense of beauty and a wealth of 
 poetic invetAion. . . . Under Uncle Paul's burly exterior there is the mind of a 
 mystic, a student of Blake, and a nature-worshipper. . . . Uncle Paul, fearful 
 of being misunderstood, plays the part of the elderly uncle. . . . But the 
 children . . . penetrate his self-protective armour. . . . Nixie, who in- 
 herits her strange gifts from her father, a poet and visionary, is the high priest- 
 ess of these blameless mysteries, and under her guidance Uncle Paul, her 
 little brother and sister, and their pet dogs and cats, escape .to the heart of 
 cloudland, to the birthplace of the winds, and to other wonderful enchanted 
 regions where time is not and joy is unceasing. . . . There is humour, too, 
 in the way in which Uncle Paul leads his double Hfe ... an uncommon 
 book. Mr. Blackwood specialises in recondite experiences and emotions, but 
 he can draw ordinary people with a sure hand, and he has an extraordinarily 
 acute appreciation of the mystery, the affectation, and the aloofness of cats. 
 We are not at all sure that ' Mrs. Tompkyns ' is not the most wonderful person 
 in the book." 
 
 SARAH M. H. GARDNER'S QUAKER IDYLS 
 
 Enlarged Edition. i6mo, $i.oo net. 
 
 Original, sometimes pathetic, and often humorous character 
 sketches. 
 
 These little tales portray The Friends in all their purity and 
 simplicity. 
 
 The present edition is the sixth. The titles of the earlier 
 idyls are: "Twelfth Street Meeting," "A Quaker Wedding," 
 ** Two Gentlewomen," " Our Little Neighbors," " Pamelia Tewks- 
 bury's Courtship," "Some Antebellum Letters from a Quaker 
 Girl," "Uncle Joseph," and "My Grandame's Secret." 
 
 The new idyls are called: "A Homely Tragedy" and "An 
 Unconscious Disciple of Thespis." 
 
 ♦♦♦ If the reader will send his name and address, the publishers will send, from 
 time to time, information regarding their new books. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
MRS. E. L. VOYNICH'S THE GADFLY 
 
 An intense romance of the Italian rising against the Austrians 
 early in the nineteenth century. Twenty-first printing. $1.25^ 
 
 " One of the most powerful novels of the decade."— ^eu> York Tribune. 
 
 ANTHONY HOPE'S THE PRISONER OF ZENDA 
 
 Being the history of three months in the life of an English 
 gentleman. Illustrated by C. D. Gibson. Fifty-first printing. 
 $1.50. 
 
 ANTHONY HOPE'S RUPERT OF HENTZAU 
 
 A sequel to *' The Prisoner of Zenda." Illustrated by C. D. 
 Gibson. Twenty-first printing. $1.50. 
 
 These stirring romances established a new vogue in fiction and 
 are among the most widely-read novels. Each has been success- 
 fully dramatized. 
 
 C. N. AND A. M. WILLIAMSON'S THE UGHTNING 
 CONDUCTOR 
 
 New illustrated edition. Twenty-first printing. $1.50. 
 
 A humorous love story of a beautiful American and a gallant 
 Englishman who stoops to conquer. Two almost human auto- 
 mobiles play prominent parts. There are picturesque scenes in 
 Provence, Spain and Italy. 
 
 " Altogether the best automobile story of which we have knowledge, and 
 might serve almost as a guide-book for highway travel ft-om Paris to Sicily.'* 
 — Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 C. N. AND A. M. WILUAMSON'S THE PRINCESS 
 PASSES 
 
 Illustrated by Edward Penfield. Eighth printing. $1.50. 
 
 ** The authors have duplicated their success with 'The Lightning Con- 
 ductor.' . . . Unusually absorbing."— Boston Transcript. 
 
 D. D. WELLS* HER LADYSHIP'S ELEPHANT 
 
 This humorous Anglo-American tale made an instantaneous 
 hit. Eighteenth printing. $1.25. 
 
 *' He is probably funny because he cannot help it. . . . Must consent 
 to be regarded as a benefactor of his kind without responsibility."- r/i« 
 Nation. 
 
 A If the reader will send his name and address, the publishers vrill send« 
 from time to time, information regarding their new books. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS (X-'07) KXW YORK 
 
GRANT SHOWERMAN'S WITH THE PROFESSOR 
 
 $1.50 net; by mail, $1.62. 
 A Prelude on Pessimism; The Strange Case of Dr. 
 Scholarship and Mr. Homo; Mud and Nails; The Professor 
 Asks for More; A Desperate Situation; The Professor Re- 
 cants; The Professor Travels in the Realms of Gold; A 
 Goodly Apple Rotten at the Heart ; The Professor Laughs at 
 Education ; The Professor Misses the Sermon ; The Professor 
 Spends an Evening Out; Midnight on the Roof-Garden. 
 
 " Wit not too erudite, and fancy not too riotous . . . delightful 
 fooling (and some seriousness). ... A sort of cheerful derision, or 
 gleeful sarcasm, or good-humored pessimism. . . . But there's many 
 a serious word said in all this jest; and it is so well said, with so apt 
 and evidently unstudied employment of classic quotation and neat 
 literary allusion, that the lesson of the book, so far as it has a lesson, 
 is learned without sense of effort or anything but entertainment on the 
 reader's part." — The Dial. (Entire notice on application.) 
 
 " A witty and clear-sighted discussion of some American Educa- 
 tional and Social problems. . . . May be commended to all who have 
 to do with education. True idealism has found a genial and eloquent 
 advocate." — The SpringHeld Republican. 
 
 HENRY A. BEERS'S THE WAYS OF YALE 
 
 Still further enlarged edition. i6mo. $1.20 net; by mail, $1.28. 
 This further enlarged edition is the eighth of Professor 
 Beers' book that has become a contemporary classic. The ad- 
 ditions are Greek, A College Antiquary, The Rout of the 
 Monodramatist, and in verse A Shades, In Latin Prose Recita- 
 tion, Triennial Pome, and Nunc Dimittis. But a few of the 
 good things from earlier editions are Jubilee Ode, Chums, 
 Eating Clubs, Leaves from the Diary of an Undergraduate, 
 Biftek aux Champignons, The Springald and the Cauda Galli, 
 The Third Stage of Discipline, A Merry Ballad of Three 
 Sophomores and a Toll Woman, Lost Letters of the Greek 
 Alphabet, Ivy Ode (Class Day, 1869) and The New Yale. 
 1871. 
 
 " Bits of reminiscence, stories, verses, as delightful in their way 
 as anything Dr. Holmes wrote of Harvard." — New York Sun. 
 
 LA MONTE and MENCKEN'S MEN VS. THE MAN 
 
 Letters for and against Socialism. By Robert Rives La 
 
 Month, Socialist and editor of The Call (New York), and 
 
 Henry Louis Mencken, Individualist, of the Baltimore 
 
 Sun. $1.35 net; by mail, $1.45. 
 
 " The pros and cons of Socialism are herein very clearly set forth 
 
 . . . clear and comprehensive . . . it is to be strongly recommended 
 
 ... a splendid exposition of the strength and weaknesses of a 
 
 movement which is rapidly assuming gigantic proportions in the scheme 
 
 of things social." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS (vii '10) NEW YORK 
 
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