tffzf^f **& -**? \ . 
 
 WHA 
 
 MR, DESMOND 
 
 C.NINA BOYLE
 
 WHAT BECAME OF 
 MR. DESMOND
 
 WHAT BECAME OF 
 MR. DESMOND 
 
 BY 
 
 C. NINA BOYLE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THOMAS SELTZER 
 
 1922
 
 Copyright, 1922, by 
 THOMAS SELTZER, INC. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 TO 
 
 GRANNIEMA" 
 
 2135111
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I A PICTURE FALLS 
 
 II STEPPING ROUND TO TENTERLEY'S 
 
 III BEWILDERMENT 
 
 IV THE FLIGHT OF TIME .... 
 V THE DOMAIN 
 
 VI THE DEAD AND THE LIVING . 
 
 VII FATHERS AND MOTHERS 
 
 VIII THE ANNIVERSARY 
 
 IX "THAT DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER" 
 
 X THE DAYS THAT CAME . . . 
 
 XI THE MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM . 
 
 XII FAMILY AMENITIES .... 
 
 XIII LORD GOTTO TAKES A HAND . 
 
 XIV TERESA'S TALONS 
 
 XV MR. DESMOND'S CHILDREN 
 
 XVI EXPLORERS AND EXCAVATORS . 
 
 XVII WILLIE JOHNSTONE .... 
 
 XVIII BROTHERS AND SISTERS .... 
 
 XIX THE TRAP 
 
 XX THE SCAR 
 
 XXI KYTHE TAKES THE REINS . . . 
 
 XXII TRUE LOVE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 9 
 20 
 
 3i 
 40 
 
 50 
 
 55 
 66 
 
 75 
 
 96 
 
 116 
 
 149 
 170 
 
 i85 
 
 200 
 213 
 
 222 
 230 
 244 
 265 
 279 
 293
 
 WHAT BECAME OF MR. 
 DESMOND 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A PICTURE FALLS 
 
 TRUTH is stranger than fiction a platitudinous re- 
 mark frequently resorted to by platitudinarians. Its 
 triteness, and a certain smack of profundity that clings 
 to it, endears it to such persons; just as its truthful- 
 ness its very undeniability prevents them from get- 
 ting so much as a glimpse of its reality. The ordinary, 
 the platitudinous mind, lacks imagination, and it may 
 even be courage enough, to grapple with reality. Had 
 the majority of us a sufficient supply of imagination, 
 indeed, to grasp the true meaning of the battered and 
 hackneyed saying so universally quoted, it is probable 
 that the ordinary supply of courage might give out in 
 contemplating the possibilities of Life under such a 
 search-light. 
 
 For, what is Fiction? Is it not simply a weaving 
 and shifting and re-arranging of the strands that go to 
 make up ordinary life haunting tragedy side by side 
 with petty incident, bitter sorrow and grim comedy 
 mixed with the deadly dulness, the heavy burden, the 
 
 9
 
 io WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 frivolous chatter, of the daily round, the common 
 task? When we find in it wild adventure, terrible 
 disaster, difficult problems, insoluble mysteries the 
 lighter, happier, more genial side of life in juxtaposition 
 with crime, vice, danger and despair do we realise 
 that these improbable things happen? And when we 
 read, in the stilted and seldom correct journalese which 
 fills the columns of the penny press, of some unimagin- 
 able family tangle, some scandal whose dimensions 
 make the Divorce Court stagger, some disaster that 
 seems incredible, some mystery more dreadful than 
 death; do we grasp that it is from these sordid and 
 sensational chronicles the skilful authors on whose 
 portrayal of romance we hang with thrills of joy, pity, 
 or horror, derive inspiration? Situations as romantic, 
 possibilities as unplumbed, dangers and mysteries as 
 profound as any devised by the most subtle brain, sur- 
 round our daily life and accompany us every step of 
 the way through it. 
 
 The bank manager on whose wife we call with a 
 bored courtesy, and whose housekeeping we admire, 
 may be the one brought before the Criminal Courts 
 to divulge a tale of fraud stupendous. The man who 
 blew his brains out at Monte Carlo played dumb 
 crambo with our first cousin's children last Christmas. 
 The girl whose maltreated body was found below the 
 cliff, tossed by the tide, murdered in God knows what 
 frenzy of passion and rage, sat next our daughter in 
 the Censors' office, and was an authority on knitted 
 jumpers. The distraught mother who cut her own 
 and her three children's throats, and left a blind and
 
 A PICTURE FALLS n 
 
 helpless husband to mourn them, was our neighbour's 
 charwoman. The youngster who "held up" a bank 
 and inadvertently committed murder on the old clerk, 
 was at evening classes with Bert and Bill. The officer 
 murdered before his wife's eyes in Dublin is unexpect- 
 edly the son of a woman we have seen for years at our 
 Club, and to whom we sometimes speak. The little 
 girl burnt to death while her mother was shopping was 
 the one to whom you gave a penny because she danced 
 so daintily to the street-organ. 
 
 What happens to these people can happen to us; 
 and that is the strangest and truest of all the things 
 wrapped up in the phrase "Truth is stranger than 
 fiction." 
 
 So, there was nothing at all surprising, looked at 
 from the point of view of the philosopher, in what 
 happened at Fairlands in the case of Mr. David Des- 
 mond. It happens very often, to a number of people 
 .we do not know, and of whom we read with a casual 
 and short-lived interest, in little paragraphs in the 
 papers; and it is safe to presume, might at any given 
 moment happen to you and me, or to our next-door 
 neighbour. It may be very disconcerting, and it may 
 be very surprising to us, or to them; but it is not in 
 itself surprising. 
 
 When Mr. Desmond disappeared, people found it 
 so surprising they talked about it for quite a consider- 
 able length of time. In those days, the Press was not 
 so alert as now/ and people were not so anxious to 
 have their names mentioned in its columns. Mr. Des- 
 mond, in particular, had inherited from his old-fash-
 
 12 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 ioned father a horror of Press publicity. For your 
 name to "get into the papers" was to him the acme of 
 vulgarity; and he used the suggestion as a threat to 
 quell the exuberant modernity of his sister. Mr. Des- 
 mond was old-fashioned in more ways than this. His 
 father had burned wax candles on the dining-table 
 longer than any other of his acquaintances, and used 
 moderator lamps that were fed with colza oil, as long 
 as such lamps were manufactured. He cherished a 
 contempt and dislike for gas and paraffin; and his one 
 incursion into modernity was when he adopted electric 
 lighting in advance of anyone else in the neighbour- 
 hood to emphasise his detestation of the "new-fangled" 
 notions that succeeded colza oil and moderator lamps. 
 Mr. David Desmond remembered, and approved, and 
 sympathised in this habit of mind. 
 
 Mr. Desmond was a highly domesticated man. He 
 took the greatest interest in the home and all pertain- 
 ing to it. He knew the damask patterns of all the 
 table-cloths, and often asked where the new kitchen- 
 cloths he had seen drying, were bought. He was the 
 first to see that there was a faded spot in the dining- 
 room carpet, and had an unerring eye for dust and un- 
 swept corners. He loved hanging pictures, putting up 
 shelves, tinkering at taps, winding the kitchen eight- 
 day clock, mowing the lawn, and oiling locks and 
 hinges. He knew the price of eggs, liked to be asked 
 his opinion of the fowl Cook was trussing, and flattered 
 himself that the most becoming, as well as the most 
 lasting dresses his wife wore, were those of his choos- 
 ing. A busy, bustling, contented creature, with a sub-
 
 A PICTURE FALLS 13 
 
 stantial income, a pleasant house, and a good-looking, 
 good-tempered and promising family, he was an object 
 of mild envy to less fortunate men. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond was an excessively handsome woman, 
 as phlegmatic and indolent as her husband was the re- 
 verse. She immersed herself in the reading of light 
 literature, devouring the romances of Thackeray, 
 Scott, Dickens, Reade and Wilkie Collins, Mrs. Gas- 
 kell, Jane Austen, and the Brontes; with unambitious 
 incursions into Macaulay's Essays, Pepy's Diary, and 
 Plutarch's Lives. Her housekeeping was a thing to 
 which she roused herself, from these pleasing realms 
 of imagination, with difficulty and reluctance, seeming 
 to come back to it from distant spaces, a little dreamy- 
 eyed and absent. Her husband used to say that the 
 Master of Ravenswood, or Col. Newcombe, was a far 
 more real personage to her than he, her husband; and 
 she would smile her charming, absent smile, and not 
 deny it. She liked to know he was about the place, 
 and it gave her a subconscious satisfaction to hear him 
 mowing, or hammering, or investigating the kitchen 
 flue the noise of his operations reaching her and 
 soothing, rather than disturbing her. He also liked to 
 know she was about the place, and could settle to noth- 
 ing, and do little else than fidget, on the rare occasions 
 that he came in and found her away from the house. 
 What of companionship they gave each other, that was 
 missed when not forthcoming, was a mystery to the 
 outside world that laughed and did not understand. 
 
 So when Mr. Desmond disappeared, there were not 
 wanting those who said they did not wonder at it.
 
 i 4 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 When a man had a wife who took no interest in his 
 pursuits and tastes, and who was so cold and detached 
 and so wrapped up in her own fancies, one must not 
 be surprised at what happened. These persons saw, 
 in their mind's eye, a philandering Mr. Desmond se- 
 cretly meeting and finally eloping with some gayer, 
 warmer, more expansive lady; and discounted all the 
 circumstances which made this theory seem fantastic 
 to his family. 
 
 Mr. Desmond had been married twelve years, and 
 was in the habit of saying, in that way of his that 
 sounded so bad when repeated, and so delightful when 
 uttered, that it seemed like twenty-four rather than 
 twelve. He could not, he declared, remember any- 
 thing about the time before he was married. It was 
 not. It had not been life, or anything worth record- 
 ing; memory began, for him, from the date of his 
 marriage. And Mrs. Desmond, listening, would smile 
 her long-distance smile, and ask whether there was not 
 someone still moving in the kitchen, and had they re- 
 membered to feed Polly. It was her nearest approach 
 to housewifely concern; but as her servants were of 
 the old and faithful kind, who had been in Mr. Des- 
 mond's family from generation to generation, and who 
 worshipped the Master and the Mistress, it did not 
 much matter. 
 
 In consequence of discretion, consideration, or it 
 might be merely happy good fortune, Mrs. Des- 
 mond's family had not been poured upon her year 
 after year in overwhelming succession, as was so fre- 
 quently the case, especially in those days. The eldest
 
 A PICTURE FALLS 15 
 
 child was eleven, a son, busy and restless like his 
 father, but with rather a superior attitude towards 
 that parent's activities as those of an amateur. 
 Brookes got the lawn mowed more quickly and 
 smoothly; Tenterley never hit his nails with the ham- 
 mer, nor notched jags with the plane. There was a 
 critical attitude that Mr. Desmond sometimes found 
 a little hard, and Mrs. Desmond disliked as disrespect- 
 ful. It did not extend to her; in the child's eye she 
 was perfect, but that did not lessen her disapproval. 
 
 After Lennox came May, aged eight a sweet, sunny 
 creature, fair and fluffy and affectionate; followed by 
 Luttrell, aged six, who was her devoted slave. The 
 twins, Hubert and Hero, were between two and three; 
 their advent had been a world-shaking event, from 
 which the family had hardly yet recovered. Mrs. 
 Desmond had almost roused herself to concern about 
 the resources available in baby-clothes, and could not 
 get over having taken everyone by surprise in such a 
 fashion; while Mr. Desmond never really rid himself 
 of the impression that his wife had indulged in a wild 
 and reckless enterprise which showed her to be a very 
 adventurous person, in spite of all appearances to the 
 contrary. 
 
 "I wonder what we may expect you to do next?" 
 he would ask; or, "What place are you going to break 
 out in now?" as if he suspected her of deep and hu- 
 morous plottings to take the family by surprise. 
 
 Miss Hermiorie Desmond, Mr. Desmond's sister, 
 a vivacious young woman of four-and-twenty, lavished 
 much affection on her brother and his wife, and
 
 16 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 thought them two delightfully absurd and darling 
 people whom Providence had appointed her to watch 
 over and protect. She was passionately attached to 
 the children, and gave up much of her time to them; 
 nevertheless, the objectless, untrained life of those 
 days, in which a young woman's occupations were 
 limited to visiting, croquet, embroidery and waiting for 
 a husband, goaded her into incautious and mutinous 
 expressions which caused Mr. Desmond much uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 "You shouldn't," he used to say. "You don't want 
 to be taken for one of these New Women, do you?" 
 
 The New Woman was the last word in reproach. 
 
 The catastrophe that overtook the house of Des- 
 mond, was, as will be seen, as unexpected, as bewil- 
 dering, as it was possible to envisage. In such a fam- 
 ily, and in such a neighbourhood, where peace and the 
 proprieties reigned unquestioned, it naturally made a 
 greater sensation than if it had occurred in one of 
 those unfortunate places where the smooth surface of 
 Society is constantly disturbed by the ripples of 
 scandal and the splashes of tragedy. 
 
 The way of it was almost the worst part of it. 
 There was all the horror of mystery closing in on the 
 absolutely matter-of-fact. Nothing could have been 
 more homely, less allied to the dramatic, than the 
 actions of Mr. Desmond that day. In point of fact, 
 it was one of those days when he was thoroughly en- 
 joying himself. A picture had fallen. 
 
 In some households, the falling of a picture spreads 
 dismay. Like the breaking of a looking-glass, it is
 
 A PICTURE FALLS 17 
 
 held to be a portent of disaster. Not so in the Des- 
 mond family. The smiling servants whispered glee- 
 fully, "Here is a job for the Master," and Miss Des- 
 mond wanted to know what her brother could have 
 been thinking of, to leave the picture-cords so long un- 
 inspected. 
 
 "When one comes down, others are sure to do it too. 
 It will be a nice piece of work for you, David, to see to 
 them all and test the cords. Did the cord break?" 
 
 "No," said Mr. Desmond. "The nail came out. I 
 do not think it was long enough. The walls always 
 were rather soft." 
 
 After breakfast there was a great turning-out of the 
 cupboard in which he kept his collection of tools; and a 
 great comparing and selecting of nails. Not only did 
 the fallen picture rise again to its place on the wall, 
 but many other pictures came down and went up again, 
 with their nails changed and their cords renewed. 
 Mr. Desmond worked hard, whistling and humming, in 
 cheerful preoccupation; and sometimes one, sometimes 
 another of his household watched him and made use- 
 ful or otherwise comments and suggestions. 
 
 Lennox was more than critical. On one occasion 
 he was pert; and his aunt sent him away "until he 
 learned how to behave himself." 
 
 At lunch-time the Rector called, and was pressed 
 to stay for the meal. Lingering over the port with 
 his old College friend, it was three o'clock before Mr. 
 Desmond got back to the picture-hanging. 
 
 It was his custom to array himself for these enter- 
 prises in a green baize apron, with a workmanlike
 
 i8 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 pocket divided into compartments reaching all along 
 his front. In these compartments he kept nails, and 
 stuck his hammer or pincers when not wanted. He re- 
 moved his coat, because that was the thing to do; and 
 worked in his shirt-sleeves. Sometimes he made a 
 feint of spitting on his hands, to make Miss Desmond, 
 or old Brookes, laugh. 
 
 "I'm one nail short," he complained, searching in 
 the baize pocket. There was one more picture; and in 
 removing the old nail it had got twisted, and by no pro- 
 cess of hammering could be straightened for use again. 
 
 A prolonged hunt in the cupboard produced no nail 
 suitable. 
 
 "I must finish this," said Mr. Desmond, as anxiously 
 as if England's fate depended upon it. "I can't be 
 prevented for want of one nail. Where is Brookes?" 
 
 Brookes had gone to load manure. Mary was 
 "busy" with Mrs. Desmond, and Miss Desmond, 
 during that period, was in charge of Hubert and Hero, 
 who watched their father with admiring eyes. Len- 
 nox had trotted home with the Rector to see the 
 Rectory pups; Luttrell was too young to be sent 
 errands alone. 
 
 "I'll step round to Tenterley's," said Mr. Desmond. 
 "It does not do to be without nails like that in the 
 house." 
 
 He went, just as he was with an unsophisticated 
 pleasure in looking workmanlike in green baize 
 apron, shirt-sleeves, bare head; with a hammer stick- 
 ing out of one pocket compartment, and the twisted 
 nail in his hand to measure with to get a larger size.
 
 A PICTURE FALLS 19 
 
 He went out of the children's playroom, on the ground 
 floor, along the short, tiled passage to the side-door 
 that opened into the grassy walk down the garden. 
 Half-way down, a little path at right angles, to the 
 right, led to a door in the garden wall, which he opened. 
 Passing out into the lane, he closed it behind him, to 
 "step round to Tenterley's."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 STEPPING ROUND TO TENTERLEY's 
 
 TENTERLEY'S was the last shop in the straggling 
 village street, which made a great dip and widened out 
 considerably at the place where the shops came to an 
 end. Alongside Tenterley's little low-browed, wide- 
 windowed house, with the one tiny dormer window in a 
 roof not intended for such adornments, was a lane, 
 running back slant-wise from the street; and on the 
 other side of this lane rose the high brick wall, un- 
 compromising and blank, of The Domain, topped by 
 the grey brow of the Old Tower. Across the street, 
 ending the shops on that side, was a high, masoned 
 path with a hand-rail skirting a deep bit of water that 
 had a shallower shore at the further side. Round this 
 pond the village children played; and a trickling 
 streamlet ran out from the shore furthest from the 
 street, which was a goose-green that in winter became 
 a nasty, marshy, messy, impassable slough. Access 
 to it was obtained by the high masoned path with the 
 hand-rail. 
 
 Facing the water and the Green, The Domain stood, 
 four-square solid, ruddy, ancient, squat. The old 
 family still lived there, proud and exclusive, untouched 
 
 20
 
 STEPPING ROUND TO TENTERLEY'S 21 
 
 by the vulgarities of the new generation. Once they 
 had lived at Fairlands Park, and owned the country- 
 side. Now, Lord Gotto of Gozo had the Park and 
 building companies most of the land; and the old 
 family had nothing left of their wide possessions but 
 the Manor Farm and the Homestead, and The Do- 
 main in its high walls. The three properties, lying to- 
 gether in and beyond the village, were the oldest part 
 of the Gervase estates, Fairlands being, comparatively, 
 a mushroom. 
 
 The frowning brick walls, dating from Tudor times, 
 still enclosed the Old Tower, a powerful Norman 
 structure that rose above the wall and showed a blank, 
 stony cheek to the pretty lane. Its square, uncom- 
 promising strength looked to even greater advantage 
 on the inside, where, close to a door in the wall, it 
 jutted out and made a deep angle. Its own door, 
 arched, deep-set, and of still solid wood, was polished 
 and tempered and kept in beautiful repair, as were the 
 stout metal fastenings and adornments with which it 
 was reinforced. It was reputed to be haunted, but 
 none alive could claim to have seen "anything uglier 
 than themselves," as Adams, the groom, was in the 
 habit of saying. Little use was made of it, except to 
 store wood and coal; although Miss Desmond used 
 to say, with envy, that it could be made into such a 
 lovely playhouse for the children. The Domain 
 children, however, had never used it for any special 
 purpose until Hugh Gervase developed a taste for car- 
 pentry, when one of the rooms was converted into a 
 workshop.
 
 22 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 The village was called Lower Domain; the station 
 three miles away, was Fairlands. The railway served 
 the new and well-to-do suburb that had sprung up 
 on the Fairlands Manor property laid out in highly 
 desirable building plots by an enterprising creditor 
 of the old Squire's rather than the village. Fanciful 
 houses, in imitation of all styles old and new, with 
 spacious gardens, had sprung up in all directions on 
 the Manor property. Tennis courts and sports 
 grounds, and a library, were laid out and founded; 
 no shops were allowed. The community got its goods 
 from London, and was correspondingly unpopular with 
 Lower Domain. 
 
 Lord Gotto of Gozo was a red-faced, bawling man 
 whose title commemorated something in connection 
 with some long-forgotten battle at which he was said 
 to have led a forlorn hope and broken through 
 triumphantly. Ill-natured people said that he had 
 scattered a convoy of cargo-boats. He had shouted 
 until he got the title, and gone on shouting ever after. 
 His wife was enormously rich, only liked rich people, 
 and was rude to others. She did vulgar things be- 
 cause she chose, not because she did not know better; 
 and she invariably said the most disconcerting things 
 she could think of. The couple enjoyed that peculiar 
 popularity which is compounded of envy, fear, and the 
 desire to participate in the good things with which 
 they surrounded themselves. 
 
 There was no actual rivalry between the new com- 
 munity and the old. Rivalry was out of the question. 
 The old community disliked and despised the new.
 
 STEPPING ROUND TO TENTERLEY'S 23 
 
 The new was hardly aware of the existence of the old, 
 and never cast them a thought. Those who, like the 
 Desmonds, planted their banners nearer to the village 
 and further from the suburb, threw in their lot with 
 the county and The Domain, and thought evil of 
 bawling Lord Gotto and his nouveaux-riches friends. 
 
 Mr. Desmond summed it up acutely. 
 
 "Send to Fortnum and Mason's for a quarter-of-a- 
 pound of oatmeal, or to the landlord for a man to 
 mend the tap I They would never think of giving 
 a little custom to old Ned Tipper, or a day's work to 
 Tenterley." 
 
 Tenterley was a carpenter and cabinet-maker. He 
 kept all the beautiful old furniture in the quaint 
 houses in repair, dealt with dry-rot or other disorders 
 in the panelling, and could make you anything from 
 a clothes-peg to a coffin if required. "Tenterley's" 
 was part shop, part workroom; and it was a recognised 
 meeting-place, for politics, news, or mere informal 
 sociability. 
 
 The garden door in Mr. Desmond's garden wall 
 gave on to the lane that divided Tenterley's from 
 The Domain garden wall. It was only a three or 
 four minutes' "step" from the little garden door to 
 the shop. Miss Desmond waited in the playroom for 
 her brother to come back; then, hearing Mary, called 
 to her to say the children were there. Mary duly 
 resumed charge; and cautioning her not to let them 
 play near the "picture and risk breaking the glass, 
 Miss Desmond left the room and went into the garden. 
 The flowers in the house wanted changing; and those
 
 24 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 in the garden wanted picking and snipping, and a 
 vigorous Removal of dead blossom, and leaf. En- 
 grossed in the task, she lingered until the children's 
 tea-bell rang. 
 
 "Half-past five," she murmured. "I must get these 
 into water. Lucky there were no callers to-day!" 
 
 She gathered up her spoils and went in. Luttrell, 
 evading pursuit by Mary, banged into her, laughing 
 and saying he was sorry and racing on. May raced 
 after him, calling out, "Mama says not make such a 
 noise!" 
 
 Miss Desmond entered the drawing-room. Her 
 sister-in-law was there, gazing after the children, a 
 book in her lap; and an expression, too slight to be 
 perplexity, or worry, yet partaking of both, puckering 
 her forehead. 
 
 "Must do these flowers!" explained Miss Desmond. 
 "I ought not to have left it so late." 
 
 She proceeded to collect the wilted flowers in a 
 newspaper, and carried them out, returning for the 
 vases. Mrs. Desmond watched her, still with the faint 
 expression of trouble. 
 
 "Where is David?" she asked presently. 
 
 "I don't know," said Miss Desmond, arranging an 
 arrogant spray to better advantage. 
 
 "I don't hear him anywhere," murmured Mrs. Des- 
 mond, helplessly. "Wasn't he hanging pictures?" 
 
 "He was" answered Miss Desmond; "but he must 
 have finished long ago. There was only one more. 
 He went to get more nails, and I went to do the 
 flowers."
 
 STEPPING ROUND TO TENTERLEY'S 25 
 
 She was just finishing her floral arrangements when 
 there was a noisy incursion of Lennox. 
 
 "Oh, M'ma," he burst forth, excitedly, "the pupses 
 were so lovely, and Mr. Raymond says I may have 
 one if you'll let me have it, if I don't have it too young 
 will you let me, M'ma?" 
 
 He was kissing her and rumpling his tumbled head 
 coaxingly against her, and holding her with his rather 
 grubby hands; and she smiled absently as she 
 answered. 
 
 "If your father lets you, dear, I don't mind. Will 
 it be a very big dog? I don't think a very big 
 dog 
 
 "No, M'ma, not very big. Only half big. And I'll 
 teach it to be very good. You'll ask P'pa, won't you? 
 To let me?" 
 
 She kissed him with a sudden laugh. 
 
 "Go and have your tea, dear; you are a little late, 
 you know. Mary won't be pleased. Yes; I'll ask 
 your father. I don't think he will mind. Gently!" 
 as he gave her a rapturous hug. "And what a dirty 
 pair of paws look! Wash them quickly, dear, and 
 be off to tea. Don't keep Mary waiting." 
 
 "I won't be a minute, M'ma," he promised, rushing 
 off. 
 
 "I wonder where David is?" said Mrs. Desmond; 
 and now she was genuinely puzzled. He was always 
 there for the children's play hour. 
 
 Hubert and Hero, who had their tea first, came 
 toddling in, fresh and dainty from a wash, and de- 
 manded Papa, to toss them up to the ceiling. Papa's
 
 26 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 absence was a grievance and the pucker deepened in 
 Mrs. Desmond's brow. 
 
 The other children came back presently, and Mary 
 arrived to carry off the babies. 
 
 "I wonder where your father is?" queried Mrs. 
 Desmond, as they surrounded her. "Where is Mr. 
 Desmond; do you know, Mary?" 
 
 "No, Ma'am," said Mary, surprised. It gave her 
 quite a turn, she told Cook. 
 
 "He never finished er picshers," said Luttrell, with 
 much emphasis; "and Hubert, he fell and bumpeded 
 his head, ever so hard, and cried. And if it had been 
 on er glass and not on er framed, he'd have broked it. 
 Wouldn't he, May?" 
 
 May nodded, very vigorously, and endorsed the 
 verdict. 
 
 "Not finished the pictures?" exclaimed Miss Des- 
 mond, and broke off abruptly. It seemed amazing, 
 and she tried to think back. 
 
 "No. Er Lost Lamb's still on er floor in er 
 nursery." 
 
 "How very funny," said Miss Desmond, slowly and 
 reflectively. 
 
 "What makes it funny?" asked Mrs. Desmond, 
 a little flush showing on her creamy cheeks. 
 
 "Well; he had no nail that would do for that picture 
 he wanted it to have the same as the others, a long 
 nail and there were none left. Brookes was at the 
 stables and Lennox with Mr. Raymond, and Mary 
 was with you and I had the babies; so he went off 
 himself to get them."
 
 STEPPING ROUND TO TENTERLEY'S 27 
 
 "To get what? Where?" 
 
 "To get some more big nails; to Tenterley's." 
 
 "Do you mean he went to Tenterley's when Mary 
 was with me, and hasn't come back? That was before 
 four!" 
 
 "Yes. Mary came back to the playroom about 
 ten minutes after he had gone, and I went out into the 
 garden. It never struck me he hadn't come back. I 
 could easily not have heard him pass in the garden. 
 But you know how they gossip and gossip at Tenter- 
 ley's!" 
 
 "How strange. He must have met someone and 
 gone home with them. He can't be all this time at 
 Tenterley's." 
 
 Mrs. Desmond was almost at ease again. It was 
 most unusual for Mr. Desmond not to be back for the 
 children's play hour, and still more unusual for him 
 not to leave word, or send word, of his whereabouts. 
 But it was hardly disquieting. 
 
 "I don't think he could have gone home with any- 
 one like that," objected Miss Desmond, her eyes very 
 wide. And as Mrs. Desmond looked for enlighten- 
 ment, added: 
 
 "He had on his green baize apron, and no coat, and 
 no hat, and his hands were all dirtied " 
 
 She stared aghast. Where could he be, all this 
 time, in that get-up? 
 
 The flush on Mrs. Desmond's face deepened. She 
 rang the bell, with determination. 
 
 "To Tenterley's, did you say?" she asked Miss 
 Desmond, who nodded. "Send Brookes down to Ten-
 
 28 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 terley's, at once," she ordered, when the maid came, 
 "and ask what time Mr. Desmond left the shop and 
 which way he went." 
 
 The children went on with their games, playtime 
 shorn of much of its delight by the absence of the 
 versatile and amusing Mr. Desmond. His wife and 
 sister, full of curiosity, but not acutely uneasy, did 
 not discuss his non-appearance further. Lennox took 
 advantage of the occasion to give himself grown-up 
 airs and show off to the others. 
 
 "Brookes say, Ma'am, that Tenterley has been all 
 day over at the Manor Farm, and isn't home yet. 
 Mrs. Tenterley, she say that Mr. Desmond never 
 came near the shop, not this afternoon." 
 
 Moore was an old servant, daughter of Mr. Des- 
 mond's nurse, and almost one of the family. But the 
 two ladies waited until she was gone before discussing 
 the situation further. 
 
 "Thank you, Moore. Is Mary ready for the 
 children? Say good-night and run along, pets." 
 
 They said good-night, with the usual protests and 
 lamentations and injunctions that Papa was to be sure 
 and come up and say it to them in bed. Then Mrs. 
 and Miss Desmond faced each other. 
 
 "I wonder if anything has happened," said Mrs. 
 Desmond. Her face was deadly white, now. 
 
 "But what could have happened, Honoria?" asked 
 Miss Desmond, half -laughing, half -distracted. "What 
 could have happened, between here and Tenter- 
 ley's?"
 
 STEPPING ROUND TO TENTERLEY'S 29 
 
 "But he never got to Tenterley's," insisted Mrs. 
 Desmond. 
 
 After a few more agitated remarks the bell was rung 
 again. 
 
 "Moore, will you and Bcookes go down the lane and 
 search and see that the Master has not fallen in either 
 of the ditches. And go on to the village, and ask and 
 see if anyone saw him this afternoon; and call at The 
 Domain and at the Rectory, and at the Doctor's, and 
 see." 
 
 "Yes, Ma'am," said the amazed Moore, demurely. 
 
 Brookes wanted to know what the Master was wear- 
 ing, and the sensation was very marked when Miss 
 Desmond described his condition. 
 
 Tenterley was home, but could add nothing to his 
 wife's information. The Domain, the Rectory, Doc- 
 tor Willett's, even the Blue-Nosed Man, were drawn 
 blank. The lane as unsinister and debonair a lane 
 as could be held no trap, no corpse, no pitfall or gin. 
 The expedition, accompanied by Tenterley, returned, 
 shaking off with difficulty the attentions of the con- 
 stable and the bell-man, as wise as it started. 
 
 Later on the Rector called again, to be quite sure 
 that he had understood Brookes's guarded query, and 
 to see if there were anything wrong. The actual facts 
 staggered him; and he did not know what to say. 
 When he left, it was to seek Dr. Willett, and consult 
 with him about what was to be done without alarming 
 the ladies. The two of them eventually repaired to the 
 sleepy little police-station and arranged to have the
 
 30 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 village pond dragged. This was done, with no results, 
 at four o'clock next morning. 
 
 By breakfast time that day, the whole of Lower 
 Domain knew that Mr. Desmond was missing, and 
 that the ladies, and the household at The Meadows 
 were distracted with grief and anxiety.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 BEWILDERMENT 
 
 THE mysterious circumstances, no less than the 
 actual disappearance, threw the little village into a 
 state of stupefaction. Not only Mr. Desmond's own 
 family, but the humble acquaintances who knew him 
 as a fussily kind and managing neighbour or employer, 
 took the matter deeply to heart. Nothing else was 
 talked of, for a good deal longer than the "nine days" 
 of wonder. 
 
 The bewilderment, the utter absence of explana- 
 tion, the impossibility of believing either that any- 
 thing serious could happen to Mr. Desmond between 
 the garden door and Tenterley's; or that he could 
 deliberately absent himself coatless, hatless, and in a 
 green baize apron, made their brains whirl. Thought 
 was cut off from every avenue of search; no solution 
 appeared to be within the realms of credibility. 
 
 When at length, and sorely against her instincts, 
 Mrs. Desmond was persuaded to send for the police; 
 and when, after a day or two of futile local muddle 
 and messing, a inan came down from Scotland Yard, 
 the tale was such that the London agent would hardly 
 believe he was being told the whole truth. Like all 
 
 31
 
 32 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 the other puzzled people who came to give help or 
 advice, the detective gazed in perplexity at the picture 
 of The Lost Lamb reposing on the playroom floor be- 
 side the still expectant step-ladder. Like the others, 
 he poked and pried in the tool-cupboard, still dis- 
 ordered with the search for nails. Like them, he 
 questioned and cross-questioned the now terrified Miss 
 Desmond, who racked her brains for details of the 
 work, the conversation, and the minutest incidents "of 
 the afternoon of her brother's disappearance. 
 
 Like Brookes, Tenterley, and the local constable, 
 he searched the lane for trace or clue. By this time, 
 it was so trampled back and forth that to hope for a 
 guiding footmark was useless. Like them, he in- 
 spected the ditch on either side bordering the Eagle- 
 ton's tennis-court and The Domain wall on the one 
 side, and the continuation of The Meadows wall and 
 the bit of grazing ground that The Meadows and its 
 neighbour, The Leas, shared for their Alderneys on 
 the other in vain. He even asked and received per- 
 mission to make a thorough search of The Domain 
 grounds and the Old Tower. 
 
 Like them all, he owned himself baffled. 
 
 To the local constable he unbosomed himself. 
 
 "Must have planned it all," he suggested. "Sly 
 old cock." 
 
 "Couldn't be done," said the local man, shaking his 
 head. "Nowhere to hide, or change, or get away from. 
 No vehicle; no way out except the Main Road, Fair- 
 lands, or the village. Couldn't be done, not till after 
 dark; and it was broad daylight."
 
 BEWILDERMENT 33 
 
 "If he'd planned it," went on the local man, after 
 a pause, "he'd have had a bogus letter, from his stock- 
 broker or someone, asking him to run up to London, 
 so's to give himself time to get away without being 
 searched for." 
 
 "He's done better than that," said the Scotland 
 Yard man, shaking his head. "He's got clear away 
 while you've been searching them lanes and dragging 
 that pond." 
 
 "Well, if he's done it on purpose, we've got no right 
 to prevent him, nor yet to follow him," said the local 
 man, with a slight loss of temper, "so we can save our- 
 self the trouble, if that's the way you look at it." 
 
 "That will prove to be about the way of it, you 
 mark me. And the family lawyer up there, and the 
 brother, they say his affairs is all in order, and there'll 
 be no trouble, nor money scandals no speculation, 
 nor embezzlement, nor liabilities no reason at all to 
 interfere with his liberty. It's a rum go; but there 
 you are!" 
 
 And there they were, and there they remained. 
 
 There were agitated visits from Mr. Harry Des- 
 mond, brother of the vanished gentleman, and Col. 
 Lennox-Luttrell, father of Mrs. Desmond, and Mr. 
 Beaumont, family lawyer from Gray's Inn; and these 
 gentlemen offered rewards and put advertisements in 
 the home and colonial press and even put private 
 detective agents ,on to work. The private detective 
 agents were intolerably busy for a prolonged period. 
 They ran on several false scents, and annoyed a 
 number of perfectly harmless people, and were
 
 34 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 threatened with a ducking in the pool by some 
 of the market-garden men whose heavily-laden carts 
 lumbered up to town every night and whose day's 
 work began when other people's was ending. The 
 detective agents concealed themselves under a tarpaulin 
 on one of the carts, to overhear the conversation of 
 possible accomplices in the Desmond crime; but mar- 
 ket-garden men are not chatterers and spend most of 
 their time on the road in sleep, trusting to their horses. 
 An irrepressible cough gave the detective agents away. 
 
 The Desmond family had much difficulty in dis- 
 sociating themselves from this supposed attempt to 
 prove that the market-garden carters were of murder- 
 ous tendencies. A quiet, law-abiding, slumbrous class, 
 these men were; and popular. The private detective 
 agents slackened in their zeal after the uproar, and 
 faded discreetly from the scene, to start fresh scents 
 elsewhere; and the reputation for lynx-eyed vigilance 
 and acumen attributed to them by certain writers of 
 romance not based on true life, faded with them. 
 
 And by degrees, the search died down. 
 
 "It do be the quarest thing I ever heerd tell of," 
 said the bell-man, to one of the informal gatherings 
 at Tenterley's; "and it do be quare, too, that I 
 shouldn't be a-belling of him. It do'ent se-am right, 
 not to be a-belling of him." 
 
 "It's a tur'ble bad business," said Tenterley, shak- 
 ing his head. "A gennleman like that, so simple and 
 straight-forrard in his ways and so reg'lar not one of 
 the kind's allays running up to Lunnon or off to Boo- 
 long, like some of them there over to Fairlands. A
 
 BEWILDERMENT 35 
 
 nice, God-fearing gennleman, as gooed to Church twice't 
 every Sunday, and so took up with his missus and his 
 childer " 
 
 "What I wants to know is, where's he gone and 
 how's he gone," said the postman, sententiously. His 
 profession gave him a poor opinion of human nature. 
 
 "When you seen all the love-letters / seen," he was in 
 the habit of saying, darkly; as one to whom the secrets 
 of the public were laid bare. 
 
 "There's lots would like to know that, Bill Black. 
 If us knew that, there'd be no more to know." 
 
 Bill Black said "Ah!" with intense significance, and 
 a sort of I-could-but-an-I-would expression. 
 
 "He's gorn off with a gay loydy, if you arst me," 
 grinned the coalman. He, too, had few illusions. 
 
 "What did / say?" asked Bill Black, of no one in 
 particular. 
 
 "In a green baize apron, wi'out's coat and a-nammer 
 in 'is 'and?" enquired Tenterley, incredulously. "Goo 
 on!" 
 
 "More likely, he's been done to his death with the 
 hammer," suggested the schoolmaster. With the 
 organist, a quiet little man who loved gossip, he had 
 dropped in to hear what was being said on the topic 
 that was engrossing everyone's attention. 
 
 Tenterley wagged a foreboding head. 
 
 "Foul play, I'm feared, Mr. Turton. You're right." 
 
 "Foul play? But never a mark, or a sign, or a scrap 
 of anything torn, or a drop of blood ! No place where 
 there are signs of a struggle, or where a body has lain 
 and it is fairly soft underfoot, still, after last week's
 
 36 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 rain. How could he be got away, or disposed of, with- 
 out signs?" 
 
 Thus the organist, not sceptically, but searchingly. 
 
 "That's a fac'," agreed the coalman, who was flip- 
 pantly disposed. "And as he culdn't a-bin carried off, 
 he must a-walked. Took his 'ook, on his own shankses 
 that's what he did." 
 
 "Where to, and how didn't noobody see him? 
 There's only through village here to Somerton, and all 
 the girls coming back that way from Soap Works, and 
 up Fairlands to station. And then there's the Main 
 Roo-ad, miles of it, to Slatford. And noobody to see 
 him? Goo on." 
 
 "Must have been taken up to Heaving in a Chariot 
 of Fire," said the postman, solemnly; and though they 
 were all a trifle shocked, they laughed. Postman, he 
 don't care for nothing nor nobody. He'll come to a 
 bad end, surelye; said the village. 
 
 "They do tell," began the bell-man, clearing his 
 throat, "that there wuz a picter fell. It do be power- 
 ful onlucky, fur picters to fall. I mind, when th' old 
 Squire the old 'un afore this 'un died so sudden- 
 like, there wuz a picter fell. It be allers onlucky, 
 they do tell. The servants, up to The Meadows, they 
 do be pruperly frightened." 
 
 "Pure superstition," said the schoolmaster, 
 promptly, sniffing up the breeze of battle. "It was 
 the picture falling that set him to work, and that sent 
 him out for nails; that's all that had to do with it, but 
 it might have been anything else! But if people can 
 think something foolish, you may depend on it they
 
 BEWILDERMENT 37 
 
 will. I'd like to give those servants a bit of my 
 mind." 
 
 There was a general murmur in response; whether of 
 assent or dissent was not plain. The bell-man, uncon- 
 vinced, continued to mutter, 
 
 "There wuz a picter fell, anyway, and I allers heered 
 tell it were powerful onlucky." 
 
 "Sooperstitions is queer things," said Tenterley, in 
 a non-committal fashion. 
 
 "An' so's disappearances," said the flippant coalman. 
 
 "Do ee mind Jack Bowman?" nudging the postman 
 with a coally elbow, whose contact caused the post- 
 man to dust his uniform sleeve carefully. 
 
 "I got to account to Gov'ment for my uniform!" 
 he remarked, resentfully. "Yes. I 'member Jack 
 Bowman. Did a guy with that yalleraired gurl of 
 Meddon's, as purtended she'd gorn to sarvice. You 
 aren't thinking ?" 
 
 "Thinking's free," replied the coalman, with an 
 unholy smirk. 
 
 "Pos'man, he laugh at everything," began Amos 
 Johnstone, harking back. He was rich Farmer John- 
 stone's brother who had been sold up, whom Farmer 
 Johnstone had taken on, at very stingy terms, to work 
 the market-garden side of the farm work. "Mr. Des- 
 mond, he were a gentleman, as Tenterley here knows 
 full well. He wouldn't a-played a dirty game like that, 
 he wouldn't." 
 
 "I didn't say anything about dirty games," ex- 
 postulated the postman, grinning. "What's there dirty 
 about a Chariot of Fire? If 'twere good enough for
 
 38 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 'Lijah, Mr. Desmond might be proud to be seen in it." 
 
 "Only he wuzn't seen in it," objected the bell-man. 
 
 "That's our loss," said the cynical coalman. 
 
 Old Johnstone took this ill, and the subject dropped. 
 It was felt to be a trifle personal and delicate. John- 
 stone had a son who was a wild 'un; he had been per- 
 emptorily sacked by the older Johnstone for his un- 
 handsome dealings with the market produce and had 
 disappeared too not mysteriously like Mr. Desmond, 
 but disgracefully. 
 
 Everyone was sorry for Amos Johnstone. He was 
 a harmless, sorrowful man, widowed and lonely; and 
 the rich brother was a hard master and close-fisted. 
 
 The schoolmaster and the organist strolled away to- 
 gether, continuing the discussion by fits and starts as 
 they went. 
 
 "It really is a mystery," reflected Turton. "Isn't it? 
 There doesn't seem any possible solution. One's 
 common-sense recoils from any suggestion that can be 
 made!" 
 
 "And one's common-sense recoils equally from the 
 idea that there is no solution," responded little Brown- 
 ing. "Funny how the uneducated mind fixes on the 
 supernatural. 'A picter fell.' How they love any- 
 thing like that!" 
 
 "Fools," said Turton, with heat. 
 
 "And yet a picture did fall," laughed Browning, 
 "and led to the most extraordinary mystery and dis- 
 aster. At least, it may be neither, of course, because 
 the man may turn up any moment. He can't really 
 be very far off!"
 
 BEWILDERMENT 39 
 
 "I have very little expectation that he is alive," 
 said Turton, sombrely. 
 
 Browning was silent for a moment, then observed, 
 "I am sorry for those two poor ladies. Dreadful for 
 them." 
 
 And so it was dreadful. 
 
 No trace of the missing Mr. Desmond was found. 
 The minutest search revealed nothing that led to any 
 conclusion. No inquiries produced results. No clue 
 was unearthed, no solution discovered. It remained an 
 absolute, impenetrable mystery, as baffling as The 
 Sphinx. None could shed light on it; and the fate of 
 the missing man remained unknown and as time rolled 
 on was quoted, with unction, as one of the famous 
 disappearances which have defeated detective in- 
 genuity. 
 
 Opinion wavered. Some, who only knew Mr. Des- 
 mond slightly, believed him to have been sly and faith- 
 less and the tainted hero of an unsavoury romance. 
 Others, like the Rector, the staunch Turton and 
 Browning, Tenterley, and the whole household at The 
 Meadows, believed him to be the victim of a murder- 
 ous outrage. To them, Mrs. and Miss Desmond gave 
 their warmest gratitude. Others, again, favoured a 
 theory of mental aberration; and some just loved the 
 whole story for its mystery and its endless and lurid 
 possibilities. It was discussed over many a fireside, 
 and struck terror and dismay into many timid hearts. 
 And by degrees it became an old story, dimly remem- 
 bered, to be from time to time revived, discussed and 
 again forgotten.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF TIME 
 
 FIFTEEN years passed, slowly obliterating with their 
 ceaseless grinding the sharp edges of recollection. 
 Young folk grew to maturity; maturity withered to 
 age. The grave garnered its usual harvest, and eter- 
 nity replenished as it stripped the world, with green 
 lives to replace the sere and yellow. Change and de- 
 cay, birth and death, the immutable laws, took their 
 accustomed toll, leaving none untouched. 
 
 Fifteen years made a considerable difference to the 
 Desmond family. Lennox was twenty-six and married, 
 with two children, having followed the tradition of 
 early marriage in his father's family. Luttrell was at 
 Oxford; May had just come home from a trip on the 
 Continent. The twins were between seventeen and 
 eighteen, inseparable when not at their respective 
 schools, and full of life and spirits. 
 
 The whole family was remarkable for good looks. 
 Between Mr. Desmond's English fairness and Mrs. 
 Desmond's copper and russet, a scale of colouring had 
 been evolved that was arresting. Lennox was the 
 darkest, with reddish moustache and chestnut hair, a 
 
 40
 
 THE FLIGHT OF TIME 41 
 
 rich colour and bright, hard blue eyes. Without be- 
 ing handsome, he was of most attractive appearance 
 and manner, which cloaked the domineering, carping 
 nature from the observation of acquaintances. May 
 was her aunt Hermione over again, her freshness and 
 youth, and red, white, and yellow spring-time colour- 
 ing making the older lady look faded by contrast. 
 Luttrell was an engaging youth with roguish grey eyes 
 and yellow hair and the most girlish red lips and little 
 white teeth; the twins were corn-coloured as to hair, 
 peach-like as to skin, and with eyes as blue as flax- 
 blossom. They were all tall and well-made, Luttrell 
 being the smallest. All were addicted to sports; and 
 what they did they did well. 
 
 But the beauty of the family was undeniably Kythe, 
 born close on nine months after her father's disappear- 
 ance. She had masses of soft fawn hair with yellow 
 streaks, eyes a rich blue-grey with dark fawn lashes 
 and thick smooth brows, skin creamy and smooth like 
 her mother's, and perfect teeth. She was going to be 
 a beauty; with her looks and an elusive, aloof, dreamy 
 something that recalled her mother but yet had an 
 entirely individual charm. No one quite understood 
 Kythe, or had ever "found out about her, inside," as 
 Hero complained. She was, beyond question, her 
 mother's favourite, and Mrs. Desmond followed her 
 movements with pathetic questing eyes. 
 
 Aunt Hermione had never married. Mrs. Desmond 
 clung so to her, during the years of her bitter trouble, 
 that she put aside all idea of leaving the poor woman. 
 The only offer to do so was not, it must be owned,
 
 42 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 overwhelmingly attractive; but it was averred that the 
 Rector, now a widower, was waiting his chance. Aunt 
 Hermione was still a very good-looking woman, with 
 a whimsical outlook on life that made her extremely 
 good company. The household relied on her far more 
 than on its mistress. 
 
 Mary was now the young ladies' maid, instead of 
 nurse, and Moore was still parlour-maid, grey, wrin- 
 kled, but indefatigable. Cook was dead, and her 
 niece, the kitchen-maid, succeeded to her place and her 
 emoluments. 
 
 Brookes had an assistant, young Tenterley, whose 
 father still made and mended for the neighbourhood, 
 though the encroachments of trades unionism were be- 
 ginning to create difficulties for him. He had been 
 called a "black leg" in the bar of The Blue-Nosed 
 Man; and although the landlord had interfered hotly 
 and made the unmannerly agitator go elsewhere to 
 agitate, Tenterley was "shook." So he expressed it. 
 
 The Meadows had been subjected to various mod- 
 ern improvements electric light, two more bath- 
 rooms, new fire grates, and gas stoves for cooking in 
 summer. It was a charming house. Mrs. Desmond's 
 step-mother, a soulless person, had urged her to leave 
 the neighbourhood and "get away from depressing in- 
 fluences"; but nothing would induce Mrs. Desmond 
 to move. 
 
 She was much changed. After Kythe's birth, she 
 resumed life with two broad streaks of snow-white hair 
 above her temples. The babies occupied her much, 
 and she insisted on having almost sole care of the
 
 THE FLIGHT OF TIME 43 
 
 new arrival. Then she went back to her reading; but 
 books would lie open in her lap, the pages unturned, 
 her eyes fixed on vacancy. Her looks remained; even 
 as she aged, she aged becomingly. 
 
 She would go for slow walks, alone if possible, but 
 later accompanied by Kythe; standing at places where 
 roads met, or at any corner, crowded or otherwise, and 
 looking round and about as if in search. In later 
 years she contracted the habit of holding long conver- 
 sations with herself, sometimes almost audibly; and 
 accompanying these monologues with suitable ges- 
 tures, facial and otherwise, and movements of her head 
 and hands, entirely oblivious of her surroundings. It 
 was these peculiarities that gave rise to a wide-spread 
 belief that the poor lady's mind was unhinged. 
 
 It was not so; but it all made Lennox very angry. 
 He was often irritable with his mother and not infre- 
 quently rude to her. Grown-up, he allowed himself 
 a tone of sarcastic banter that made his aunt feel 
 murderous. 
 
 Every year when the dreadful day came round, Mrs. 
 Desmond shut herself up, only appearing at meals. 
 This never failed to anger Lennox, who called it mor- 
 bid, and idiotic, and said it got on his nerves. Once 
 he denounced it as sentimental self-indulgence; but 
 his aunt dealt so faithfully with him that he never said 
 that again. > 
 
 The brothers and sisters chafed under Lennox's hard 
 yoke. He everlastingly reminded them that he was 
 head of the family in the absence of his father; and 
 he made strong efforts to set aside the dominion of 

 
 44 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Aunt Hermione. He lived in the Temple and came 
 down, with his wife and babies, every week-end, "to 
 see how things were getting on," giving orders liberally, 
 and interfering with the outside men servants when 
 he could not do so with the inside women. Even 
 Mary, who had always adored him, had been heard to 
 declare that Master Lennox do take a lot on himself, 
 and that's a fact. 
 
 There was a row royal between the brothers when 
 Luttrell came home and found the room he had oc- 
 cupied from boyhood converted into a night nursery 
 for Lennox's babies, without anyone's sanction having 
 been obtained, Aunt Hermione being away for a short 
 visit. Nothing was sacred to Lennox and his wife. 
 Their visits were difficult times, times all too often of 
 strain and irritation. 
 
 The fifteenth anniversary of Mr. Desmond's disap- 
 pearance was upon them; and Lennox, as he fre- 
 quently did, announced his intention of coming down 
 for that day a Friday to begin his week-end. He 
 hated the day; but enjoyed an opportunity of protest- 
 ing against what he disapproved of. Mrs. Desmond 
 heard of the decision with a sigh. 
 
 Every September the bitter-sweet past returned to 
 her, overwhelming in its poignant appeal. The dear, 
 dear days when David hammered, and whistled, and 
 wheeled wheel-barrows and plied the garden mower or 
 the garden roller or the garden shears, or put in panes 
 of glass, or invented patent foot-rests for her chair; 
 and romped with his children, and read her amusing
 
 THE FLIGHT OF TIME 45 
 
 tit-bits from the paper at night; and knelt beside her 
 low chair in their own room before getting into bed, 
 rubbing his boyish head against hers and kissing her 
 throat and saying, "Ready, darling! Come along"; 
 or "How lovely your hair looks to-night! What have 
 you been touching it up with, you sly pet?" or some 
 such tender nonsense how long ago they were ! How 
 she missed him. O God, how she had missed him! 
 
 She had nothing to reproach herself with. She had 
 loved him truly and passionately, had given him all a 
 woman could give, and no shadow had ever darkened 
 their devotion and their confidence. Her immersion 
 in books had never annoyed or disconcerted him; and 
 he had never lacked sympathy and understanding, for 
 her or from her. They had suited each other per- 
 fectly. The thunderbolt that had broken their lives 
 in sunder was still inexplicable, still utterly without 
 source or reason; unintelligible. 
 
 She remembered every detail vividly. One of her 
 secret and most profound sorrows was the knowledge 
 that these details had grown blurred and dim to others, 
 and to no one but her was it any longer a matter of 
 passionate feeling. She longed to keep it alive; yet 
 to no one could she confide all she panted to say. A 
 dumb spirit held her in thrall. Kythe, Hero and 
 Hubert, ought to know about it, be interested in it, 
 be able to tell their children about it; but she could 
 not bring herself to discuss it with them. They might 
 think or feel like Lennox. That would be unendurable. 
 
 She knew Lennox took the view that his father had
 
 46 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 gone off willingly and abscondingly. The knowledge 
 stood between her and her first-born like the Angel 
 with the flaming sword. 
 
 "We were so proud of our baby," she remembered, 
 with unavailing regret. "How David loved to see him 
 laugh. He invented a rocker that never would rock. 
 Why has our son turned out like this, so hard and 
 unbelieving?" 
 
 Of Luttrell's mind she knew less; but realised that 
 his brother's views had been put to him ruthlessly. 
 
 How kind everyone had been, she sighed. Her 
 brother-in-law, who had since made pots of money and 
 come to live on the Fairlands Manor property he 
 had been ever so kind and helpful, coming to live there 
 mainly to be of use to her. Such a comfort, he was, 
 with various matters in regard to the boys and their 
 schools. 
 
 About business, too. He had arranged for money 
 to be advanced, and had tided her over a most diffi- 
 cult time with great tact and generosity. The money 
 position had been most difficult; but Mrs. Desmond's 
 own father had helped. 
 
 How angry he was! Her father not Harry Des- 
 mond Col. Lennox-Luttrell. He lived in the South 
 of France with his second wife, a card-playing lady 
 of considerable means. Mrs. Desmond was his only 
 child, and he came flying over to England on the first 
 hint of his daughter's having been "badly treated" by 
 the rascal she had married. The situation, when he 
 arrived at it, struck even his irascible volubility dumb. 
 He was a vehement exponent of the murder and out-
 
 THE FLIGHT OF TIME 47 
 
 rage theory, converted to enthusiastic belief in the 
 honour of his son-in-law by the generous and devoted 
 helpfulness of Harry and Hermione Desmond. 
 
 "Awfully fine people," he assured his many cronies. 
 "Splendid characters. He couldn't have done any- 
 thing crooked, one of that family. Money affairs in 
 perfect order, every penny left to Honoria and her 
 children, not a paper or a letter of the least equivocal 
 kind not a thing that required explanation. Amaz- 
 ing. Amazing." 
 
 His whole-hearted championship of her David 
 warmed his daughter's sore heart; and when he died 
 a year later, leaving her very comfortably off, she felt 
 doubly forlorn and bereaved. 
 
 The substantial income which she inherited enabled 
 her to hold out against the often-repeated suggestion 
 that she should make an application to have her hus- 
 band's death presumed. Since coming of age, Lennox 
 had pressed hard for this, and even threatened to do it 
 without her consent. She had, at last, told him sternly 
 that if he did, he should never set foot in the house 
 again; and as, under the will, the house would be hers, 
 he forbore, with a bad grace, and left the subject. 
 
 So sore did this leave her, and so deep the breach 
 between her and her son, that she was unhappy for 
 days. At last she wrote to him and promised that if 
 nothing transpired by then, she would make the ap- 
 plication when Lennox should be thirty; and he wrote 
 back, expressing his satisfaction, and asking her par- 
 don for having hurt her. 
 
 How the old memories stirred and struggled, as this
 
 48 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 anniversary came round. She remembered the inso- 
 lent stare of Lady Gotto of Gozo, who drove past her 
 and pointed her out; all the carriageful of smart peo- 
 ple turning their heads to stare. She remembered the 
 weeping sympathy of the old servants, the kindly offer- 
 ings sent by the villagers, the gruffly expressed con- 
 dolences of the market-garden men, the curiosity of 
 little May when she heard some ribald remark about 
 her father having gone off with his light o' love, and 
 the child's searching queries in respect of this new 
 phrase. She remembered those long, long, lonely 
 nights, wide-eyed, with the unceasing rumble of 
 market-garden waggons plodding their way to town, 
 as she lay listening, hoping, wearying. She remem- 
 bered her first pitched battle with Lennox, when she 
 realised what his opinion was. She remembered the 
 Rector's unshaken friendship and companionship, and 
 the hours his gentle wife took charge of the older and 
 more noisy children. And the visit the very first 
 visit of Lady Katherine Gervase, wife of the old 
 Squire at The Domain. The frigid, exclusive, pre- 
 maturely aged woman came, in an impulse of neigh- 
 bourliness, to express her deep regret at the blow that 
 had fallen on the adjacent household. 
 
 "I knew your husband by sight, Mrs. Desmond, and 
 I am sure I count myself a good judge he was in- 
 capable of baseness or intrigue. He has been the vic- 
 tim of some terrible outrage. Heaven grant the crim- 
 inals may be brought to justice." 
 
 Lady Katherine called on no one; and this spon- 
 taneous act and tribute was most comforting.
 
 THE FLIGHT OF TIME 49 
 
 Since then, relations between The Meadows and 
 The Domain had remained pleasantly friendly, ripen- 
 ing of late into cordiality. Lady Katherine had highly 
 approved of the dignity and reserve with which Mrs. 
 Desmond met her trouble and her staunch loyalty to 
 the missing man. She rarely made a new friend, and 
 never dropped one; from that time no social observ- 
 ance that would accentuate the fact, that Mrs. Des- 
 mond of The Meadows was a friend of Lady Kath- 
 erine's, was ever omitted on either side.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE DOMAIN 
 
 SQUIRE GERVASE died five years after Mr. Desmond 
 disappeared. The tedium of his long illness was some- 
 what lightened by the visits of Mrs. Desmond and her 
 family, who by a process of elimination, became al- 
 most the only neighbours, excepting the Raymonds, 
 and the Leighs of the Manor Farm, whom The Do- 
 main recognised as gentry and received as visitors. 
 With his death, the tie between the elder lady and 
 the younger became closer. 
 
 "It is the best part of myself gone," said Lady 
 Katherine, curtly. "You know. Nothing much seems 
 worth while, now. I have not even his children to 
 bring up, as you have. That is all finished." 
 
 Mrs. Desmond understood, and her heart ached 
 afresh, for herself and her friend. 
 
 "His sufferings are over," said Aunt Hermione to 
 her sister-in-law. "It was dreadful to see him so 
 crippled, and wincing with pain. And he looked so as 
 if the family troubles had been too much for him. I 
 never saw a man with so much the look of mental dis- 
 tress eating him away." 
 
 "Did he strike you like that?" asked Mrs. Desmond. 
 
 50
 
 THE DOMAIN 51 
 
 "I always thought he had something on his mind." 
 "Something special, do you mean? Or just general?" 
 "I never could make up my mind," said Mrs. Des- 
 mond, absently. "He had some great distress. It 
 never left him." 
 
 "Well, he had enough to worry him, poor man. And 
 they have always taken their troubles hard, about 
 money and everything else." 
 
 Squire Gervase and Lady Katherine had two sons. 
 The eldest was killed in a North-West Frontier cam- 
 paign; the second went to Australia, after the failure 
 of the family finances. There he made a desperate 
 struggle to succeed in an environment totally unsuited 
 to him. His wife was half Creole, a Catholic; half- 
 educated, too, and wholly impossible to bring home to 
 The Domain. The marriage was a further blow to 
 the proud old man. 
 
 The Creole lady, apparently, had gleams of percep- 
 tion, for she wrote, an illiterate scrawl, saying she 
 knew she could not bring her sons up well, that she 
 was too busy to bother and there were no good schools; 
 and that if the old man liked he could have the boys to 
 bring up himself in the old place. 
 
 The Squire jumped at this. The boys were sent 
 home, one a well-grown youngster, who could shoot, 
 ride, and do many things that surprised the grand- 
 father; the other a small frightened thing several years 
 younger, in deadly terror of the sister who, quite un- 
 expectedly, accompanied and chaperoned them a 
 black-browed, frowning imp who bit and kicked like 
 a colt under any attempt at coercion. She was the
 
 52 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 eldest of the three and was of ungovernable temper 
 and totally impervious to rebuke. 
 
 They went to school, and both lads were destined 
 for the Army. The eldest, Hugh, married a horse 
 trainer's daughter while at Sandhurst, and joined in 
 her father's business. He was weak rather than 
 vicious; and his associates were shady. His name fig- 
 ured later in a suit relating to the pulling of some 
 horses by boys in his employ. The disgrace of it hit 
 the old Squire hard. He never held up his head again, 
 and would hear no excuse for his grandson. 
 
 The second grandson, Arthur, did well and went 
 well, and made up in some measure for other disap- 
 pointments. He was dearly loved by Lady Katherine 
 and the old Squire and was looked on as the heir, to 
 the exclusion of his father and elder brother. 
 
 News of the father's death in Australia brought 
 fresh distress. Driven to drink by his wife's almost 
 open infidelities, he died in his cups, the widow then 
 marrying one of his farm hands. This man kept her 
 straight from sheer terror, by flogging and the most 
 brutal threats; and Hugh, engrossed in the horse- 
 training business, allowed the precious pair to run the 
 Australian station for him. The knowledge was bit- 
 ter to the old people at The Domain, who could not 
 check the flood of gossip emanating from young Hugh's 
 grooms, stable-hands and racing and betting associates, 
 all of whom seemed to be in the intimate confidence of 
 his wife's relations and friends. The training estab- 
 lishment, it must be explained, was in the inconveniently 
 near neighbourhood of Lower Domain; and although
 
 THE DOMAIN 53 
 
 Hugh made no effort to force his presence on his fam- 
 ily, there were frequent embarrassing encounters. 
 
 And worst of all was the girl, Teresa. Frantic 
 scenes and rows scandalised the grave household; 
 pranks of unheard-of levity resulted in expulsion from 
 school at fifteen; no form of authority gained her 
 respect or submission. Lady Katherine owned to Mrs. 
 Desmond, on the one occasion on which she discussed 
 her grand-daughter, that she had no knowledge en- 
 abling her to handle or influence a girl of that type. 
 
 "There was nothing for it," she sighed, "but to send 
 her back to her mother. As the step-father was able 
 to manage her, he might also be successful with her 
 daughter. At all events, I thought he ought to try, as 
 the kind of scandal she was likely to bring about our 
 ears here was more than I could contemplate. They 
 were going to send her to a convent where there was 
 very strict discipline, we understood; but I have no 
 notion if the experiment turned out well or ill." 
 
 Mrs. Desmond received these confidences, on the 
 only occasion the subject had been broached, as not 
 to be revealed. She was much surprised, therefore, to 
 find that the story had also been told to the Rector; 
 and he surmised that the plan had not worked well 
 and that Lady Katherine could not still her self- 
 reproaches. 
 
 "How could she help it?" murmured Mrs. Desmond. 
 "I cannot see that it is her fault. She did her best." 
 
 "She did indeed," said the Rector; "and it is enough 
 to shake one's trust in Providence to see such unde- 
 served sorrow and affliction fall on people like that,
 
 54 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 whose only concern has been to uphold a high stand- 
 ard of honour and righteousness. If we were all like 
 that " 
 
 "They are dear people," said Aunt Hermione. "But 
 sometimes, Mr. Raymond, for my personal taste, I like 
 something a little less unbending just for every-day 
 wear, you know. It isn't that I want to be wicked " 
 
 "I wonder how you would set about it, if you did?" 
 he laughed. 
 
 "It would depend on how the fancy took me," she 
 tossed back. "I might begin in church, imitating that 
 new curate of yours. Why don't you give him breath- 
 ing exercises and cure that snuffle? And why do you 
 let him say, 'O Lord, shave the Queen'?" 
 
 "Is he as bad as that?" said the Rector. "Dear, 
 dear. I really must listen. I have got so in the habit 
 of relying on them for a little sleep " 
 
 They all laughed.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE DEAD AND THE LIVING 
 
 IT was about six years after the Squire died that 
 two strange bits of news came to be told on the same 
 day. Luttrell came in, white, excited and mysterious. 
 
 "I say, Aunt Hermione, I want to speak to you," 
 he whispered, breathlessly. 
 
 She followed him into the playroom. It was still 
 called so. 
 
 "They have found a body," he said, hoarsely. 
 "Dug it up. They are saying it may be Father's." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Near Farmer Johnstone's manure heaps, where 
 those old sheds are." 
 
 His young face was bleached with horror, his voice 
 husky. 
 
 She gave the boy a glass of cold water and made 
 him sit down. He was shaking all over. 
 
 Brookes was sent out to find news, and a note des- 
 patched to the police-station. By-and-by the doctor 
 and a policeman called. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond listened in silence, her face becom- 
 ing more and more haggard. The body had been 
 found by accident; a hole was being dug for dead 
 
 55
 
 56 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 leaves, to make some good mould. There were bones, 
 and something else, some dreadful remains, in the last 
 stages of decomposition. Lime had been used, and 
 had destroyed a great deal, all clothing on top, etc. 
 The clothing underneath was mere mould and mud, 
 eaten, soaked away. It was the body of a big man. 
 Impossible to say more; and only possible to guess 
 how long it had been there years. The skull was 
 beaten in. 
 
 For the first time in her life Mrs. Desmond fainted. 
 
 They were all very gentle with her, and hovered 
 round her, and brought her loving messages from The 
 Domain and the Rectory and the humble friends who 
 were stirred by this revival of an old tragedy. None 
 doubted that it was at long last a clue to the Des- 
 mond mystery. 
 
 Harry Desmond and his wife came in towards eve- 
 ning. They had been to the police-station. 
 
 "He must have turned back," said Aunt Hermione, 
 sorrowfully, "and gone round the front way instead 
 of coming in by the garden, to get into the paddock." 
 They always called the bit of ground between the bot- 
 tom of their garden and the backs of the village houses, 
 the paddock. It was shared by The Leas, next-door, 
 and a narrow path between the two gardens, entered 
 from the front road, gave access to it. 
 
 "Something must have attracted his attention there, 
 and he must have gone to see, and been attacked." 
 
 "What does Johnstone say?" 
 
 "He does not know what to say. He chose the
 
 THE DEAD AND THE LIVING 57 
 
 place himself for the digging, so obviously he knew 
 nothing about it. It was his brother found it." 
 
 Aunt Hermione was far more moved by the effect 
 this had on Mrs. Desmond, than by her own feelings. 
 Her grief for her brother had worn off its edge; she 
 was dry-eyed, though sorrowful. Poor David, struck 
 down like that, when he was so happy and healthy 
 and young it was tragic and terrible. It brought it 
 all back again, for Honoria. She had never worn 
 mourning for him; would she, could she, now? 
 
 Anyway, the long suspense was ended. So said 
 Lower Domain. 
 
 Hero and Kythe knew something, which they whis- 
 pered together, precocious in their sympathy and un- 
 derstanding of their mother. 
 
 "Mummy always hoped he would come back, like 
 he went. This will be the worst of all." 
 
 Kythe nodded, her eyes dark with feeling. 
 
 They were not supposed to have been told the eerie 
 tale but Hubert wormed it out of Luttrell and then 
 passed it on to them. 
 
 The blow to hope stunned Mrs. Desmond. 
 
 She lost herself, again and again, in the mists of 
 fanciful conjecture with which she was wont to miti- 
 gate her woe. Imaginary situations, leading to a clue, 
 and to discovery, had occupied and beguiled her fancy 
 for so long, this assumption of a finality she had al- 
 ways dreaded was a bitter blow. She turned from it 
 to her dreams, and lost the thread of people's remarks, 
 and was so absent and hazy, they kept her under
 
 58 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 slant observation. All came dropping into her room, 
 with attempts at conversation. 
 
 "I don't know how you feel, Honoria," said kind 
 Harry Desmond, "but some people prefer certainty to 
 suspense it's a poor choice, anyhow. Poor old 
 David." 
 
 "I don't think suspense is as hard as no hope," said 
 little Kythe. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond stroked her head, as she nestled be- 
 side her. 
 
 "What I am glad about in one way is," went on 
 Harry, "that they can't make any more insinuations 
 now, against his character. Death has done that for 
 him. More shame to their evil minds." 
 
 "Dishonour is the worst of all," said the Rector 
 gravely; adding, "that reminds me of the poor old 
 Squire. Have you heard of the new arrivals? I 
 hope it does not mean more trouble for poor Lady 
 Katherine." 
 
 "Who has arrived?" asked Aunt Hermione. 
 
 "The grand-daughter you remember, the one who 
 was so unsatisfactory she has sent her children home 
 to the old lady. A boy and a girl; they arrived this 
 afternoon, with a Chinaman nurse a man nurse." 
 
 This was news indeed. The children were about 
 the age of Kythe and Hero, and would be company 
 for them, in a place where there were few children of 
 their own class. The Chinaman nurse opened up 
 vistas of supreme entertainment. What would The 
 Domain servants do with a Chinaman nurse? 
 
 "Does he put them to bed?" asked Hero, shaken
 
 THE DEAD AND THE LIVING 59 
 
 in every fibre of propriety. It was a monstrous 
 proposition. 
 
 Even Mrs. Desmond laughed. 
 
 An inquest, of course, was held, and a verdict of 
 murder of an unknown man by some person or per- 
 sons unknown, was the result. Conviction settled 
 down on the community that it was the body of the 
 missing David Desmond, the story of whose disap- 
 pearance was raked up and retold with a thousand 
 adornments and inaccuracies. Among the picturesque 
 embellishments with which the tale was trimmed, was 
 the falling of the picture, and the consternation this 
 created in the deceased gentleman's mind. It was to 
 all who understood signs and portents an infallible 
 warning of death, and he knew it. He had said those 
 very words; though who he had said them to, re- 
 mained as great a mystery as the name and identity of 
 his murderer. 
 
 It was poor befogged Amos Johnstone who found 
 the remains; and his evidence was very pathetic. He, 
 too, had had a loss. His boy, who had been spared 
 prosecution by Farmer Johnstone, had promised to 
 come and say goodbye to him, before leaving the coun- 
 try. He had never come; and the poor man was un- 
 willing to believe that hardness of heart was the 
 explanation. Ijle was just as anxious to claim these 
 mournful remains as those of his son, as Mrs. Desmond 
 was not to have them identified as those of her hus- 
 band. But Desmond was a taller man, and of bigger 
 build, than the young market-gardener; and poor
 
 60 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Johnstone had to admit, mournfully, that their size 
 put it out of the question that the remains should be 
 those of the engaging young rascal for whom he cher- 
 ished so deep an affection. 
 
 'Tore old Johnstone," Tenterley said to the school- 
 master, "he can't seem ever to get over it, his son 
 goo'ng off like that w'thout saying goodbye and all. 
 He would rather he wuz dead than that ardarted." 
 
 "Robbed the old man, didn't he?" asked Turton, 
 idly. 
 
 "He did, and took up with bad characters besides, 
 and his uncle would a-sent him to prison if he hadn't 
 a-promised to goo away and git out of the country. 
 And he's never wrote his pore father a line. Pruper 
 young rascal, he were. Good thing for her, pore 
 woman, that his mother died before it come to that." 
 
 The question arose, what was to be done with the 
 body found on Farmer Johnstone's land? Would Mrs. 
 Desmond claim it? Would it be buried as David Des- 
 mond? There was intense curiosity on this point, and 
 at The Meadows it was raised by Mrs. Desmond 
 herself. 
 
 Lennox was there, and Luttrell; and Uncle Harry 
 and Mr. Beaumont, the lawyer. The Rector, also, 
 and Dr. Willett, Mrs. Desmond, Aunt Hermione, and 
 Aunt Nell. 
 
 "What do you think I ought to do?" she asked, in 
 her troubled voice, with a catch in her throat. 
 
 No one really knew. It was a difficult point! 
 
 Luttrell finally settled it.
 
 THE DEAD AND THE LIVING 61 
 
 "Let us do it, Mummy dear; it can't do my father 
 any harm, if it isn't him; and if he comes back we 
 shall be so glad we won't care who's buried as who. 
 If it is him, it ought to be us." 
 
 "That is so," said the Rector; and the lawyer and 
 Uncle Harry agreed. Lennox made difficulties, but 
 had nothing better to suggest. 
 
 So the remains were laid beneath a stone inscribed 
 "Sacred to the memory of D. D. Desmond," with a 
 date and a text; and Mrs. Desmond put on mourning. 
 But she never went near the grave. 
 
 Lady Katherine was immeasurably kind and went 
 out of her way to advertise the friendship. 
 
 "A long-drawn martyrdom, heroically borne," she 
 said to Harry Desmond. "Could you not get her to 
 go away, now, for a change? I am sending the chil- 
 dren to the sea before the weather breaks; why not 
 all go?" 
 
 And so they did, Lady Katherine accompanying 
 them. She looked old and strained, and seemed to 
 need the change more than any of them. There was 
 something in her expression that looked like dread. 
 
 Hubert and Hero and Kythe, and Launcelot and 
 Guinevere Gervase became great friends. The Aus- 
 tralian children were big and strong, good to look at, 
 and good company, with a fund of knowledge of ships, 
 niggers, snakes, , and alien excitements that enchanted 
 their new comrades. 
 
 The Chinese nurse was so useful that Lady Kath- 
 erine said she did not know how she had ever done
 
 62 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 without him. When they got back to Fairlands the 
 intimacy progressed, and hardly a day passed without 
 the young people seeing each other. 
 
 The days of Victoria were at an end, and Edward 
 VII. had come to the throne, before the new children 
 came to The Domain. Arthur Gervase, their uncle, 
 who had seen service and got rapid promotion in South 
 Africa, came home about the same time as they ar- 
 rived. He shrank from the very thought of his sister, 
 but liked his nephew and niece and voted them "jolly 
 kids"; and took them rides in his car then a new and 
 rather wonderful toy. The children from The Mead- 
 ows also shared this treat, and developed a sort of hero- 
 worship for the cheery soldier-man. Luttrell thought 
 him a splendid person, who never put on side nor came 
 the grown-up over you. Mrs. Desmond liked him too. 
 
 "I can't think where my sister picked up another 
 Gervase," he laughed. "She never writes, you know, 
 except a picture post-card to say there is another child, 
 or I am godfather to one of them, or something like 
 that. But Gervase isn't a common name at all; I 
 always wonder who he is." 
 
 "All sorts of fine names are common overseas," said 
 Aunt Hermione. "I have some friends who have been 
 in Canada, and there are people with wonderful old 
 names cleaning the streets and lighting the lamps." 
 
 Gervase laughed. 
 
 "Younger sons of younger sons, I suppose," he said. 
 "Steady descent as well as ancient! Slithering down, 
 in fact; into the gutter. And the hitherto-unheard-of s 
 rocketting up to the peerage that's the way of the
 
 THE DEAD AND THE LIVING 63 
 
 world. Who does the girl remind you of? Is she 
 like my grandfather?" 
 
 "I don't think so; no, not a bit." 
 
 "She is like someone the boy is the dead spit of 
 his mother. My grandmother feels them rather a re- 
 sponsibility; I must try and be more at home now and 
 help her with things." 
 
 It was a year or two after this that Major Gervase 
 first became aware of Kythe's remarkable brand of 
 beauty. There was a Christmas party at the Manor 
 Farm, and he joined in all the revels with goodwill and 
 zest. At the close of a pretty figure-dance, stage- 
 managed by a racketty nephew and niece of jolly Tom 
 Leigh's, all the couples had to pass through a door- 
 way and under a great bunch of mistletoe that hung 
 there. As each couple came through, they had to stop 
 on the further -side of the door and exchange kisses 
 with the couple that followed them. They were all a 
 little too big, or a good deal too young, for the pastime 
 to be quite appropriate. 
 
 Major Gervase, with Aunt Hermione, paused to 
 greet the Rector and Kythe. The Rector's eyes twin- 
 kled merrily as they met Aunt Hermione's. 
 
 "Got you!" he murmured, kissing her crimsoning 
 cheek with great empressement. 
 
 Gervase held out his hands to Kythe and looked 
 into her eyes, startled at the unexpected beauty of 
 them. The girl put her lips to his, a little shyly, but 
 as naturally as she would have kissed her uncle. The 
 touch of her soft mouth sent the blood racing through 
 his veins, and he kissed her with a hot pressure he
 
 64 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 was ashamed of next moment. He could not see her 
 face, and had to move on and make way; but he saw 
 that she turned a deep-stained cheek to the next salute. 
 
 All night he tossed unrestingly, thinking of the 
 startling depths of the eyes and the lips that re- 
 turned yes, he was sure they returned in some slight 
 degree his kiss. Was it because she was only a child, 
 or because she felt and understood? 
 
 He was not blackguard enough to try to see her 
 again; and did not meet her until his next leave. And 
 the time drew on, until as we have already said, fifteen 
 years had elapsed since the disappearance of Mr. Des- 
 mond. Gervase was again at his grandmother's, and 
 his coming was acclaimed with joy by all the young 
 people. 
 
 The great-grandson and daughter were giving Lady 
 Katherine much happiness and gratification. They 
 did well at school, had nice manners as well as high 
 spirits; and were trustworthy and good and affection- 
 ate. She loved them, and her grandson, Arthur, ex- 
 ceedingly. No news came of the children's father or 
 mother. 
 
 Lady Katherine was getting to look frail now; but 
 her faculties were unimpaired and her health excellent. 
 She still kept complete control of her household and 
 did her own accounts. Arthur was, however, to all 
 intents and purposes, master at The Domain. 
 
 Once more Arthur Gervase was struck with the 
 beauty of little Kythe, and her grace and charm. He 
 would have given much to know whether the alluring 
 droop of her eyelids, and the avoidance of his gaze,
 
 THE DEAD AND THE LIVING 65 
 
 were due to habit or to consciousness. She and Hero 
 were brought forward a good deal for their years, as 
 May, much their senior, was lonely in the absence of 
 her brothers, and was dependent on her younger sis- 
 ters for companionship.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 FATHERS AND MOTHERS 
 
 LAUNCELOT and Guinevere, the Gervase boy and 
 girl, were really younger than Kythe, but so much 
 older in character and experience, as well as in looks, 
 that the difference in age was not noticeable. The 
 boy was black and white, like his mother; fine, soft, 
 black hair, growing in little twists and twirls, that made 
 his head an artistic joy; a thick white skin that had 
 a swarthy look for all its whiteness. The Creole 
 blood showed plainly enough. He had bright, pene- 
 trating hazel eyes, and a jolly, wide-lipped smile. 
 
 The girl was different. She had rich chestnut hair 
 and blunt features, pleasant without being really 
 pretty. Her eyes were very blue, and her skin 
 freckled but fair. She looked as thoroughly English 
 as her brother looked foreign. She was a busy, cheer- 
 ful young person, neat-fingered and handy, with a 
 love of doing anything that was not exactly her job. 
 
 The young people were all together the day before 
 that fifteenth anniversary. The summer had been 
 short, autumn was setting in early, and a fire was 
 blazing in the playroom. Launcelot was making 
 toast, Kythe was plying the butter-knife, and Hero 
 was performing feats of stickiness in connection with 
 
 66
 
 FATHERS AND MOTHERS 67 
 
 toffee that would not disadhere from a sheet of oily 
 paper. 
 
 May, a sort of visitor in the playroom, lounged in 
 the most comfortable chair, piled round with cushions. 
 Luttrell and Hubert were inspecting, one by one, flies 
 tied by Guinevere; and found themselves obliged to 
 confess that they could not have improved upon the 
 results. 
 
 "I never saw such fingers," grumbled Luttrell. "I 
 don't know where you got them from!" 
 
 "They are mine now, anyway," grinned Guinevere, 
 holding out a not entirely clean pair of hands and 
 then hiding them behind her back. 
 
 "Mother used to say," called Launcelot, disjoint- 
 edly, from the fire, where he was finding it difficult to 
 protect his face from the blaze, "that she had father's 
 hands. He was always doing things like her, 
 mother said." 
 
 "Did she?" responded Guinevere, carelessly. It 
 was not a subject in which she took much interest. 
 She knew she could "do things," and held it cheap 
 accordingly. 
 
 "Do you remember your father?" asked Luttrell, 
 with some curiosity. The subject of fathers was one 
 full of possibilities. 
 
 "No," said Guinevere, unconcerned. "Don't think 
 I ever saw him,." 
 
 "Did he die when you were quite a baby?" asked 
 May, sympathetically. How strange, she thought, 
 pityingly, that Kythe and this girl, such friends, should 
 neither of them have known their father.
 
 68 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Oh, he's not dead," said Guinevere, lightly. "At 
 least, I never heard so. Did you, Lance?" 
 
 "Don't know," answered Lance, gruffly. "No one 
 does." 
 
 To say the young Desmonds were surprised is to 
 put it mildly. It was a coincidence. 
 
 They stared, in silence, too well-bred to ask ques- 
 tions. 
 
 "Gran said not to talk about it, when I asked her 
 once," went on Lance, scrambling to his feet. "And 
 mother boxed my ears, when I asked her! So I 
 suppose they don't mean to let us know; but a man 
 a friend of Mother's told me afterwards that no 
 one knew, and perhaps it was best. I don't know 
 what he meant, though." 
 
 "Don't you want to know, most desperately?" 
 asked Hubert, quaintly earnest; and Lance said, "Oh, 
 I don't know that I care much." 
 
 "There were lots of people, where Mother was, who 
 didn't know things like that," said Guin, sagely. "It 
 wasn't ever any use asking anyone anything of that 
 sort, but no one minded about it, and it made no dif- 
 ference. It didn't seem to matter there. I don't 
 know why it seems to matter more here. It doesn't 
 really matter, you know!" 
 
 "We thought it mattered, awfully," said Luttrell, 
 with some heat. 
 
 The matter-of-fact, unemotional outlook of the 
 Australian children, born and bred in the under- 
 world, was a shock to their friends. The Desmonds
 
 FATHERS AND MOTHERS 69 
 
 had always been conscious of a difference; but it had 
 never been so sharply accentuated. The intimate 
 nature of the subject made the gulf in their outlook 
 yawn more widely. 
 
 "Well, it wasn't any use," retorted Guin. 
 
 "What wasn't?" 
 
 "Thinking it mattered. It didn't help. And it 
 wouldn't make things any different for us, no matter 
 what we thought, so what would be the use of our 
 worrying?" 
 
 "When you mind things," said Kythe, "it isn't be- 
 cause it's any use, it's because you can't help mind- 
 ing." 
 
 "You don't feel what you like," put in May. "You 
 feel what you must what you are made like." 
 
 "That's it," said Lance; "and we aren't all made 
 to feel alike. Toast's ready, and / feel like eating 
 it." 
 
 There was a consensus of agreement on this score, 
 and the subject of fathers was dropped. 
 
 May spoke about it afterwards to Aunt Hermione. 
 
 "But doesn't it seem extraordinary, Aunt Her- 
 mione?" 
 
 "Their mother was always very queer, dear. I 
 am hardly surprised at anything concerning her. 
 She gave Lady Katherine a world of trouble, with her 
 terrible temper, and her uncertain whims and change- 
 ableness; and she was expelled from school for be- 
 ing unmanageable oh, and other things, too. There 
 were all sorts of tales about her goings-on at The Do-
 
 70 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 main you cannot stop servants gossipping, even the 
 best of them; and the village people knew things too. 
 She took after her really dreadful mother, who got 
 hold of poor Hugh Gervase Major Gervase's father 
 before he was twenty, and ruined him. Hugh 
 seems to be an unlucky name for them, both Hughs 
 came to grief. I am not surprised Teresa's husband 
 should have left her, though. What could you ex- 
 pect a man to do with such an ungovernable creature?" 
 
 "Oh," said May, enlightened. "You think he de- 
 serted her?" 
 
 "Most probably. Why? Do you think it was 
 anything else?" 
 
 "I didn't know, Aunt Hermione. I really hadn't 
 thought. I wondered, rather, if he were in prison!" 
 
 "Now what made you think of that? Of course, 
 that is quite possible, too. She was very likely in- 
 deed to marry someone who might eventually find his 
 way to prison! However, it is not our business, May 
 dear, and it is not a nice thing to try and find out our 
 friends' secrets; so don't let us talk about it." 
 
 May kissed her. 
 
 "Not to Lennox's wife," she agreed, hastily; and 
 Aunt Hermione gave an involuntary laugh and frown. 
 
 Lennox's wife was so very superior! 
 
 Arthur Gervase called that evening after dinner, 
 bringing a message from Harry Desmond, with whom 
 he had dined in town. Full of the painful possi- 
 bilities which the young people's chatter had disclosed, 
 Aunt Hermione alluded to Lance and Guin as "poor 
 children!"
 
 FATHERS AND MOTHERS 71 
 
 "Why 'poor children'?" said Gervase, surprised. 
 "Is anything the matter?" 
 
 "Oh! I only meant I was thinking it is very 
 impertinent of me, Major Gervase, to allude to your 
 family's affairs; but they were chattering, as young 
 people will do; and it seemed so sad." 
 
 "I think they are lucky, all things considered," 
 eaid Gervase. 
 
 "Well, yes. That is what I mean. It is sad that 
 it should be luck for them not to know their father, 
 or to be with their mother. I don't want to be pry- 
 ing, you know that; but do you have any news of 
 her? Does she ever write?" 
 
 Gervase shook his head. 
 
 "She never did write more than a post-card, and 
 now we have not heard for ever so long. The very 
 first news she ever sent me was that Guin was born; 
 once she dropped a card to say I was Lance's god- 
 father! She never even bothered to tell Gran of her 
 marriage, or where she met her husband." 
 
 "Was it not at your father's station?" 
 
 "Haven't a notion, I asked Lance once, but he did 
 not know, and I hate the idea of pumping the young- 
 sters, and so does Gran." 
 
 Aunt Hermione nodded. 
 
 "I remember her just a little in the old days," 
 she said. "Such an attractive-looking creature. I 
 only saw her once or twice, and never spoke to her; 
 but no one could forget her. She looked like a thing 
 caught wild snared." 
 
 "And ready to bite and claw," laughed Gervase.
 
 72 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "She had the devil's own temper. How terrified I 
 was of her! Poor Gran. Well, I must move on. 
 Good-bye, Miss Desmond." 
 
 Down the grassy walk, now embowered in roses 
 trailed over arching frames, he went to the garden 
 door from which Mr. Desmond had gone out never to 
 return. Under the arching rose trails he met Kythe. 
 
 "Not in bed, little girl?" he chaffed. 
 
 "Not yet," said Kythe. "I like the garden best, at 
 night. I wish I could stay out all night." 
 
 Her voice was delicious, rich and low, with a hint 
 of suppressed laughter that contrasted with the deep 
 pathos of her eyes. He thrust his hand through her 
 arm, and said, 
 
 "Come and see me out lock me out safely." 
 
 Her soft warmth, her light, sure tread, her near- 
 ness, went to his head. Outside the gate he lingered, 
 her hand in his. 
 
 "Good-night," she said softly; "you won't 'dis- 
 appear,' will you? This was where it happened." 
 
 There was the lilt of a half-laugh in her voice. It 
 was the first time she had ever jested about the dis- 
 appearance that had shadowed their lives with mystery. 
 
 "Would you mind if I did?" he asked. And, as 
 she gave no answer, but lifted a laughing face to his, 
 he kissed her in a fashion he flattered himself was 
 brotherly. 
 
 "Don't let us make a hobby of it," said Kythe, 
 mischievously. "I mean disappearances, not kisses." 
 
 The little puss, he thought! She danced away, 
 leaving him with an uncomfortable feeling that he
 
 FATHERS AND MOTHERS 73 
 
 would not like her to tell Mrs. Desmond he had kissed 
 her good-night at the gate. 
 
 His face flushed in the darkness as he realised he 
 had done a thing that was equivocal ; and as he strolled 
 down the lane to The Domain, he called himself names 
 for giving way to what was, excuse it as he might, 
 a nasty impulse. So concerned was he, that he hardly 
 saw, and did not notice, a man, standing on the nar- 
 row footpath opposite the door in The Domain wall, 
 that opened into the lane just as the Desmonds' garden 
 door did. The man was staring fixedly at the door, 
 and did not move as Gervase, unseeing and unheeding, 
 put his latchkey in the lock and let himself in. 
 
 The door opened into a part of the premises where 
 the remains of the Old Tower, grimly defying Time, 
 reared its gaunt grey head above the more modern 
 brick wall. The arched doorway with massive metal 
 reinforcements gleamed, well polished and smooth, in 
 the faint light. Gervase strode down the tiled path; 
 and the soft padding of the other man's steps as he 
 went up the lane on the grassy edge of the path, 
 kept time with his more resonant footfalls. 
 
 Gervase was more than a little stirred by his en- 
 counter with Kythe. Of love affairs he had had 
 several, but he had been cautious even when impas- 
 sioned. His father's fate, and his brother's fate, 
 snared while they were still boys by women older than 
 themselves and of a lower class, had been a warning 
 to him. Both father and brother had ruined them- 
 selves socially and lowered themselves morally, by 
 their association with low and unscrupulous women.
 
 74 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 As for his sister, her dubious career, of which he knew 
 but little, was certainly the result of her evil inherit- 
 ance. As disappearances were part of the atmosphere 
 in which his lot was cast, he devoutly hoped that this 
 sister, whom he had cordially disliked and feared, 
 and the casual husband whom she had picked up God 
 knows where, and who appeared to have discarded 
 her at the earliest possible moment, might disappear 
 permanently from all their lives. Her children were 
 all right jolly kids. He did not know how that wild- 
 cat, Teresa, had managed to produce anything so 
 decent; but, of course, good blood crops up and comes 
 out as well as bad. He would always look after Lance 
 and Guin, even if he had children of his own. . . . 
 The visions conjured up by this thought engrossed 
 him for the rest of his waking hours; and he dreamed 
 jumbled dreams of kissing Kythe again, and finding 
 that Teresa was watching, and was laughing at him.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 
 
 NEXT day the Lennoxes arrived, by as early a train 
 as was compatible with their eight o'clock breakfast. 
 
 "Mother not visible, I suppose?" was Lennox's 
 sarcastic greeting, when Aunt Hermione met them in 
 the hall. 
 
 "That goes without saying," put in Mrs. Lennox, 
 tartly. 
 
 She was a hard-faced young woman, with a chirp- 
 ing, complacent voice that was infinitely irritating. 
 She snubbed Lennox mercilessly, and contradicted 
 him incessantly; and far from giving them satisfaction, 
 this made the Desmonds almost more angry than Len- 
 nox's attitude towards them! 
 
 They fitted themselves in, with the two whining, 
 fretful babies, who were always crying and complain- 
 ing; and Mrs. Lennox aired her usual grievance about 
 the bleak aspect of the nursery, and the superior ad- 
 vantages of LuttrelFs room, which was so much better 
 suited to children. The usual silence greeted these 
 remarks. 
 
 "Why have those children got their hair up?" was 
 her next attack, alluding to Hero and Kythe. She 
 and Lennox had been at the sea-side for a month, 
 
 75
 
 76 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 so found a great many things that wanted speaking 
 about, on their return. 
 
 "Hero is not a child," answered Aunt Hermione, 
 "and it is time her hair went up. Kythe does it to 
 keep Hero company, and because it suits her." 
 
 "Absurd," said Mrs. Lennox. "It should not be 
 allowed. It makes her look ten years older." 
 
 "Grown-up, in fact," put in Luttrell. "Kythe's older 
 than most of us, ain't you, Baby?" 
 
 For no reason apparent, Kythe crimsoned. 
 
 "What are you colouring up for?" asked Mrs. 
 Lennox, sharply. 
 
 "Do leave the children alone, Dot," said Aunt 
 Hermione. "I can't stand that constant discussion 
 of them before their faces. It really is such bad 
 manners, and young people are quick enough to pick 
 up bad manners as it is." 
 
 "Well, what next?" asked Dot, with a cold, offended 
 stare. Lennox stared too. Was the worm actually 
 turning? 
 
 "I'm sorry I am bad-mannered," said Dot, with 
 dignity. "It is the first time I have been told so." 
 
 "Pity!" said Luttrell, sotto voce, and Hubert got 
 very red and nearly choked. 
 
 "What did you say?" asked Lennox, angrily. 
 
 "Did I say anything?" returned Luttrell, blandly. 
 
 With an effort, all recaptured their manners and 
 tempers. But by the time lunch was ready Hero and 
 Kythe were in the grip of a fit of giggles, and Hubert 
 kept indulging in spasms which he vainly endeavoured 
 to camouflage as coughs.
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 77 
 
 It was a relief when the gong sounded. Lennox 
 rose, with a quotation appropriate to the noise. 
 
 " 'Sound the loud timbrel/ " he began; adding, 
 "there isn't any poetry about gongs, is there?" 
 
 "You don't call Moore 'poetry/ do you?" asked 
 Dot, with scorn. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Moore?" with greater scorn. 
 
 "He ranks with Burns, anyway. Come along, 
 don't argue." 
 
 In the dining-room, Lennox inspected the cold 
 dishes on the side-board. 
 
 "Gladstone used to say" he began, amiably. 
 
 "I know what you are going to say," interrupted 
 Dot; "and it wasn't Gladstone. It was Pitt." 
 
 Lennox looked at her in speechless exasperation, 
 and started to whet the carving-knife. 
 
 "Gladstone used to say," he began again, presently; 
 only to be cut short once more. 
 
 "Pitt, Lennox. You really should not make such 
 a display of ignorance." 
 
 "I can't think what you married me for, as you 
 always appear to think me wrong, and take a pleasure 
 in making me out a fool," said Lennox, rather too 
 loudly. 
 
 "I certainly did not marry you for your brains," 
 promptly retorted his spouse; which was unfair and 
 untrue, as her husband was a very shrewd and very 
 successful business man. 
 
 These scenes were not altogether unusual, but they 
 never failed to grate on the fastidious susceptibilities
 
 78 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 of the Desmonds. For husband and wife to wrangle, 
 and to wrangle openly, was hideously ill-bred. Luck- 
 ily the servants did not wait at lunch. 
 
 They all felt on edge and were silent. Sympathy 
 was entirely with Lennox. Aunt Hermione struggled 
 to find something to say, so as to throw herself into 
 the breach; but could think of nothing. Lennox whet- 
 ted the carving-knife furiously, and in a strangled 
 voice asked, 
 
 "Hot or cold, Aunt Hermie?" 
 
 "Had you not better wait for your mother?" re- 
 buked Aunt Hermione, with icy displeasure all 
 thrown away on Lennox. 
 
 He always took the end of the table and the carving, 
 without invitation, on his visits. All hated it and 
 none had the nerve to resist his airs of authority. 
 
 "Need we?" asked he, in answer to his aunt's re- 
 buke, with a slight, very slight intonation of contempt 
 that made them all angry again. "She is sure to be 
 late to-day. Oh! Here she is." 
 
 Mrs. Desmond came in, giving an absent cheek to 
 her son and his wife, and taking her accustomed seat 
 with her back to the door. The joint was at the 
 other end of the table. 
 
 She looked like an exquisite, old-world picture, in 
 the crepe lisse widow's cap she always wore now, with 
 the troubled eyes below the smooth, creamy brow. 
 Her chestnut hair was still thick and luxuriant, 
 though powdered with grey; the white streak on either 
 side still vividly distinct.
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 79 
 
 Unfolding her table-napkin absently, she continued, 
 with her lips and her eyebrows, her hands and her 
 shoulders, some animated argument or discussion her 
 fancy was elaborating. At the other end of the table, 
 Lennox, carvers in hand, began an insolent mimicry 
 of her gestures, exaggerated to suit his idea of the 
 humorous; and a muttered version of what he imagined 
 her conversation might be. 
 
 Only his wife laughed. The others were, as usual, 
 bursting with rage, and took not the least notice of 
 him. 
 
 "He is imitating you, Mother," chirped Dot. 
 "Naughty boy, look at him! That is just the way 
 you do, when you let yourself wander off. Do look 
 at him, and then you will know what it is like." 
 
 Mrs. Desmond turned a perfectly grave, perfectly 
 blank face on this jocosity, gazing at Mrs. Lennox as 
 if she were a curiosity. 
 
 "Be good now, dear," continued the arch Mrs. 
 Lennox to her mother-in-law, "and leave off, and attend 
 to your lunch and your family." 
 
 It was all as if a child, or a person senile and im- 
 becile, were being admonished. With rage in their 
 hearts, the young Desmonds clattered their knives and 
 forks and glasses and plates, and made as much noise 
 with their chairs as they could. 
 
 They all talked at once, to drown Mrs. Lennox's de- 
 testable waggishness. Above the racket, Lennox 
 called again, in authoritative tones, 
 
 "Hot or cold, Aunt Hermie?"
 
 So WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Cold, please," answered Aunt Hermione, striving 
 after calm; and Lennox moved to the sideboard. 
 "I never can resist a 'wealandammer' " 
 
 She broke off abruptly, as the hall door opened, 
 and shut with an emphatic slam. 
 
 Someone was in the hall; someone whose movements 
 could be heard plainly, the dining-room door having 
 a trick of slipping its catch and swinging a little open. 
 
 It was a welcome interruption, and relieved the 
 strain. 
 
 "It is Major Gervase," cried Hubert, joyfully. 
 "Shall I see?" 
 
 He left his place, the unlikelihood of Major Gervase 
 coming in without ringing, striking Aunt Hermione 
 as he did so. Opening the door, he pulled it close 
 after him as he saw a stranger. 
 
 A big, elderly man stood there in the hall, taking 
 off his coat and hanging it with his hat in the recess 
 curtained off for hats and sticks. Smoothing his hair 
 with his hand, he walked towards the door which 
 Hubert had closed behind him, giving an almost 
 menacing glance at the boy, who moved instinctively 
 aside. Pushing open the door, he entered the dining- 
 room, Hubert following him and standing just inside 
 the room. 
 
 Lennox, flourishing the carvers, looked round from 
 the sideboard and paused, at first in expectation, then 
 in blank amazement. Hubert slipped round to his 
 place by Hero; they all, except Mrs. Desmond, stared 
 and stared and stared. 
 
 Broad and heavy, grizzled, lined, bronzed; rough-
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 81 
 
 ened in some indescribable way that yet did not con- 
 ceal the fact that he came of gentle stock; with a 
 something of menace, something of quest in his glance; 
 the man stood, inspected and inspecting. His fine 
 blue eyes, keen and searching, roamed round the 
 table. 
 
 "Where is your mother?" he asked, abruptly, in a 
 dear, fresh voice. 
 
 Aunt Hermione rose slowly, gripping the table- 
 cloth that she felt give and slither towards her under 
 the strain. The room was swimming round her. 
 
 A knife clattered to the ground. Kythe stooped to 
 pick it up. 
 
 "Your mother!" breathed Aunt Hermione, thickly. 
 
 At the sound of his voice, Mrs. Desmond collected 
 herself from afar. For a moment she thought it 
 part of her fancy, which dwelt eternally on one idea; 
 but the next moment the wandering thoughts cleared 
 and she looked round. 
 
 Deep into her eyes he looked. The cap, the hidden 
 hair, and the back view which it so altered, had de- 
 ceived him. He came a step nearer, and she rose. 
 
 A sound hoarse, coarse, hungry, strangled came 
 from the man's throat. It sounded hardly human. 
 There was something shocking, that no one of them 
 could define, about it. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond looked queenly; proudly and 
 superbly composed. Only her hands shook, betraying 
 the struggle for calm. The faint, pink stains that 
 excitement brought to her cheeks were deeper and 
 brighter; her eyes glowed softly.
 
 82 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "There is my mother," said Lennox, in answer to 
 the question. He was staring, staring, at this man; 
 and something familiar was beginning to dawn in con- 
 nection with the face. Was it like someone he knew? 
 Who? 
 
 His eyes wandered round the table, and lighted on 
 Hero and Hubert. It was there, the likeness; it was 
 like them. 
 
 The thought of his father, believed to be lying 
 under that new stone in the peaceful churchyard, 
 never entered his head. 
 
 "Do we know this gentleman?" chirped Mrs. Len- 
 nox. "Hadn't somebody better introduce him?" 
 
 She was pleased and exhilarated with the notion 
 that there was some cause for embarrassment. What 
 fun! was her only thought. The truth never dawned 
 on her for a moment. 
 
 Still Mrs. Desmond stood facing the man, who 
 stood close to her without speaking, but taking hold 
 of her arm in a masterful, possessive way. 
 
 "David!" broke from Miss Desmond, hoarsely. 
 How well she remembered that gesture. 
 
 "Yes," said he. "All right. Hadn't we better all 
 sit down? The joint will be getting cold." 
 
 He pressed Mrs. Desmond into her chair and walked 
 to the further end, holding out his hand for the 
 carvers. As one hypnotised, Lennox surrendered them 
 to him. 
 
 "We want another place," said Mr. Desmond. 
 "Move up that side, Hermie; and Lennox the other 
 side; that's right."
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 83 
 
 He spoke as one accustomed to give orders. The 
 breezy, masterful manner his sister remembered and 
 recognised had something added to it, something 
 abrupt and final. 
 
 There was a general shifting of chairs and of covers, 
 and clinking of plate and glass. Mrs. Desmond sat 
 very still in her place at the head of the table. The 
 children dared not look at her. 
 
 It all happened far more swiftly than it takes to 
 tell. From Hubert's leaving his seat, and the entry 
 of the stranger, to the moment when all the seats 
 were fitted in and Mr. Desmond's voice was ringing 
 out its clear, peremptory, "Hot or cold?" to each in 
 turn, was only about two minutes. Even now they 
 did not quite understand. 
 
 When he carved the leg of mutton, he picked out 
 the dainty pieces for Mrs. Desmond. 
 
 "And a little piece off the knuckle-end, not too 
 hard," he said, as he had said many times on such oc- 
 casions. 
 
 Their eyes met across the table. 
 
 He carried the plate round to her, reaching across 
 Hubert's shoulder for the cauliflower, and over Mrs. 
 Lennox's for the onion sauce. He put it in front of 
 Mrs. Desmond, and stood, waiting for her upward 
 glance of thanks. 
 
 Standing there, looking down on her, meeting her 
 eyes, seeing the' white hair thick about her temples, 
 the heavy masses visible through the fine web of the 
 cap, and realising what that cap was for, the queer 
 sound came again from his throat. Putting his arm
 
 84 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 round her neck, his hand under her chin, he turned 
 her face up and stooped to it, kissing her lips, her 
 eyes, and her lips again, with audible kisses, and 
 strange sounds of endearment between them. In 
 some dreadful way it seemed as if he were quench- 
 ing an overpowering thirst. 
 
 There was something uncivilised about the way of 
 it. 
 
 It was almost indecent. 
 
 To a family accustomed to ways of the most fas- 
 tidious reserve, it was absolutely painful. Their 
 mother! 
 
 Even Mrs. Lennox felt that. 
 
 For husband and wife to wrangle in public was 
 bad. For husband and wife to kiss each other in 
 public it was unspeakable. Aunt Hermione, amid 
 her own discomfort, felt sorry for the children. 
 They all sat in strained silence, looking at their plates 
 and trying not to clear their throats. 
 
 As Mr. Desmond stooped, to bestow on his wife 
 those disconcerting caresses, something leaped into 
 sight that they had not noticed before. On the side 
 of his head, deep in the thick hair, but clearly visible, 
 was a scar, that reddened and glistened angrily as they 
 hastily averted their shamed eyes. 
 
 "Hot or cold?" Mr. Desmond asked again, when 
 he resumed his place, and ordered yes, ordered 
 Lennox to help the cold. 
 
 "This your wife?" he asked casually of Lennox, 
 hearing Dot say "dear" to him. 
 
 "Yes," replied Lennox, meekly.
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 85 
 
 "We have been married nearly four years," chirped 
 Dot, but Mr. Desmond did not seem interested, and 
 she collapsed as suddenly as she began. 
 
 "Cook hasn't forgotten how to make a 'wealandam- 
 mer/ " said Mr. Desmond, with a little too much ap- 
 preciation of the food before him. 
 
 There was an uncomfortable silence. 
 
 "It is Edith, dear, not Cook," said Mrs. Desmond, 
 very clearly, from the other end. "Cook died nearly 
 eight years ago, and Edith took the place." 
 
 Again came a faint echo of that sound in his throat. 
 
 "She does credit to Cook's training," said Mr. Des- 
 mond, a moment later. "Help yourself to more, Len- 
 nox. Don't wait for me." 
 
 This set Hubert "coughing" again. Lennox looked 
 so meek! 
 
 "Who is your young friend, Baby!" asked Mr. Des- 
 mond, suddenly. 
 
 Kythe coloured again, and looked up enquiringly. 
 
 He was not speaking to her, it appeared, but to 
 Hero. 
 
 Kythe looked at Hero, and at Mr. Desmond, in an 
 agony of uncertainty. She did not want to say "That 
 is Hero." It seemed absurd. 
 
 Hearing no answer, Hero looked up and saw her 
 father looking at her keenly. She coloured too. 
 
 "Well?" he asked, with a half-smile, and a peremp- 
 tory note in his Voice. 
 
 "This is Kythe," again supplied Mrs. Desmond, the 
 colour burning bright on her cheeks. "That is Hero; 
 and Hubert. Kythe is called Baby now."
 
 86 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 He fixed his eyes on her incredulously, meeting hers 
 point-blank. His fell first. 
 
 There was a scramble to change the plates. Aunt 
 Hermione felt her heart bursting. The interruption 
 was a relief. 
 
 None of the children looked at each other. May 
 and Luttrell clasped eloquent fingers under the table 
 for a moment; that was all. May and Luttrell knew; 
 but even yet, Hero and Hubert, and Kythe, could 
 scarcely take it in and realise. 
 
 This was Father! 
 
 He had come back. 
 
 He was not dead. 
 
 He was not ill, or hurt, or marked with ill-treat- 
 ment. With the exception of the sinister scar, he bore 
 no sign of injury or coercion. He did not look as if 
 he had escaped; he looked rather more as if he had 
 been in command! Everything he said sounded like 
 orders. 
 
 Where had he been? 
 
 What was going to happen? 
 
 "Luttrell," said Mrs. Desmond, in her low, distinct 
 voice, "will you go up after lunch and tell your Uncle 
 Harry? They will want to know." 
 
 A quick glance from the keen eyes opposite her. 
 No word of assent or dissent. 
 
 "Right, Mother. May? You come too?" 
 
 May nodded eagerly. 
 
 "Uncle Harry and Aunt Nell will be excited, 
 Mummy," cried she, determined to make the best of
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 87 
 
 things and help them to seem natural. "Who Is go- 
 ing to tell Lady Katherine and Mr. Raymond?" 
 
 "I will," said Aunt Hermione, unsteadily. 
 
 When lunch was over, Mr. Desmond waited, as of 
 yore, for all of them to pass out before him, he stand- 
 ing with his wife to watch them go. With his arm 
 through hers, as of yore, he followed them out, and 
 made for the garden. As of yore, he stood with Mrs. 
 Desmond on the broad shallow steps outside the French 
 window, overlooking the lawn and the riot of roses 
 below. 
 
 "The roses look well for this time of year," he re- 
 marked. 
 
 "They are nearly over now," said Mrs. Desmond. 
 
 They walked, side by side, down the paths and over 
 the sward, the gulf between them widening moment 
 by moment. The explanation she had longed for, 
 thrilled at the thought of, waited in patient loyalty for, 
 could give her no comfort now. She shrank from it 
 in every fibre. Indeed, she knew, instinctively, it 
 would not be forthcoming. 
 
 The Alderneys, the car that had replaced the hand- 
 some bays, the greenhouses and the fernhouse, were 
 all visited before the Harry Desmonds arrived, with 
 shy, reluctant feet, to see with their own eyes the 
 astounding truth. 
 
 May and Luttrell made tip-top speed, running part 
 of the way, until they came to the "avenue" in which 
 their uncle's house stood. Then they slowed down, 
 stood still, and looked at each other.
 
 88 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "What are we to say?" enquired Luttrell. 
 May knew what he meant. She knew that what 
 the foolish words covered was "How are we to make 
 it sound right? What will they think?" For they 
 were no fools; and the thing that had happened was 
 a thing no talking could possibly alter. 
 
 It had so long been a matter of creed that Father 
 might come back, none had given much thought to, 
 or had knowledge or imagination to realise the fact 
 that such a return would take more explaining than 
 the disappearance. Now that it had happened, it 
 seemed as if there were no explanation possible. The 
 ugly truth stuck nakedly out, that what they had to 
 face was scandal and possibly disgrace; blame for 
 their father, shame for themselves. 
 
 "Did you know him?" asked Luttrell, after an elo- 
 quent pause. 
 
 "No," said May. "I didn't think he was a bit 
 like that." 
 
 "Nor I," confessed Luttrell. "Did you see Aunt 
 Hermie? She looked awful." 
 
 "I felt awful, didn't you? O Luttrell, to think how 
 we have all hoped for it and thought of it, without 
 
 knowing a bit what it would be like " 
 
 Reality paralysed them. They walked slowly and 
 silently to the big house with the trim gravel drive, 
 that looked so blatantly, so scornfully respectable; 
 and felt small and shady and discredited. 
 
 "What is that you are saying?" said Uncle Harry, 
 incredulously. "Your father come back? Come 
 back?"
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 89 
 
 Luttrell nodded, with compressed lips. May felt 
 herself on the verge of tears. 
 
 "Where has he been?" 
 
 "He didn't say not yet," faltered Luttrell. 
 
 At this juncture Aunt Nell burst out crying. May 
 followed suit. Uncle Harry fussed and tch-tched and 
 told them not to give way; and looked from time to 
 time at Luttrell, standing mute and miserable, wishing 
 he could disappear too. When the tears were checked, 
 there was an uncomfortable silence. 
 
 "What's going to be done now?" asked Uncle Harry, 
 looking out of the window with his back squarely 
 turned to the room. 
 
 "Won't you come back with us and see him?" sug- 
 gested Luttrell, uncertainly; and May added, still with 
 a suspicion of tearfulness, "That's what we came for." 
 
 "I suppose we had better," said Uncle Harry, with 
 sudden briskness, taking command of the situation. 
 "Get ready, my dear, will you? We will go and hear 
 all about it." 
 
 On the way down, a rather silent walk, Uncle Harry 
 fired off a question or two. 
 
 "How does he look?" 
 
 "Very well," answered Luttrell. 
 
 "Very well!" repeated Aunt Nell, with a sort of 
 gasp. 
 
 "Big, and brown, and " Luttrell hesitated for 
 
 the rest. "Old;' he added. 
 
 "He has a scar," supplemented May. 
 
 "A scar?" 
 
 "On his head; a horrible place."
 
 90 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 They digested this in silence. 
 "How did your mother take it?" asked Uncle Harry 
 of Luttrell, after a pause. 
 
 "You couldn't tell," he compromised. 
 
 "She came down to lunch, and looked round and 
 got up and said nothing; and he made her sit down 
 again and made Lennox give him the carvers, and 
 helped the lunch." 
 
 "Helped the lunch!" echoed Aunt Nell, feebly. 
 
 "What did Hermione say?" asked Uncle Harry, 
 after another stretch of road had been covered. 
 
 "She has gone to tell the Rector and Lady Kath- 
 erine," parried Luttrell, dexterously. "We came here, 
 and she went to them." 
 
 Uncle Harry muttered something like "Needn't be 
 in a cast-iron hurry over that" and hit at a stone with 
 his walking stick. 
 
 "And Lennox?" he continued, presently. "Was Len- 
 nox there?" 
 
 "Oh, Uncle Harry," burst out May, with an irrepres- 
 sible laugh, "Lennox was quite meek: and Dot put on 
 her society frills and he took no notice!" 
 
 They both laughed at the recollection. 
 
 "Aunt Hermie looked awful," declared May, pres- 
 ently, in a low voice, to her aunt. 
 
 "I don't wonder," whispered Aunt Nell, on the verge 
 of tears again. 
 
 It was with real dread, and hearts that throbbed 
 painfully, that they entered The Meadows. 
 
 "Hullo, Harry," called Mr. Desmond. "Here you 
 are!"
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 91 
 
 And that was all. 
 
 The questions crowding to their lips were never 
 asked. This was a stranger. In the guise of David 
 with David's voice and David's eyes, there was an 
 alien of whom one asked nothing, of whom one was 
 more than a little in awe. One from whom no ex- 
 planations or apologies would be forthcoming; a close- 
 lipped alien, whose breeding and refinement were over- 
 laid with who knew what weathering danger, vice, 
 or brutality none could tell. 
 
 "Good God," exclaimed worthy Harry Desmond to 
 himself, genuinely shocked. "What can have hap- 
 pened to him! He looks like an ex-convict." 
 
 Aunt Hermione, meanwhile, went to find Mr. Ray- 
 mond. Since his widowerhood, she had not gone to 
 the Rectory without some kind of an escort, and her 
 unceremonious entry, pushing past old Sarah with, 
 "Is the Rector in? Where shall I find him?" as she 
 made for the smoking-room, left the old servant aghast. 
 
 "What hever can 'ave 'appened?" she wondered. 
 
 Mr. Raymond took his feet off the seat of the other 
 chair, apologised for having had them there, and shook 
 up a cushion to make it a fit resting-place for her. 
 
 "To what do I owe the pleasure and privilege," he 
 was beginning, in humorous vein, when he met her 
 eyes. 
 
 "What is it, Miss Desmond? My dear friend, what 
 has so upset you?" 
 
 He held both her hands, and felt how she was shak- 
 ing. His concern grew to alarm, as she struggled for 
 speech.
 
 92 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "David is back?" he bent his head to hear. "David 
 is Do you mean your brother? David back?" 
 
 She looked at him despairingly and nodded, swal- 
 lowing the sobs that were strangling her. 
 
 "But how splendid," he cried. "And how jolly of 
 you to come and tell me! When? Why? How? 
 Where from? I say! This is a bit-of-all-right! Sit 
 down and tell me." 
 
 He attributed her emotion to joy. 
 
 She could not be induced to sit, but leant against 
 the mantel-piece, clutching one of his hands convul- 
 sively and avoiding his eyes. 
 
 "At lunch. Just walked in and hung up his coat 
 and hat in the hall. As if he had gone out after break- 
 fast." 
 
 Her voice was breaking. The tears would not be 
 denied much longer. 
 
 "I say! What a lark." 
 
 "He simply said, 'Where is your mother?' and 
 started t-t-to c-c-c-arve the joint." 
 
 "And what did you all do?" 
 
 "Nothing. He m-m-ade us all move up and make 
 a fresh place at the table. Oh, Charlie, he never 
 kissed us or said a word to anyone, except Honoria 
 except her. Never said anything " 
 
 The recital tailed off into sobs; and Mr. Raymond 
 was man enough to seize his opportunity. 
 
 "I can't make head or tail of it," said the Rector, 
 a little later, still holding her and stroking her hands. 
 "Of course he will tell us something some story one
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 93 
 
 can repeat? How long is it now? Fifteen years? I 
 never heard such a thing!" 
 
 "He has a terrible place on his head perhaps that 
 is the explanation " 
 
 "We'll ask him," said the Rector, hopefully. "He 
 is sure to have an explanation of some sort." 
 
 They went together, considerably later, to call at 
 The Domain. Lady Katherine was in the lower gar- 
 den; and there they found her, pacing the long walk 
 with the herbaceous borders. 
 
 "This is very kind," she said, with her old-world 
 courtesy. "You will be of great service, Mr. Raymond, 
 if you will be so very good as to help me up the terrace 
 steps. But it is not time yet for me to go in. Pres- 
 ently; presently." 
 
 Her breeding would not let her notice their agitation, 
 nor allude to the unusual nature of their call, together. 
 
 "Miss Desmond has come to tell you some news, 
 Lady Katherine," began the Rector. "Some very 
 startling news." 
 
 Into the old lady's face leapt something like fear. 
 
 "My brother has come back, Lady Katherine," said 
 the younger woman, in a trembling voice. 
 
 Every vestige of colour drained from Lady Kath- 
 erine's face. She stood for a moment absolutely still, 
 as if struck into stone; then tottered forward a few 
 steps on her stick, Mr. Raymond catching her by the 
 arm just in time to prevent her falling. 
 
 They helped her to a garden seat and made her 
 lower her head between her knees while they called
 
 94 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 a gardener and sent him for some brandy. The butler 
 came, and the housekeeper came, and m'lady's own 
 maid came, and the Chinese "nurse" came; and be- 
 tween them they got her on to the sofa in her morning- 
 room. 
 
 Peremptorily she ordered them all away and insisted 
 on hearing the rest of the story from her callers. 
 
 When they had told all that could be told, she turned 
 her head wearily on the cushion, her lips moving, 
 slow tears trickling down her worn cheeks. Like Mr. 
 Desmond, she made no attempt at explanation. After 
 a while she asked them to ring for her maid; and when 
 they left, said, 
 
 "Let me know to-morrow anything more there 
 is to know." 
 
 They promised; and got away in a state of uneasi- 
 ness nothing could exceed. 
 
 "What does she know about it, Charlie?" asked 
 Miss Desmond, feverishly; and he could only shake 
 his head, and advise her to say nothing about it to 
 anyone else. 
 
 Mr. Raymond had never cared to face anything 
 less, than this meeting with his old friend. He had 
 once gone to the prison gates to meet a man he knew 
 well after a term of hard labour; but he had not felt 
 so awkward even then as he did now. 
 
 Yet there was nothing but, "Hullo, Charlie! Still 
 at the old job? You've put on a bit of embonpoint, 
 old man. If you don't take care you'll lose sight of 
 your toes for ever." 
 
 The hand-shake was hearty, the greeting was natural,
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 95 
 
 it was all as if he had gone away for no more than 
 a holiday. But there was an impenetrable barrier 
 holding them back; a determination, far stronger than 
 their love, their curiosity, or even their resentment, 
 which checked enquiry and inspired fear, and made 
 of this man an alien and an enemy. 
 
 And the sinister scar remained unaccounted for. 
 No one durst ask, or allude to it. It was plainly 
 noticeable, and with any exertion would redden and 
 glisten. His fingers often sought it, as if feeling for 
 a tender place; but he never spoke of it, and none 
 knew how he came by it. It added to and was part 
 of the sinister atmosphere that surrounded his person- 
 ality.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 "THAT DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER" 
 
 ARTHUR GERVASE, coming home from the Manor 
 Farm, where he had been having tea with jolly Tom 
 Leigh and his racketty niece, heard the extraordinary 
 news of Mr. Desmond's return with a mixture of amuse- 
 ment and incredulity. The latter predominated. 
 
 "Oh, you have got hold of some cock-and-bull story," 
 he said, when old Adams, his grandmother's groom, 
 told him the tale. "The man's dead, Adams. He has 
 been dead for years." 
 
 "Begging your parding, Master Arthur, but that's 
 what they are a-saying. It's all over the village. 
 The servants at The Meadows, they told the grocer's 
 cart; and Tenterley, he saw him, hisself." 
 
 "Tenterley wouldn't know him, after all these years," 
 scoffed Gervase. "Tell them not to make idiots of 
 themselves, Adams." 
 
 "Your Granma," said Adams, with dignity, declin- 
 ing to pursue the topic any further, "your Granma, 
 Master Arthur, she's not so well. Took bad, she was, 
 her ladyship, this afternoon. Parson, he was here; 
 and Miss Desmond." 
 
 "Really?" said Gervase, with concern. "I must go 
 and ask after her," and he hurried into the house. 
 
 96
 
 "DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER" 97 
 
 Lady Katherine looked alarmingly white and had 
 palpably been crying. Gervase felt very uncomfort- 
 able. He thought she looked very frail and worn, ly- 
 ing there; not a trace of her old spirit. She seemed 
 to have collapsed suddenly. 
 
 He chatted in a desultory fashion, trying to amuse 
 her telling her of Tom Leigh and his scamp of a 
 niece, and of the funny little baby-boy, her brother, 
 who used a most dreadful oath, and when asked where 
 he had heard it, answered blandly, Grannie! Know- 
 ing benign old Mrs. Leigh so very well, Lady Kath- 
 erine could not but laugh. 
 
 "I hope he got a good whipping, to make him more 
 careful," she commented, with more sternness than 
 she felt. 
 
 "Where are the children?" asked Gervase. "I have 
 not seen them to-day. Are they over at The Meadows? 
 By the bye, there is a most extraordinary yarn go- 
 ing about." 
 
 Lady Katherine's white cheeks turned to a dull 
 red. 
 
 "Adams told me. They are saying the Desmond 
 man has turned up again. Did you ever hear such a 
 thing?" 
 
 "His sister was here this afternoon," said Lady 
 Katherine, struggling into a more upright position. 
 
 He noted the colour with some surprise, but at- 
 tributed it to the effort to rise. 
 
 "She would have told you, if there had been any- 
 thing in it, wouldn't she?" 
 
 "She did."
 
 98 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "She did?" incredulously. "But is it true?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The scoundrel! Where has he been?" 
 
 "Ah! Where?" 
 
 He whistled. 
 
 "Well, I'm blessed. What a blighter. What are 
 we going to do about it, Gran?" 
 
 "It is no business of ours," said the old lady, slowly. 
 "Mrs. Desmond is a friend of mine; whatever line 
 she takes, we must be guided by." 
 
 "All the same, Gran, one doesn't want to go to the 
 house of a fellow like that! Why, it is years how 
 long is it?" 
 
 "Fifteen years," she answered. It sounded like a 
 knell. 
 
 Suddenly Gervase laughed. 
 
 "What a queer crowd we are," he chuckled. "Des- 
 mond, deserts his family for fifteen years; Mother, 
 sends us adrift; Teresa, deserted by her husband; and 
 Lance and Guin deserted by her! Strange that neither 
 of those two, or little Kythe Desmond, should ever 
 have seen their fathers." 
 
 Lady Katherine was oddly silent. Looking at her, 
 he saw she was so white, he feared another fainting 
 attack. Ringing for her maid, he asked what the 
 doctor had said. 
 
 "Rest, Master Arthur, and keep quiet, and light 
 diet, and not to talk too much nor see visitors." 
 
 "I had better leave her, then. I'm afraid I have 
 talked too much. Let me know if she wants me, or 
 if I can do anything."
 
 "DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER" 99 
 
 He went away and dressed for dinner; and found 
 Lance and Guin in the smoking-room, looking rather 
 disconsolate. 
 
 "You look very glum, young people!" he observed. 
 
 "Well, it's beastly," said Lance, unaffectedly. 
 
 "What is? Explain yourself, pup, as to this thus- 
 ness." 
 
 Lance was silent, unwilling to broach his grievance. 
 
 "Hubert's and Hero's father's come home," inter- 
 posed Guin; "and they thought we'd better not come 
 to-day." 
 
 "And can't you manage without them for so much 
 as one day?" 
 
 "It's not that," said Lance, impatiently; and again 
 stopped, unwilling to go to the heart of the trouble. 
 
 "Hero'd been crying," supplemented Guin; "and 
 Kythe'd been crying, and Aunt Hermie'd been cry- 
 ing, and Hubert wanted to cry too, only he was 
 'shamed; and May had been crying lots, and so had 
 Mrs. Desmond from Fairlands. We saw her go 
 away." 
 
 "Some people cry, you know, Guin, when they are 
 very glad. If they have been very sorry and then 
 become very glad, they often cry." 
 
 Guin shook her sagacious head. 
 
 "They weren't glad, any of them. Were they, 
 Lance?" 
 
 Lance shook -his head, not committing himself to 
 speech. 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Aunt Hermie said good-bye to Mr, Raymond at
 
 ioo WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 the garden door. She said 'Dreadful, isn't it?' and 
 then saw us coming and said nothing more till we'd 
 gone. She was holding Mr. Raymond's hand tight, 
 and they looked awful. Kythe's sick, she's cried 
 such a lot. Hero says she's had to go to bed and they 
 don't want Mrs. Desmond to know." 
 
 "I saw him," said Lance, suddenly and savagely. 
 "I hate him. He's a swine." 
 
 "I say!" remonstrated Gervase. "You mustn't use 
 language like that! Where did you pick up such ex- 
 pressions? You wouldn't like Gran to hear that?" 
 
 "And look at Gran," went on Lance, his grievance 
 on top at last. "She's sick too; and you bet it is all 
 because of him." 
 
 "Nonsense, silly goose. Gran is ill, poor darling, 
 because she is an old lady and has been doing more 
 than she is strong enough for. What possible effect 
 could Mr. Desmond have on her?" 
 
 "I know it's because of him," persisted Lance. 
 "She was ill as soon as the Rector and Aunt Hermie 
 came to tell her. I wish he'd been dead murdered 
 like we thought he was." 
 
 It was absurd; but this talk with the children made 
 Gervase more uneasy than he could have explained. 
 Their vindictive anger against a man who had done 
 them neither harm nor good seemed inexplicable, in the 
 first place; and it gave him a worried feeling that per- 
 haps they were going to turn out like their mother, 
 wayward, uncontrolled and violent. Then it was cu- 
 rious, if true, that it was Miss Desmond's news that 
 had caused Lady Katherine's illness; and he again
 
 IOI 
 
 had a worried feeling that what he had said about 
 Mr. Desmond had made her change colour and then 
 nearly faint. And, queerest of all, was the tidings 
 that The Meadows was plunged in grief and not joy; 
 and that Kythe, who held her mother's creed concern- 
 ing the missing Mr. Desmond, had cried herself sick 
 on account of his return. It was very mysterious. 
 
 He could not go and enquire, as Guin said Kythe's 
 state was being kept from Mrs. Desmond. He would 
 not go and call on this man who had come back; and 
 he could not drop in as if he did not know that any- 
 thing had happened. He was inclined to agree with 
 Lance that it was all beastly. 
 
 After dinner, he strolled up and down the lane, go- 
 ing out by the side door and lingering near the door 
 in The Meadows' garden wall. It hardly surprised 
 him that it opened, and that Kythe stood there. She 
 looked as if she, too, were plotting a sudden disap- 
 pearance! 
 
 "Is it your turn?" he chaffed, tenderly. Then see- 
 ing that she was too much moved for jest, he took 
 her arm and strolled up the lane with her. 
 
 "I thought you were in bed ill," he remarked. "Guin 
 told me." 
 
 "I couldn't get to sleep," said Kythe; and then broke 
 out crying. 
 
 He consoled her as best he could, and heard her, 
 with intense distress, gasp, "Mother! Oh, poor 
 Mother; Mother," over and over again. From the 
 open French window came the deep notes of a man's 
 voice, and laughter and sounds of good fellowship.
 
 102 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Mr. Desmond was evidently making himself agree- 
 able in the family circle. Gervase marvelled. 
 
 He gathered from the distressed girl, when she was 
 at last able to control her bitter weeping, that Mrs. 
 Desmond was one of the friendly party in the draw- 
 ing-room: that Mr. Desmond had made no faintest 
 attempt to explain his absence or his return; and that 
 no one ventured to ask him. 
 
 "Everyone's afraid," mourned Kythe, half-sob^ 
 bing. 
 
 "Afraid of him?" gasped Gervase, shocked. 
 
 "Oh, no; not of him," explained Kythe. "Afraid of 
 what he might say; what he might tell. Uncle Harry, 
 and Aunt Hermie, and Mr. Raymond, and all. They 
 don't want to have to know it, if it's if it " 
 
 She broke off eloquently. 
 
 Gervase did not ask any more questions. He had 
 a feeling that it would be like peeping through a key- 
 hole. He got Kythe's thoughts on to other subjects, 
 and sent her in to bed a trifle cheered and comforted. 
 But he went back to The Domain feeling that Lance 
 and Guin were not far wrong in their summing up of 
 the situation. 
 
 In their bedroom, that night, Lennox and his wife 
 thrashed things out, in a virtuous indignation that had 
 not yet found its full expression. 
 
 "It is going to be a blazing scandal," groused Len- 
 nox. "There is no explaining it away. He wasn't ill, 
 he wasn't murdered, he wasn't mad, he wasn't even 
 unhappy. He must have just gone off with another 
 woman like people used to say."
 
 "DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER" 103 
 
 "It is awful for your mother," said Mrs. Lennox, 
 with an unwonted shudder of sympathy. 
 
 "It is going to be awful for us all," returned Len- 
 nox. "Did you spot Uncle Harry? He was bowled 
 over. Completely. And what makes me so angry is, 
 he does not seem to have any intention of explaining." 
 
 "You ought to make him, Len. For your mother's 
 sake, you ought." 
 
 This idea was gratifying to Lennox. He saw him- 
 self posing as the champion of the mother he had 
 protected and cared for all these years. It was a 
 seductive idea. He felt he could play the part well. 
 
 "Of course, mother isn't fit to look after her own 
 interests. She never was. I can rub that in a bit; 
 but the law will be on his side all along the line, now 
 she has taken him back." 
 
 "Well, anyway, give him a bit of your mind." 
 
 "He deserves it," quoth Lennox. "A scandalous, 
 thing. He really is an awful rascal, and no fit 
 guardian for the girls; nor for Hubert, for that matter. 
 Fifteen years, good Lord. Fifteen years on the ran- 
 dan; and comes back as cool as a cucumber to take 
 things up where he left them off, as if he had only been 
 away for a fortnight! It is incredible. If you read it 
 in a book you wouldn't believe it. You would say 
 it was overdrawn!" 
 
 Lennox was very fond of saying that. 
 
 The next day was very unlike anything that could 
 have been imagined. Everyone woke up with a sense 
 of big happenings and a feeling of excitement; nothing 
 could have been more commonplace than the actual.
 
 104 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Mr. Desmond came in to breakfast from the garden, 
 bringing a few flowers, as he had always done, to lay 
 beside his wife's plate; and kissing her as he had never 
 done, and as they all disliked seeing him do, when 
 she came into the room. He helped the bacon and 
 eggs, told Lennox to carve the ham and brawn, and 
 then opened the newspaper, looking over the top of 
 it to ask Mrs. Desmond, "Any news in your letters?" 
 
 "Not much," answered Mrs. Desmond, quietly. "A 
 handful of circulars, and the painter's bill, and an 
 offer for the heifer, and an application for the chauf- 
 feur's place." 
 
 "Better let me have those," said Mr. Desmond. 
 
 She passed them down to him, not noticing that 
 Lennox detained them in his hand. 
 
 "A letter from Mrs. Maitland, saying they will be 
 in London in October, and want to see something of 
 us; and one from Nana's great-niece to say the old 
 woman is a good deal feebler. I think one of us 
 ought to go down, David. She will not last much 
 longer, I am afraid, and that foolish Annie never had 
 wits to face an emergency." 
 
 "We can go down next Saturday," said Mr. Des- 
 mond, gravely. 
 
 Old Nana had nursed Mr. Desmond and trained 
 Mary, and was the mother of Moore. 
 
 Lennox still held the sheaf of bills his mother had 
 passed along. Mr. Desmond held out his hand for 
 them. 
 
 "Had we not better go into those presently to- 
 gether," said Lennox, in his most business-like manner.
 
 "DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER" 105 
 
 Mr. Desmond looked at him in surprise. Then 
 returned to his newspaper. 
 
 "Gives in at once," thought Lennox, putting the 
 papers beside his plate. "One has only to stand up to 
 him and he collapses." 
 
 The breakfast was rather a silent one. The girls 
 eyed their mother furtively, striving to find some sign 
 that would give a clue to her feelings. Mrs. Desmond 
 poured out the tea and coffee with steady hand, and 
 with her usual dignity. The troubled look had 
 deepened in her eyes, and the faint crease in ',he 
 smooth forehead, between the brows, had suddenly 
 cut itself in with sharp intensity. May noted this 
 with acute pain. 
 
 Once or twice she seemed to lose herself, as her 
 way was, in her fancies; and the absent, far-off gaze 
 came into her eyes. She pulled herself back hastily, 
 with a little quivering sigh, and concentrated on her 
 duties. Towards the end of breakfast, she lost her- 
 self entirely, and one of her whispered monologues 
 was in progress, with gesture of head and hand, when 
 Mr. Desmond caught sight of her. 
 
 May and Luttrell saw him watch her furtively, him- 
 self watched. 
 
 "Mother!" called Lennox, in disapproval. "Don't." 
 
 A lightning glance from the keen blue, watchful eyes 
 shot at him. 
 
 "Is there a drain more in your pot, dear?" asked 
 Mr. Desmond, on the instant. "Just a drain." 
 
 He had always wanted "Just a drain" before finish- 
 ing.
 
 io6 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Getting up, he carried his cup round instead of 
 passing it, pressing his hand on Mrs. Desmond's neck 
 as he waited, and drawing her face to his stooping 
 one as he took the brimming cup. The scar showed, 
 an angry red. 
 
 The children turned their eyes away. It was even 
 more hateful than Lennox's impertinence. 
 
 Where had "he" picked up these ways? Who had 
 he been associating with? It made them shrink to 
 the very marrow of their bones. 
 
 What did Mother feel about it? 
 
 Aunt Hermione, who, like Kythe, had swollen eye- 
 lids, and a headache as well as a heartache, kept the 
 conversational ball rolling with some credit, ably 
 seconded by Mrs. Lennox, who, in the caustic phrase 
 of the impudent Luttrell, was showing off before the 
 Governor. 
 
 "Fat lot he cares for her opinions!" supplemented 
 Hubert. "What are we to call him? Pater? Guv- 
 nor? Mr. Desmond? Father" long drawn out, in 
 some ridicule "or Papa, like we used. Papa! Pa. 
 How about Pa? Ease combined with elegance; 
 friendly and not familiar. I vote for Pa." 
 
 "I don't want to call him anything," said Kythe, 
 fiercely. "He's made Mother more mis'ble than she 
 was, and I hate him." 
 
 Luttrell put his arm round her and rocked her 
 against him. 
 
 "Gently, gently, Ky. It will make Mother more 
 mis'ble than anything if we row with him. It's a 
 case of open your mouth and shut your eyes, and
 
 "DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER" 107 
 
 swallow the Pa a Good God has seen fit to punish 
 you with." 
 
 "Lennox has gone to have a row with him," ob- 
 served May. She came to take dreary counsel with 
 "the children" because Aunt Hermione had basely 
 deserted her and gone off with Mr. Raymond. May 
 felt too forlorn to stand on her dignity. 
 
 "Old Lennox going to row with him! Oh, I wish 
 I could hear. Where? In the smoking-room? 
 Holy Moses, I didn't think Len really had the grit!" 
 
 "They are in the dining-room," said May. "All 
 of them Mother too! He shut the door." 
 
 This was serious. However, it did not last long. 
 Mr. Desmond was heard calling to the dog, and Mrs. 
 Desmond went upstairs. Mr. and Mrs. Lennox 
 strolled in the garden. They all went out. 
 
 Presently he called, 
 
 "What time does the mail go out?" 
 
 In English villages the "post" goes out. People do 
 not talk of the "mail." The unfamiliar expression 
 struck them all. 
 
 "The post goes out at 11:20," called back Lennox. 
 
 Mr. Desmond appeared on the terrace, smiling, a 
 letter in his hand. 
 
 "Thanks for putting your father right, Lennox. 
 It was always your pleasant way. Who will come 
 with me to the village?" 
 
 There was a' perceptible pause, during which his 
 face hardened. 
 
 "I will," said Hero. 
 
 "So'll I," said Hubert.
 
 io8 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 They confided to each other afterwards that they 
 were afraid not to. 
 
 He dropped his letter into the box without their 
 seeing the address, bought some stamps, stopped at 
 Tenterley's for some nails, buying them and passing 
 the time of day with the old man, as if he had been 
 there the day before. 
 
 "Powerful long time you've stopped away, Sir," said 
 the sturdy old man, who was not afraid of prince or 
 peer. 
 
 "Yes," answered Mr. Desmond. "Time does fly. 
 Those trees of Barton's are doing well, Tenterley. 
 It was a very good speculation, wasn't it?" 
 
 "I call it an investment, Sir, not a speculation to 
 plant a tree," said the old carpenter. 
 
 "So it is, so it is. It is what every man should 
 do. Plant a tree, beget a son, and strike a blow at the 
 right time that's wisdom, Tenterley." 
 
 "You've left something out, Sir." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Do his duty, Sir." 
 
 "Very true, Tenterley. Is that Turton over there? 
 Why, so it is." 
 
 Mr. Turton felt quite as strongly as Tenterley, 
 but was not minded to express himself. He lifted 
 his hat and passed by gravely; and went to find 
 Browning and give vent to his amazement that the 
 Desmond man's family were out with him. As if 
 nothing had happened! What a world. 
 
 The question of what to call their father was a 
 real difficulty. He had always insisted on "papa,"
 
 "DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER" 109 
 
 because that was what he called his own father. But 
 "papa" was manifestly absurd. 
 
 When Hubert impudently took matters into his 
 own hands and addressed him as Pa, in a dashing, 
 off-hand manner, as if he had done it for years, they 
 nearly exploded with joy. 
 
 Pa it was; and Pa it remained. Kythe alone called 
 him Father. 
 
 Lennox adopted a tone of haughty aloofness. His 
 father, apparently much amused, everlastingly roasted 
 him. 
 
 "Did you volunteer for South Africa?" asked Mr. 
 Desmond. 
 
 "No," answered Lennox, emphatically. 
 
 "Why not? You weren't married then?" 
 
 "It was no business of mine," retorted Lennox. 
 
 Mr. Desmond laughed. 
 
 Lennox resented his dethronement bitterly. His en- 
 counter with his father had been sharp and not sweet. 
 
 "Give me those letters?" Mr. Desmond said, ques- 
 tioningly. 
 
 "I want to know something of where you have 
 been and what you have been doing these fifteen 
 years, before we hand you over control of all our 
 affairs again," said Lennox, not without dignity. "For 
 fifteen years this place has been run on my mother's 
 income, left her by my grandfather, Col. Lennox- 
 Luttrell." 
 
 Mr. Desmond's keen eyes showed bright for a mo- 
 ment between the narrowed lids. 
 
 "It is practically hers. She has kept it up, she
 
 no WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 has paid the insurance, the servants, the ground rent, 
 and rates and taxes. We have managed without you, 
 and you have left us to manage as best we could. Be- 
 fore you interfere here again, we have a right to know 
 what you have been doing." 
 
 "The right?" 
 
 "Yes. The right. How do I know, for instance, 
 that you are not an escaped criminal, or a ticket-of- 
 leave man, or that you may not bring a swarm of 
 loose characters, male and female, on the place? I 
 have to protect my brothers and sisters from that; 
 it would be criminal if I did not. And my mother 
 she has suffered very much your behaviour might 
 have cost her her reason. Lots of people say she has 
 suffered in that way." 
 
 "You would like to be in a position to prove that, 
 perhaps, so as to bring an action to get the custody 
 of her person and the control of her income?" 
 
 It was a shrewd thrust. 
 
 "It is my duty to satisfy myself that you are a 
 fit person to have custody and control of them, and 
 of my sisters. I want to know where you have been, 
 what you have done, and what references you can give 
 as to the truth of your statements." 
 
 "Quite right," said Mr. Desmond, genially. "He's 
 a great boy, isn't he, Mother? Don't be an ass, Len- 
 nox. If you and I come to loggerheads, there'll be 
 all the less for those whining little brats of yours; 
 don't forget that. Shut your head now, and voetsag." 
 
 Lennox did not know what voetsag was, but he 
 did it.
 
 "DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER" in 
 
 Lance and Gum came in that afternoon, not ask- 
 ing questions, as the subject of parents was one that 
 left them cold; but anxious for someone to come 
 with them and investigate a huge tree-hollow reputed 
 to be full of owls. Hero and Hubert joyfully volun- 
 teered; and the reluctant Kythe, who found her place 
 at her mother's side occupied eternally by this man 
 with the brutal face and pleasant voice, went with 
 them, sore of heart but full of a lurking hope that 
 they might meet Major Gervase. 
 
 It was May and Luttrell, however, going to en- 
 quire after Lady Katherine, who met him. 
 
 "Gran is better to-day," he said; "but she has to 
 be kept awfully quiet. I don't think she should see 
 even your mother. Mrs. Leigh is coming for a few 
 moments to-morrow. How are you all?" 
 
 That was as near as he dared get to the crisis! 
 
 "Jogging along, jogging along, tural-lural," replied 
 Luttrell, facetiously. "The children are off to catch 
 owls with butterfly nets. I hope they will come back 
 with all their eyes and hair. Where are you off to? 
 Come back for a smoke." 
 
 They went for a walk first; and as they got back, 
 were just in time to see, from the terrace, Aunt 
 Hermione's parting with Mr. Raymond at the garden 
 door. 
 
 Mr. Desmond met her in the grass walk as she 
 came back, and -linked his arm in hers. It was the 
 first time he had voluntarily touched her. 
 
 Marching her up to the terrace, he said to Mrs. 
 Desmond, his blue eyes laughing,
 
 ii2 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Raymond won't be a lonely widower much longer, 
 Honoria. There's balm in Gilead " 
 
 Aunt Hermione coloured, laughed shamefacedly, and 
 shook hands with Gervase. 
 
 This was his first sight of Desmond. He saw a 
 merry, self-satisfied, self-possessed man, with a fresh 
 voice and a bold blue-eyed stare, at peace with the 
 world, to all appearances. As Desmond came on to 
 the terrace, he gave a quizzical look at the stranger. 
 
 "Major Gervase, David," said Aunt Hermione; and 
 Mr. Desmond gave him a pleasant and friendly greet- 
 ing. In a few minutes they were deep in the mysteries 
 of fishing, and telling tales of the famous trout-pool 
 at the Manor Farm. 
 
 Mr. Desmond asked no personal questions of anyone. 
 He had not done so since hearing about Kythe. He 
 picked up what was said with surprising dexterity; 
 but though he was by no means silent neither gave 
 nor asked information. He avoided or evaded every 
 topic, and every phrase, likely to lead to explanations. 
 
 He did not ask, when Gervase left he did not 
 stay long whether he were married, or which of the 
 Gervases he was. Yet, somehow, the information 
 was supplied. Mrs. Desmond and Aunt Hermione, 
 prompted by their own nervousness and discomfort, 
 dotted the i's and crossed the t's for him. 
 
 "Poor Hugh's son," said Aunt Hermione. "He died 
 so long ago drank hard. The elder boy married 
 old Rattler's daughter the one with the dyed hair 
 and put himself outside the pale socially. Luckily, 
 they have no sons."
 
 "DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER" 113 
 
 Mr. Desmond listened sharply. He had a way of 
 listening that, to an experienced observer, would have 
 spoken volumes. 
 
 "Only a little girl," pursued Mrs. Desmond. "This 
 young man will be the heir. Lady Katherine is de- 
 voted to bim. How is Lady Katherine to-day? Did 
 anyone go to enquire?" 
 
 "She is a little better, Mums," said May, "but 
 must be kept very quiet. Mrs. Leigh is to see her to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "Major Gervase must think me dreadfully unfeeling, 
 not to have asked him," murmured Mrs. Desmond. 
 
 "Come up with me to Harry's, Hermie?" asked 
 Mr. Desmond. 
 
 They went together; and conversation at the Harry 
 Desmonds' was as limited and as cautious as at The 
 Meadows. Meanwhile a fine riot of scandalous con- 
 jecture was spreading in the neighbourhood; and the 
 servants of all the households in any way connected 
 with the principals, and in many entirely unconnected, 
 picked up and passed round a wonderful variety of 
 assertions, of varying values and importance. As 
 usual, in such matters, truth was conspicuous by its ab- 
 sence, but imagination supplied her place and she was 
 never missed. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond went down the garden to the flagged 
 walk below the roses, and paced up and down slowly, 
 head erect, eyes' wide and far-seeing, and a return 
 of the whisperings and gesticulations, widely at vari- 
 ance with her previous restraint. It was as if she had 
 held herself in and could now give way. In between
 
 ii 4 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 the animated, whispered monologues she saw visions 
 David, a fairer, slighter David, with a face empty of 
 much that branded it now, on one knee beside her low 
 chair, whispering in her throat, "Ready, darling? 
 Come along," or looking at her quizzically and saying, 
 "What deep, dark and desperate designs are you plot- 
 ting now?" in adoring admiration. And David, this 
 new David, a coarsened David, with those same words 
 on hot lips she would rather have known him, in 
 truth and in certainty, dead and laid hard by Farmer 
 Johnstone's manure heap, all those years all those 
 weary years until they put him into the mossy 
 Churchyard under the stone inscribed with his name; 
 she would rather that, bitterly as she had revolted 
 against it at the time, than this returning. 
 
 She knew, past all doubt, that he had lived with 
 another woman perhaps women. Knowing that, she 
 did not care to know any more. Nothing else mat- 
 tered. He had left her, not under the stress of any 
 desperate misfortune or threat, not under violence or 
 restraint, but to go with another woman. All her 
 past was dust and ashes, all her hopes and regrets 
 futile, all her fancies deception. The man she had 
 loved so faithfully had never had life or being. 
 
 And she loved him still, this flesh-and-blood David, 
 the human frame of the ideal that was shattered; the 
 bridegroom of her youth and the father of her children. 
 He was her lover again, and she loved him while she 
 loathed him loved his body while she loathed his soul. 
 Her relations with him were odious to her, yet she could 
 deny him nothing. It was useless to resent; the more
 
 "DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER" 115 
 
 she dwelt on it the more she hurt herself. She was of 
 those who endure, not of those who fight. 
 
 The past held no comfort, the future no hope. The 
 present had to be faced and lived out. She braced 
 herself for the dreary task, and wished that she were 
 dead.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 WHEN "the children" came back, without any owls 
 but with stupendous appetites, Kythe's tears were al- 
 most forgotten. They had had an uproarious after- 
 noon, had been "chivvied" by Lord Gotto's game- 
 keeper, had fallen in with a gypsy, who had read 
 their palms and given them peppermints, and had 
 seen the first fight of the season between two stags. 
 
 "I'm to be a Star of the Footlights," announced 
 Hero. "I shall have bouquets and diamond rings 
 and a tahara of rubies." 
 
 "And a nice fool you'll look in it," said Hubert, with 
 healthy contempt. "I'm to command men, and sail 
 above their heads, and have medals enough for a garter 
 twice round my leg." 
 
 " 'Up in a balloon, boys,' " quoted Lance. "People 
 are awfully sea-sick, in balloons, and sailing above 
 heads isn't all jam. Mine is the best, I'm to turn over 
 money like grain, and whatever I touch will make 
 money. Would anyone like to lend me a fiver and let 
 the interest run up?" 
 
 "What was yours, Gum?" 
 
 "Twins," said Guin, promptly, "and ten more after 
 
 116
 
 THE DAYS THAT CAME 117 
 
 that, and to cross two oceans. What was yours, 
 Kythe?" 
 
 "Can't remember," said Kythe, indistinctly. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you can. Guin's is rotten, but not as bad 
 as yours break hearts, wasn't it?" 
 
 "And break my own in the doing of it, and dark 
 eyes and red hair will bring me woe," gabbled Kythe, 
 defiantly. 
 
 "Dark eyes and red hair that's Uncle Arthur," 
 observed Lance, half-emptying the jam-pot at one 
 helping, so that Hubert raised a protest. "All right; 
 you can have what I leave." 
 
 "You don't call his hair red, do you?" scoffed Kythe, 
 with affected disdain. In her heart was dread. 
 
 "What is it if it ain't red? Guin, if you put pieces 
 of that size into your mouth, I'll tell Gran." 
 
 "What a yammer, in the playroom," remarked Mr. 
 Desmond, settling down to finish the Times. 
 
 "The Gervase children are there, from The Domain," 
 explained Mrs. Desmond. "They are noisy, when they 
 all get together. Lance and Guin Gervase our chil- 
 dren see a lot of them, they are all so much the same 
 age and live so close to each other." 
 
 Mr. Desmond made the mistake of taking it for 
 granted that "the Gervase children" would be the fam- 
 ily of the Major Gervase he had seen, who was to in- 
 herit The Domain. He saw them all together before 
 they left, and May and Aunt Hermione noticed how 
 his blue eyes narrowed and how keenly he watched 
 Lance. He made no remarks about them beyond say- 
 ing,
 
 n8 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Sure they are nice company for the youngsters? 
 Some of the Gervases are pretty queer, Mama. We 
 ought to be careful." 
 
 "Poor children," sighed Mrs. Desmond. "It is a 
 dreadful slur, having a mother like theirs." 
 
 Mr. Desmond took this to mean that Major Gervase 
 had an unsatisfactory wife too, and made no further 
 remark except that the Gervases were unlucky in the 
 matter of wives. 
 
 Arthur Gervase got into a habit of lurking about 
 the lane, and Kythe into the corresponding habit of 
 opening the door, at about half-past nine at night. 
 The girl's heart was full of resentful sorrow. She 
 hated her father and detested his close association with 
 her mother, which naturally and inevitably shut her 
 out. She missed her mother's company; and most of 
 all she missed her mother's dependence on her. 
 
 So she turned all the more willingly to Gervase; and 
 the secret she could not have kept from her mother, 
 in the days when they were so much to each other, she 
 easily kept under the new conditions. 
 
 Arthur Gervase knew the risk he was running of 
 starting a scandal if anyone chanced to see them. He 
 knew he had no business to encourage this child in clan- 
 destine ways. He came less to The Meadows by day, 
 disliking equally to be the guest of a man like Mr. 
 Desmond, and of a man whose daughter he was en- 
 trapping into a shady intrigue. 
 
 The Rector came less often. The Leighs called, 
 but did not come again. Harry Desmond's wife sel- 
 dom came. It dawned on them that they were being
 
 THE DAYS THAT CAME 119 
 
 avoided. And it also dawned on them that Mr. Des- 
 mond had taken his place in the household so com- 
 pletely and so smoothly that not only had no explana- 
 tions been asked or given, but that none could ever be 
 asked, and more that the time during which he was 
 away seemed blurred and far distant, and the routine 
 of which he was a part had always been. 
 
 There was no hitch, no jarring of the household 
 wheels. Things just went on, and he was there giving 
 orders, yet not interfering; establishing his authority, 
 yet not asserting it; watchful, genial, secretive and un- 
 ruffled. 
 
 The subject of where he had been, occupied the 
 family increasingly. Endless conclaves, beginning and 
 ending in the same unsolved mystery, were held at the 
 Rectory, at the Harry Desmonds', at the Manor Farm, 
 and The Domain; and above all in the playroom among 
 the young Desmonds. The inscrutable stranger who 
 was their father gave no clue to which their conjectures 
 could fasten. 
 
 "He has been abroad," said Hubert, on one of these 
 early occasions, "because he said that about the 
 'mail.' " 
 
 "He never uses any words I can 'spot/ " complained 
 Luttrell. "No traveller's words, no foreign ones, noth- 
 ing I can get hold of." 
 
 "He has been in some tremendous row," stated 
 Hero, sagely. "'That is a fearful scar he has on his 
 head. I can't bear to look at it." 
 
 "And he is always touching it and feeling it," added 
 May. "It makes me feel sick when I see him."
 
 120 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Must have been an awful crack," opined Luttrell. 
 "Perhaps he got it in the South African war. He 
 rotted you about that, Lennox. Thought you a 
 blighter not to have been." 
 
 "Did you ask him whether he was there?" inter- 
 posed Hubert. "Why didn't you? That would have 
 been your opportunity." 
 
 "Well," replied Lennox, "why didn't you ask? You 
 heard him say it as well as me." 
 
 "We are all afraid to ask him anything," said Kythe, 
 with her direct, unchildlike scorn, as Hubert made no 
 reply. "We never dare ask him anything." 
 
 "And if we did, he wouldn't tell," retorted Luttrell. 
 
 "Looks as if he would give you one in the eye, in- 
 stead of an answer," said Hubert. "Cheerful parent, 
 ain't he?" 
 
 "And for the last I don't-know-how-many-years," 
 went on Kythe, with that hard scorn, "if any of us 
 had been asked what we would most like to happen, 
 we would have said, for Father to come home." 
 
 The dreadful truth of this struck them dumb. 
 
 "Do you remember," went on Kythe, unflinchingly, 
 and they all looked at her in a kind of pained wonder, 
 "when that body was found? And we all felt, now 
 he never will come back; and how awful it seemed?" 
 
 "Shut up, Ky," called Luttrell, and Hero gave a 
 sobbing cry. "What's the use of chewing on it?" 
 
 "Who is it says that the heaviest curse is the grati- 
 fied wish?" asked May, with a sigh; and as no one 
 supplied the requisite information, added, "Suppose 
 we ask Papa?"
 
 THE DAYS THAT CAME 121 
 
 "You daren't," scoffed Hubert. And then tenta- 
 tively, "I wonder if he has told Mother?" 
 
 That was what they all wondered. That was what 
 they none of them knew. That was a secret which 
 Mrs. Desmond guarded as resolutely and completely as 
 her husband did the facts relating to his disappearance. 
 
 About a week after his return, Aunt Hermione's en- 
 gagement to the Rector was announced, and the wed- 
 ding was fixed for the New Year. The children were 
 full of excitement about it; May, Hero, Kythe and 
 Guin were to be bridesmaids. Arthur Gervase was 
 to be best man. 
 
 Riding over to the Manor Farm, Arthur saw an- 
 other horseman waving to him, and rode on past the 
 turning to meet his brother Hugh. Hugh kept well 
 out of the way of The Domain family, but had al- 
 ways been on good terms with his brother, and saw 
 him from time to time. Arthur had never accepted his 
 grandfather's root-and-branch condemnation of poor, 
 good-natured Hugh. 
 
 "I say," Hugh began, without further formality, 
 "have you seen this?" 
 
 "This" was a crumpled and rather elderly news- 
 paper, an Australian one. An unobtrusive paragraph 
 in a corner announced the death, by blood-poisoning, 
 of Teresa Maria Santa Gervase, daughter of the late 
 Hugh Gervase, of Mallabara, and Lower Domain, and 
 Mrs. Stenton, his wife. 
 
 "I expected most likely you hadn't seen it," ex- 
 plained Hugh, "and thought you'd like to know. On 
 account of the children, you know."
 
 122 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Arthur nodded, and read it again, noting the date, 
 place, and the name and date of the paper. It was 
 several months old. 
 
 "Poor Teresa!" he said. "On the whole, she is 
 lucky to have died in her bed and not to have been 
 murdered " 
 
 "Or hanged," put in Hugh. "I can't pretend much 
 sentiment, can you? On the whole, she was a less 
 creditable member of the family than even my noble 
 self, and this is a comparatively respectable end." 
 
 "Unless 'blood-poisoning' is a euphemism for drink," 
 suggested Arthur. "I wonder where her husband is?" 
 
 "Happy release for him, I should think," commented 
 Hugh. "That is to say, if there is such a person." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, look at it, man! It says who she is the 
 daughter of; but no mention of her being anyone's 
 wife " 
 
 "I never thought of that," said Arthur, shocked. 
 
 "Well, the children being called Gervase is rather 
 a give-away, isn't it? Gervases don't lie so thick on 
 
 the ground I've often thought of it. Do you 
 
 mean to tell me Gran hasn't?" 
 
 "She has never said anything of the sort to me." 
 
 "If there was a husband, he can claim them, by 
 law." 
 
 "It's a bad business," said Arthur. "Poor little 
 devils. They are nice kids, too. Thanks, old man, 
 for telling me. Shall I ride back with you?" 
 
 Lady Katherine was still rather invalidish. She 
 had shut herself up a good deal and seen but little of
 
 THE DAYS THAT CAME 123 
 
 her friends. Mrs. Desmond had been once to sit with 
 her. The subject of Mr. Desmond's return was only 
 touched upon, not discussed. 
 
 "I hope he is well," said Lady Katherine, courte- 
 ously. 
 
 "Thank you, yes. He is very well, and looks it," 
 answered Mrs. Desmond. 
 
 "You will be glad to have him back." And that 
 was all. No attempt to probe, or to force confidence. 
 
 Old Mrs. Leigh was Lady Katherine's most frequent 
 visitor; and she had an idea that Lady Katherine had 
 something on her mind. She mentioned it to Tom 
 (who mentioned it to Major Gervase, who thought it 
 highly probable), but she had no notion what its nature 
 might be. Arthur had a shrewd surmise that it con- 
 cerned Teresa; but knew nothing with certainty. 
 
 He tried to rid himself of the worrying thoughts 
 raised by the news of his sister's death, and the un- 
 pleasant idea Hugh had presented to him. If Teresa 
 had never been married, these children were illegiti- 
 mate; and that would cut Lance out of any chance of 
 succession to The Domain. Arthur had sometimes 
 thought that if he had no sons, there might be some 
 way of passing things on to Lance, who would love the 
 old place, and value it; but such a thing as this would 
 put it out of the question. 
 
 It would be just what one might expect of Teresa; 
 but what about' Lady Katherine? Had she known? 
 Arthur remembered, several times, to have made allu- 
 sions to the unknown father of Lance and Guin, and 
 never had the old lady given the faintest hint that she
 
 i2 4 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 considered the position equivocal. Unfortunate, of 
 course; and disgraceful, in one way; but not this par- 
 ticular kind of disgrace. 
 
 It made Arthur hot all over. Damn Teresa yes, 
 even though she were dead. What a curse she had 
 always been! 
 
 Slowly he went to his grandmother's room, and 
 braced himself for a trying interview. She took the 
 news very quietly, her face a little in shadow, sitting 
 in her wide, padded chair with her feet on a stool and 
 an Indian shawl over her knees. The fire burnt clear, 
 and the room had a spacious comfort and dignity that 
 made the very thought of wild-cat Teresa seem im- 
 probable and fantastic. 
 
 "Poor soul," said the old lady, at last. "May she 
 rest in peace. What a mis-spent life!" 
 
 "Peace and Teresa hadn't much in common," ob- 
 served Arthur. "It will be odd if they meet now. 
 Gran, there are a lot of things we ought to discuss 
 that I want to thrash out with you. About the 
 children" she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and 
 pushed the stool away "you insist on going through 
 the estate business with me, because of eventualities; 
 and this is really much more important. I hate to 
 think of the time when you won't be here; you have 
 een father and mother and everything in the world 
 to me; and I want to be able to pass on a little of it 
 to them." 
 
 Her face was shielded by her hand, on which she 
 leant, her elbow resting on the arm of the chair near-
 
 THE DAYS THAT CAME 125 
 
 est to him. He went on, not knowing what to make 
 of her silence. 
 
 "They are only thirteen and fourteen now. Until 
 they are twenty-one, their father has legal rights over 
 them; and if he should turn up any day it would be 
 rather rough on them. You see," getting more and 
 more nervous, "I don't really know anything about 
 him; and anyone might pretend to be their father, 
 armed with a copy of the marriage-certificate!" 
 
 She moved again, impatiently. Then, with a quick 
 sigh, leant forward towards the fire. 
 
 "He is not likely to trouble us." 
 
 Her voice was husky. 
 
 "Do you know who he is?" 
 
 He asked the question sharply. 
 
 After another pause, Lady Katherine gathered her- 
 self up. Looking him full in the face, she said firmly, 
 
 "I have no reason to suppose she was ever married." 
 
 Arthur was silent. Presently she turned back to 
 the fire. 
 
 "I think," said Arthur, after a time, "that you ought 
 to tell me all you know. It will be my responsibility, 
 and I ought to know where I stand." 
 
 He spoke with more determination than he had ever 
 used to Lady Katherine before. 
 
 "I don't know anything to tell you," she responded; 
 and there was almost a wail in her voice. 
 
 "Then," he said, with insistence, "you had better 
 tell me what you think, and why you think it." 
 
 "She was mad, in that way," said Lady Katherine,
 
 126 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 hoarsely. "She could not keep her hands off any man. 
 At least, that is the only excuse I can make for her. 
 And she was fascinating, beyond question." 
 
 She lost herself in her musings, gazing into the fire 
 with an expression of misery that struck Arthur into 
 dismay. 
 
 "Who was the man?" he asked, when the silence 
 had lasted a long time. 
 
 "I don't know. There was a man some low man, 
 connected with the market-gardening that she had 
 got hold of. She used to slip out and meet him at 
 night. Your grandfather got to know of it and was 
 terribly angry. That was when we made up our minds 
 to send her back to Mrs. Hugh to Mrs. Stenton, as 
 she had then become your mother." 
 
 It almost seemed as if Lady Katherine were wander- 
 ing in her memory. 
 
 "I think it was too late, even then. She sent us 
 an impertinent letter, mocking us and saying our pre- 
 caution had been useless; when Lance was born she 
 sent us a copy of the birth certificate, and there was 
 no entry of the father's name. In the space for it 
 she put a great question-mark " 
 
 Arthur nearly laughed. Teresa was really impos- 
 sible. Poor Gran! 
 
 "When the children arrived here," went on Lady 
 Katherine, "there was a letter that the Chinaman 
 brought. It had quite a large sum of money, to defray 
 their clothing expenses and the man's wages; and a 
 note from Teresa just her off-hand style asking me 
 to forgive her and give her children a chance. They
 
 THE DAYS THAT CAME 127 
 
 are worth saving,' she said; 'not a bit like me, and they 
 may make you some worthy return for your goodness.' 
 That was all." 
 
 Lady Katherine repeated the words slowly and care- 
 fully. The appeal was rather touching, coming from 
 Teresa; but Arthur could not understand, even with 
 that and all that had preceded it, Lady Katherine re- 
 ceiving and bringing up as Gervases, in the old home, 
 the illegitimate children of some unknown man or men. 
 It was truly amazing. 
 
 No such disgrace had ever touched their name be- 
 fore. Gervases had been wild, but their women had 
 been proudly virtuous. Such an one as Teresa well 
 deserved to be cast out; what influence had been at 
 work to earn her this sort of forgiveness? Lady Kath- 
 erine, untouched by modernity in any of its forms, 
 unmoved by arguments for the freedom of women, leni- 
 ency for their errors, compassion for the unwanted 
 baby she had always been adamant on these points 
 had introduced to the County and adopted at The 
 Domain, as Gervases, these illegitimate waifs, these 
 children of utter shame, offspring not only of an illicit 
 union, but of a betrayal of class as well as chastity 
 Teresa Gervase and a market-gardener's man! 
 
 The more he thought of it, the more inexplicable it 
 seemed. 
 
 "Why did you have them here?" he asked, at last, 
 more roughly than he knew. "People take them for 
 people think them " he broke off. 
 
 Poor little kids! Jolly little beggars, too. 
 
 "I tried to make some atonement," said Lady Kath-
 
 128 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 erine, falteringly, indistinctly. Then, to his horror, 
 broke into bitter weeping the first tears he had ever 
 seen her shed. 
 
 Of all things for her to say, this was surely the 
 strangest. Of all things for her to do, to weep was 
 the most unexpected. There was a mystery he could 
 not fathom; and meanwhile he could not press his 
 inquisition. He rang for the maid and left them, feel- 
 ing guilty and brutal and hopelessly perplexed. 
 
 The children themselves took the news philosophi- 
 cally, and without a particle of emotion. Gervase was 
 a trifle concerned that they should not make even a 
 pretence at sorrow. 
 
 "Then she won't come and take us away now," was 
 what Guin said, and there it began and ended. 
 
 This unconcerned attitude again troubled their 
 friends the Desmonds, to whom it seemed almost in- 
 decent. They ventured on a polite attempt at con- 
 dolence, but found it waved aside as unnecessary. 
 
 "And perhaps she isn't really," confided Lance to 
 Hubert. "Once or twice, there was people who had 
 a death put in the papers that wasn't true. One was 
 a friend of mother's, and she was found out because 
 there wasn't a funeral. Someone tried to find where 
 the funeral was, and that busted it." 
 
 This shed new and unusual lights on ordinary hap- 
 penings that made Hubert and the other Desmonds 
 exchange many queer reflections. 
 
 Lance did not air this theory to his uncle, to whom 
 such an idea would have been startling indeed. 
 
 Meanwhile, gossip had been busy. She is a hard-
 
 THE DAYS THAT CAME 129 
 
 working jade and gets through more in a half-hour 
 than honest folk get through in a year. Every imagin- 
 able fable was in circulation concerning Mr. Des- 
 mond's return, and his disgraceful absence. Disgrace- 
 ful it now was, beyond any doubt. Elopement, for- 
 gery, bigamy, and acute mania, were freely canvassed. 
 The favoured theory of one hearth was indignantly 
 scouted on another; and people who had no earthly 
 means of knowing anything at all about it contradicted 
 each other's versions with heat, and gave the "real 
 facts" with vehemence and positiveness. Details were 
 forthcoming, and significant corroborations; and au- 
 thorities were quoted whose only disqualification was 
 that they had not laid their very emphatic statements 
 before the public long ago. 
 
 A lady was by far and away the favourite theory. 
 The lady was, beyond doubt, that heroine of an an- 
 cient and unsavoury divorce case, who had left her 
 guilty lover in the lurch at the eleventh hour and re- 
 fused to commit herself to the marriage for which she 
 had wrecked her reputation. She had quietly removed 
 herself from the glare of publicity, which she had so 
 assiduously courted, and had lived in a hitherto unex- 
 plained obscurity. But it was all revealed now. She 
 had been in the Himalayas with Mr. Desmond, prac- 
 tising a form of magic worship which had ended in her 
 death and his freedom. 
 
 It was a mere trifle that the dates in no case tallied. 
 That deterred no narrator. Everything else was so 
 clear. 
 
 Then there was that bank failure. The man respon-
 
 130 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 sible, the absconding director, had never been found. 
 If he had been, there would have been revelations of 
 the utmost piquancy, and Mr. Desmond would have 
 been involved. He fled, fearing that the other man 
 might make a clean breast of it if caught. He had 
 netted thousands thousands; literally thousands. 
 That was how he was able to live, all those years. The 
 other man had died, and, the fear of exposure removed, 
 Mr. Desmond was free to come home. 
 
 The bank had not failed until eighteen months after 
 Mr. Desmond's disappearance; but who cared for a 
 trifle like that! 
 
 There was also "that dreadful scandal do you 
 remember?" when a number of men well-known in 
 society had to make themselves scarce, to escape crim- 
 inal proceedings. Mr. Desmond was one of those. 
 He had the audacity to come back now, because he 
 
 had no doubt heard that Lord had come back last 
 
 year, and had not been interfered with. Did you not 
 know? Oh, yes; I saw him in the Burlington Arcade 
 the other day, looking just the same. You could not 
 mistake him. And, if he comes back and no notice 
 is taken, why not Mr. Desmond? You see, if they 
 arrest him, he will say things about the others. 
 
 There was a great deal of this kind of thing; and 
 there were also sly hints that Mrs. Desmond had al- 
 ways been "queer," and no kind of a wife for a high- 
 spirited man like Mr. Desmond. He couldn't stand 
 it, you know, and simply cut the painter. I really 
 don't know whether I blame him! 
 
 Then came the death of old J. B. Marx, the South
 
 THE DAYS THAT CAME 131 
 
 African millionaire, who died in his luxurious home at 
 Batten, alone and unloved and helpless with arthritis. 
 A quarter of a column, in big print, in the morning 
 papers, told of his death, his life, his ill-health, and 
 his wealth. A brief paragraph beneath, in small type, 
 recalled the bereavement he had sustained in the loss 
 of his only son, who was employed in his father's busi- 
 ness. When in possession of a very large sum of 
 money, this young man had disappeared; and as he was 
 not remarkable for sobriety or, as the paper euphe- 
 mistically put it, was of a sporting disposition it was 
 presumed that he was decoyed, robbed and made 
 away with. His destination that afternoon, after 
 drawing the money, had been, so far as could 
 be determined, a place on the line a little beyond 
 Fairlands. 
 
 Some spark, flashing from the acute brain of one 
 of these searchers after truth, set light to a train that 
 connected up these odd fragments of reminiscence with 
 the mystery of Mr. Desmond's disappearance and the 
 body that was exhumed near Farmer Johnstone's 
 manure heaps. Regardless of grammar no less than 
 logic, they cried, "that's him." And from thenceforth 
 the new tale took the limelight, shouldering its blatant 
 way through the other theories and taking up a prom- 
 inent position in the foreground. Being the most lurid 
 of all, it was naturally the most popular. Bigamy was 
 all very well; and forgery was exciting in its way; and 
 elopements are always fascinating. But these do not 
 entail the desperate consequences of murder. And of 
 murder, cold-blooded, calculating murder, Mr. Des-
 
 132 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 mond was forthwith judged guilty. The money of 
 which he robbed his murdered victim was, of course, 
 to pay gambling debts; although some people preferred 
 to have it hush-money. 
 
 Christmas might have been a difficult time for Mr. 
 Desmond had the usual festivities been on hand. The 
 season, however, was overshadowed for the family by 
 the sudden death of Mrs. Harry Desmond, from in- 
 fluenza. Harry Desmond was utterly broken down, 
 his son and daughters abroad, his wife's people engaged 
 with another serious illness. Mr. Desmond, as of old, 
 with great capability and that enjoyment of a job not 
 his own which had always characterised him, took com- 
 plete charge; and his feeling and tact were a great com- 
 fort to poor, stricken Harry, who felt his resentment 
 melting away with each fresh manifestation of his 
 brother's sympathy and helpfulness. 
 
 Mr. Desmond wrote to his nephew and nieces full 
 accounts, and took all the necessary mournful cor- 
 respondence off his afflicted brother's hands. Some of 
 his correspondents did not even know of his return, 
 and their stupefaction on reading the signature was 
 indescribable. The letters were so matter-of-fact and 
 so taking everything for granted that the recipients did 
 not doubt all had been satisfactorily explained to the 
 Desmond family; although their own curiosity re- 
 mained unallayed. 
 
 The household, thus plunged into mourning, kept 
 itself rather to itself and did not notice the steady 
 withdrawal of acquaintance. Harry Desmond was 
 persuaded to stay at The Meadows until after the
 
 THE DAYS THAT CAME 133 
 
 New Year, when he was to go to his daughter in St. 
 Petersburg, she being at the moment engaged in hav- 
 ing a new baby. 
 
 Fairlands, which had thought well of Mr. Harry 
 Desmond and made him free of its cliques and its 
 amenities, deeply resented this lapse on his part. It 
 was unpardonable that he should go to stay with those 
 people. No sooner poor Mrs. Desmond dead than off 
 he rushes to that disreputable brother! It is enough 
 to make the poor woman turn in her grave. 
 
 Virtuously, Fairlands took up the case against Mr. 
 Desmond, and the murder theory was adopted unani- 
 mously. They were not sure that Mrs. Desmond too 
 had not been privy to it, which was why she had always 
 been so "queer." Of course she must have known 
 something; probably helped him to get away! 
 
 Lord Gotto of Gozo was very hot about it. He 
 could not think what The Law was for. What were 
 the police thinking of? Why was not a warrant taken 
 out? With his disreputable red face and his bawling 
 voice, he read the Riot Act violently to Mr. Talbot, 
 who was a Justice and who, most unexpectedly, did 
 know a little law himself. Justices all too frequently 
 do not. 
 
 "A warrant cannot be signed unless there is some 
 evidence sworn to support an accusation, or a sus- 
 picion," objected Mr. Talbot. "You can't simply con- 
 nect a man and a'murder and have him arrested, unless 
 you can show that there is evidence to support the 
 charge." 
 
 "His disappearance," bawled Lord Gotto, "and his
 
 134 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 being able to live all those years without touching his 
 income " 
 
 "Can you prove he ever was anywhere where he 
 could have seen or known young Marx and his errand 
 that day? Can you prove that body was young Marx's 
 body? Come now, Lord Gotto. If you were a Justice, 
 would you shell out warrants on vague gossip like that? 
 Heaven help the public if we did!" 
 
 Lord Gotto was in no way appeased. He denounced 
 Mr. Talbot's "kid-glove" methods, and continued to 
 call for Mr. Desmond's head on a charger. 
 
 Aunt Hermione's wedding was not postponed, but 
 was cut down to the quietest possible affair. It took 
 place from The Meadows, and Mr. Desmond again 
 earned golden opinions. His sister was generously, 
 nay, lavishly provided for, and David made the most 
 fatherly brother possible. The Rector's heart warmed 
 once more towards his old friend; and Major Gervase, 
 who came to support the bridegroom, was obliged to 
 own that Desmond was an uncommonly pleasant chap. 
 
 Harry Desmond left for Russia, and promised to 
 stay at The Domain on his return. Mr. Raymond and 
 Aunt Hermione went to Sicily for their honeymoon; 
 things at Lower Domain went on as usual. Every day 
 as it went by made Mr. Desmond's disappearance more 
 of a fantasia; yet every day increased his family's 
 subtle distrust of him, and the feeling of shame that 
 bowed down their young heads. 
 
 And before Easter-tide another staggering surprise 
 was sprung upon them, that seemed worse than any- 
 thing that had yet been.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 ,< 
 
 THE MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM 
 
 FEBRUARY was muggy and breathless, and Mrs. 
 Desmond's robust and unchanging health seemed to 
 suffer. Heavy-eyed and languid, with dull skin and 
 bad nights, she was palpably suffering and made them 
 all feel anxious. Dr. Willett was called in. 
 
 The verdict was startling. 
 
 "Unusual, at her age," he said to Mr. Desmond, 
 "but not at all unnatural, under the circumstances. It 
 is very risky. You ought to have been more care- 
 ful." " 
 
 Dr. Willett was angry, and spoke abruptly. The 
 man had got ahead of the physician for the moment. 
 
 Mr. Desmond looked stricken. 
 
 "She has always been wonderfully strong and 
 healthy," he said, beseechingly. 
 
 "She will want it all," retorted Dr. Willett, curtly. 
 
 Gervase, hurrying down the lane that night on his 
 way home from the Manor Farm, heard the click of 
 the garden door with a smile of pleasant anticipation. 
 Kythe was waiting for him; but it was a Kythe so 
 silent, so absent, and evasive, as to make him ask 
 what was the matter. 
 
 135
 
 136 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 After a few moments she admitted something was 
 the matter. 
 
 Then she held away from him and he found she 
 was crying. 
 
 It was a passionate, strangling outburst, of which 
 he could not guess the cause. It was "Mother," again; 
 and "I hate him; oh, I hate him. I wish he had been 
 dead and never come home." 
 
 But she would not tell him what the trouble was; 
 and he kissed and comforted her and sent her in, think- 
 ing her to be the victim of wounded vanity and girlish 
 sensitiveness. 
 
 Next day he knew. 
 
 Lance and Guin came in to say that Mr. Raymond 
 was in the hall, enquiring for Gran; and Gervase went 
 out to speak to him. Lady Katherine was not so well, 
 and Mr. Raymond expressed his regret. 
 
 "She has never really pulled up," said Gervase. "It 
 is sad to see her now, so completely and so suddenly 
 an invalid, and so listless in mind as well as body. 
 She does not seem to care for anything much. How 
 is Mrs. Raymond?" 
 
 "Very well," answered the Rector, "so far as her 
 health is concerned, but dreadfully worried about Mrs. 
 Desmond. I don't suppose you have heard?" 
 
 "I have heard nothing," answered Gervase, looking 
 grave. 
 
 "There is another child on the way," said the Rector, 
 bluntly. "They are all most anxious about her." 
 
 "It is a ghastly business, altogether," he asserted, as 
 he took his leave. "I never felt so inclined to murder
 
 MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM 137 
 
 a fellow-creature and my own intimate friend, too." 
 
 Arthur Gervase nodded. 
 
 "A bad business," he murmured. "A bad business. 
 Poor Mrs. Desmond." 
 
 He was genuinely shocked. It seemed horrible 
 an outrage he felt, like Lance, that he hated Mr. 
 Desmond. 
 
 So that was what Kythe was crying about and would 
 not tell him! No wonder. 
 
 Those days were bad days for the young Desmonds. 
 On top of the almost horror and fury with which they 
 envisaged the new state of things, their father's be- 
 haviour was the last straw. With that strange coarse- 
 ness that overlaid his breeding, he fondled his wife in 
 public, fussed over her ostentatiously, and called gen- 
 eral attention to her condition. He discussed matters 
 that made them tingle with shame, and went into de- 
 tails that had never before reached their ears. The 
 red spots sprang ever afresh to Mrs. Desmond's cheeks, 
 and the family hated being in the same room with their 
 father and mother together. 
 
 "I can't think how mother stands it," cried May 
 to Aunt Hermione. "It is simply dreadful. And 
 it is getting to this, that he is estranging us all 
 from mother. Even Kythe won't stay in the room, 
 when he begins. Was he always like that, Aunt 
 Hermie?" 
 
 "No," said Aunt Hermione, with emphasis. "Of 
 course he was not. He was like the rest of us. You 
 could not imagine his saying or doing an indelicate 
 thing "
 
 138 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "And now look at him!" continued May, despair- 
 ingly. 
 
 The gossip and scandal, circulating round Mr. Des- 
 mond, could not fail in the long run to reach the chil- 
 dren. Lennox made a point of acquainting himself 
 with all that was said or surmised, and passed most 
 of it on to Luttrell, who took it lightly enough and 
 told some of it to May. Lance and Guin, precocious 
 and acute, and on those peculiar, intimate terms with 
 a number of their social inferiors which always results 
 in large accumulations of undesirable information, gar- 
 nered up enough to have made even the Raymonds open 
 their eyes. Aunt Hermione heard more than she cared 
 about in the parish, and spent a good deal of time in 
 wondering how much the children knew and what they 
 thought. 
 
 Mr. Raymond came in to lunch one day with a 
 troubled face. 
 
 "That poor fellow Johnstone," he began, as he un- 
 folded his table-napkin, "it really almost seems as if his 
 troubles were being too much for him. I don't think 
 his mind is quite clear " 
 
 "What is it all about?" asked his wife, as the ex- 
 planation of the above tarried. 
 
 "Oh! Poor Johnstone, you mean? Yes. He is 
 going on so about that body that was found. Says 
 that as Desmond has turned up and it can't be him, 
 it is someone Desmond killed. Declares that if Farmer 
 Johnstone could be persuaded to have the place turned 
 up, they would find his son's body too. Pitiful, isn't 
 it?"
 
 MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM 139 
 
 "Good gracious, Charlie! Is this true?" 
 
 "Farmer Johnstone threatens to have him 'put away* 
 in an asylum if he goes on like that. Poor fellow." 
 
 "I often wonder whose body that was," mused Aunt 
 Hermione. "It really is a mystery, now David has 
 come back." 
 
 "Johnstone has it all pat," answered the Rector. 
 "It is the body of the man his son got into mischief 
 with; and he has some wild story besides of the lady 
 at The Domain. He says he knew she was in it some- 
 how." 
 
 "Lady Katherine!" exclaimed his wife. "What 
 cheek!" 
 
 "He is not responsible, poor creature," commented 
 the Rector. "Brooding on his troubles has upset his 
 balance." 
 
 "There are enough stories about David already," 
 sighed Aunt Hermione, "without Johnstone adding to 
 them. What was David supposed to have gained, by 
 murdering these two young men? I suppose that is 
 the idea, isn't it?" 
 
 The Rector nodded. 
 
 "/ don't know," he said, lightly. "It is a mad yarn, 
 anyhow. Don't let us worry ourselves any more about 
 it." 
 
 Johnstone, however, was not disposed to allow him- 
 self to be so summarily cleared away. He hung about 
 in his spare time, looking for someone with whom to 
 ventilate his grievance. Not a frequenter of The Blue- 
 Nosed Man, he preferred Tenterley's, or a chance lis- 
 tener in the streets. Luttrell, Lennox, and Gervase,
 
 140 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 besides the Rector and Mr. Turton, were made the 
 recipients of his rambling confidence. There was lit- 
 tle point in the story. What he wanted "cleared up" 
 was, the identity of the body. He "named no names," 
 but wanted it "cleared up." There were "them as were 
 responsible" who ought to be made to speak. 
 
 Lennox was in a mighty fume. Demanding hotly 
 of the Rector and of Gervase that "something should 
 be done to stop it," he could not suggest what it was 
 that should be done, nor what it was that should be 
 stopped. Johnstone "named no names," and his story 
 and his suggestions remained wrapt in mystery. Only, 
 it was clearly understood, whatever of suspicion there 
 was of whatever crime had been committed, clun^; 
 round Mr. Desmond. 
 
 It was useless to fume and fuss. No one was pre- 
 pared to go the length of shutting poor old Johnstone 
 up as insane, and short of that one could not stop him. 
 His brother the farmer gave him what he described as 
 a proper raking; but without effect. 
 
 Gervase and Tom Leigh had several long discus- 
 sions over the situation. There was, no doubt, much 
 that wanted elucidation. The disappearance of ras- 
 cally young Johnstone, in itself, was not in any way 
 mysterious. It was all in accordance with known 
 facts. He worked with his father, had robbed his 
 uncle, had been told to make himself scarce or he would 
 be sent to prison; and had gone off without keeping 
 his promise to his father to say good-bye to him. All 
 that was only what one expected from the young scamp, 
 who drank and gambled from the time he left school.
 
 MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM 141 
 
 Never having shown much consideration for his father's 
 feelings, it surprised no one, and did not seem to call 
 for explanation, that he did not keep his promise to 
 come, and had never written. Farmer Johnstone gave 
 him his steerage passage and a five-pound note, and 
 told him to go to Hell out of England. He had gone. 
 
 There was nothing mysterious about all this. Not 
 like Mr. Desmond's disappearance. What was mys- 
 terious was the finding of a body near Farmer John- 
 stone's manure heaps, that was not the body of Mr. 
 Desmond. A crime had manifestly been committed; 
 and while some were prepared to suspect Mr. Desmond, 
 others shook their heads and said that there were most 
 likely more reasons than were apparent for young 
 Johnstone's cruel behaviour to his father. If he had 
 
 any hand in it ! The rest was left significantly 
 
 unsaid. 
 
 Coming to poor Amos Johnstone's ears, this inter- 
 pretation of the affair nearly sent him crazy in good 
 earnest. 
 
 Arthur Gervase was now in a fair way to be in love 
 with the immature but beautiful Kythe Desmond. 
 Some men are violently attracted by youth and im- 
 maturity; and although he was rather ashamed of him- 
 self, he felt that her all too evident girlish fancy for 
 him was flattering and attractive. She plainly thought 
 him wonderful and fascinating, and her eloquent and 
 most lovely eyes sent thrills through him when he 
 met their shy but worshipping gaze. She had a way 
 of looking to him for comfort in her deepest moods of 
 depression that had established a sort of secret be-
 
 142 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 tween them; and he saw her, at the garden door in the 
 lane, at night, more often than he cared to remember. 
 
 An utter and complete cad, he would be called, he 
 knew, by men. If Desmond knew he grew hot, at 
 the thought of Desmond having the right to lecture 
 him or pull him up. 
 
 And yet he could not keep from making the lane 
 his way home, and stopping to kiss and comfort the 
 pretty girl shyly waiting there. She was self-possessed 
 enough, and could bandy words with anyone, on most 
 occasions; but shy with him. 
 
 She was only fifteen. Old for her age, true; ac- 
 customed to the society of grown-up people, shrewd, 
 clear-witted to the point of uncanniness, and sensitive 
 as few children are to the motives and griefs of older 
 people. Her life with the other children was only a 
 pretence life. She was dearly loved by them, but was 
 not of them. Her real life, her real self, as Hero 
 complained, was something inside, something you could 
 not get at. 
 
 It was beyond question and Gervase had enough 
 insight to see and understand this that a love affair 
 with him, however school-girlish and fleeting, would 
 not be an easy or a desirable thing for her. She would 
 cherish it passionately and romantically, even if ab- 
 surdly; and it would leave its mark in spite of her 
 youth. 
 
 Well; he wanted to settle down. He wanted Lady 
 Katherine to see his wife and perhaps his children 
 before she passed to the bourne whence none return.
 
 MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM 143 
 
 Would she welcome this bride, such a bride? Daugh- 
 ter of that man bearing his name . . . Could Gran 
 welcome that? And less than half his age a mere 
 child? 
 
 He wondered how long it would be before she would 
 be considered marriageable. The doubt shed on his 
 nephew's birth made him think seriously of marriage 
 now. It meant the succession to The Domain; and 
 though the lands left them were no longer wide, they 
 were old and very, very dear. The Domain and the 
 Homestead, and the Manor Farm, a beautiful, compact 
 stretch of country, had never been held by any save 
 a Gervase from that time remote when the Conqueror 
 parcelled out his fair prize among his hard-fighting 
 barons. Arthur Gervase wanted to keep it for the 
 Gervases, and not let it go to strangers. 
 
 The estate had been disentailed and had been dis- 
 posed of since then by will, or by the inheritance of 
 the eldest son. His grandfather had got it on the 
 death intestate of a childless uncle, and had left it to 
 his widow for her life, and then to Arthur. Hugh had 
 been cut out altogether. 
 
 Gervase wondered whether he could bear to be Des- 
 mond's son-in-law; and tried to shake off his doubts 
 and dreams by going off for a day's fishing with Tom 
 Leigh. He knew that Leigh hoped he would marry 
 his niece, but she was too racketty for Arthur. His 
 taste in women was for something more restful. 
 
 On his way home that night he found Kythe wander- 
 ing in the lane.
 
 144 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "This is very imprudent," he scolded. "Aren't you 
 supposed to be in bed? Suppose some drunken brute 
 came along ?" 
 
 "Suppose I saw a dragon or a sea-serpent!" scoffed 
 Kythe. "Why should a drunken brute come along; 
 and why shouldn't I hear him coming and get to the 
 door first?" 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "What brought you out?" he asked. 
 
 "To see if you would come," she answered, with soft 
 insinuation. "I wanted to see you." 
 
 "Yes? What for?" 
 
 His hand was on her arm, his head bending to hers. 
 
 "Only to see you," she whispered. "Something nice 
 to think of before I go to bed. Things are so hor- 
 rible " 
 
 She broke off. 
 
 "How is your mother?" 
 
 She did not answer for a moment. Then broke out, 
 
 "O, I wish I could go away get away from it all 
 from kirn, from Mother, from everyone. Isn't there 
 anyone who would take me away? I wish Uncle 
 Harry would. He's got no one, and I could look after 
 him. Don't you think that would be a good thing, 
 Major Gervase? I do want to get away. I can't 
 bear it." 
 
 "And what should I do?" asked Gervase, low. "No 
 little sweetheart to say good-night to me in the lane? 
 Wouldn't you mind, never seeing me again? Wouldn't 
 you mind? Kythe, little Kythe?" 
 
 What a blackguard you are, something inside him
 
 145 
 
 kept saying; and something else also said, You have 
 done it now, and you must stick to it. 
 
 He felt almost a horror at himself; yet beyond 
 doubt she was sweet and seductive in spite of her 
 childishness; and beyond doubt also she knew and un- 
 derstood the situation. 
 
 "It is our secret, little Kythe, our very own," he 
 found himself saying, his face pressed to the soft, 
 springy hair. "For nobody else but us. Keep it with 
 me, won't you? And, stay; don't go off and leave 
 me. Stay until we can tell people." 
 
 Her kisses were warm enough, in all conscience, 
 though she was girlishly shy and full of little reticences 
 and reserves and refusals. He let her go reluctantly; 
 she was very sweet and soft in her shyness. 
 
 As he left the garden door behind him, a man came 
 to meet him. How much of the interview he had seen 
 or overheard, Gervase did not know, but hot anger at 
 his own folly and imprudence and this man's intrusion, 
 seized him. 
 
 The man accosted him, however, most respectfully. 
 
 "Might I have a word with you, Master Arthur, sir, 
 arxking your pardon for stopping of you?" 
 
 It was Johnstone. 
 
 Slightly mollified, Gervase let the old man walk be- 
 side him, and pour out his tale. Briefly, it came to 
 this, that as the lady had come back, couldn't Major 
 Gervase do something for him? The lady would know, 
 and p'raps she would tell him something. She knew, 
 for certain sure. 
 
 "Master Arthur, sir, arxk her to tell me. A pore
 
 146 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 ole man, I am, and I've a-waited all these years and 
 never told a sowl what I could a-told. Held my tongue, 
 I have, out of respec' for the fam'ly and never let no 
 word slip. But I want to know, I do, afore I go to 
 my rest. It's not so fur off now, Master Arthur, and 
 I couldn't rest easy unless I knowd what it wuz as 
 become of my lad. I'm a pore ole man, I am, with 
 nothing but my rest to look forrard to. It ooldn't be 
 fair, Master Arthur, for to spile my rest for me. And 
 people saying bitter black things about him; I got 
 to clear him afore I goes." 
 
 This passionate and bewildering harangue had no 
 meaning for Gervase. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry, Johnstone, but I don't know 
 what you are talking of. What lady has come that 
 can tell you about your lad? I don't know of any." 
 
 "Miss Teresa, sir. I see her come, this very night 
 as ever is. Drove up in a motor, she did; and she's 
 there now. You will find her, sir, when you get 
 in." 
 
 No news Johnstone could have given would have 
 been less welcome; and Gervase did not believe it. 
 He thought the old man's mind was indeed astray; 
 yet the very idea of Teresa's arrival, or possible ar- 
 rival, sent him hurrying to the relief of Lady Kath- 
 erine. He let himself in by the side door, hardly heed- 
 ing Johnstone's piteous wail "you'll arxk her to tell me, 
 Master Arthur, sir, you will, won't you?" and raced 
 up to the house. 
 
 "Mrs. Gervase, sir," remarked Mellish, as Gervase
 
 MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM 147 
 
 wondered how to frame an inquiry; "she arrived at a 
 quarter to eight. You will find her in the lib'ry, sir; 
 she wouldn't have the drawing-room set out." 
 
 "How is Lady Katherine?" Gervase asked, in utter, 
 breathless dismay. 
 
 "As well as could be expected, sir," answered Mellish, 
 discreetly. "She did not have a c'lapse, nor yet a 
 crissis, sir." 
 
 "I had better see her, if she is still awake," re- 
 marked Gervase and went upstairs without delay. 
 
 Lady Katherine was in bed, but wakeful. Her ex- 
 pression, resigned and beaten, made his heart ache. 
 
 "Have you seen her?" she asked. 
 
 "Not yet," replied Arthur. "Did she say what had 
 brought her?" 
 
 "Her children," said Lady Katherine, with an into- 
 nation of indescribable scorn. Then, in a wail almost 
 as piteous as old Johnstone's, she cried, 
 
 "O, Arthur, she has come to make trouble. Dread- 
 ful, dreadful trouble. I cannot bear the thought. I 
 wish she had been dead in good earnest, whether 
 it is wicked or not. Why did she, oh; why did 
 she?" 
 
 "Do you know why she came, then?" he asked, 
 stupefied. 
 
 "I suppose so. Crazy; crazy. Wickedly, per- 
 versely crazy; or crazily wicked. I do not know 
 which." 
 
 She turned her head restlessly on the pillow, mur- 
 muring,
 
 148 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Thank God your grandfather did not live to see 
 this." 
 
 There was a mystery and a trouble beyond his 
 comprehension; and he kissed her and left her, in 
 deep concern.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 FAMILY AMENITIES 
 
 WITH the greatest possible distaste, Gervase went 
 in search of his sister. She was in possession of the 
 library, a stately and beautiful apartment used on 
 ordinary occasions as a sitting-room. Sprawling full 
 length on the sofa, which she had pulled, regardless 
 of the arrangement of the room, to the front of a fire 
 that she had piled up to scorching point, one leg dan- 
 gling over the arm, a little Spanish cigar between her 
 lips, and an indescribable litter of smoking material, 
 comic papers, and odds and ends around her, she looked 
 over one shoulder and watched him without moving, 
 as he came into the room and closed the door. 
 
 "Here you are at last," she said, in her purring con- 
 tralto, reaching a careless hand to him over the back 
 of the sofa. "Aren't you glad to see me? What an 
 unwelcoming, and unbecoming frown?" 
 
 She laughed low, and settled herself more snugly 
 into the sofa. It gave her pleasant sensations to see 
 how disturbing her advent was to them all. 
 
 And, as when a boy, Arthur quailed before her 
 resolute malice. 
 
 "Have you seen the children?" he asked, dropping 
 her uncordial hand after the briefest pressure. 
 
 149
 
 150 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Oh, yes. The devoted parent is my role, at present. 
 I went up to see them at once; and very well they 
 look, though I do not think you have trained them 
 nicely in manners. They did not even pretend to be 
 glad to see me." 
 
 "You won't find anyone here pretending that," rose 
 to Arthur's lips, but he refrained from speech. No 
 matter what one said, it only supplied Teresa with 
 food for her sneers and barbs for her arrows. 
 
 She asked him a few questions, suggesting malicious 
 answers to them, and commented on Lady Katherine 
 being so far from robust in health. 
 
 "It was time I came home," she yawned, "to take 
 the worry of the children off her shoulders." 
 
 Arthur was discreetly silent. 
 
 Teresa helped herself, when the Tantalus and 
 glasses came, to a much larger tot of whiskey than 
 her brother allowed himself, with less water. It was 
 tossed off as if it were milk, and followed by another, 
 without any apparent effect. 
 
 She looked her age, and at times wore an expres- 
 sion that was almost haggard. Worn to the bone, 
 lined, and as thin as a woman well could be, she was 
 yet graceful and still attractive in a feline way. Her 
 magnificent eyes and wide laughing mouth with the 
 pretty teeth and the obvious dimples, would carry her 
 on to the end. 
 
 "What about Hughie?" she asked, presently. 
 
 "Hugh did badly for himself," said Arthur absently. 
 "Poor old Hugh."
 
 FAMILY AMENITIES 151 
 
 "I must go over and see him," she said, with her 
 wicked, enraging laugh. 
 
 It would be just like her, thought Arthur, to take 
 up with the Rattler crowd painted, loud-voiced wo- 
 men who did not mind loose jests, and rowdy, hard- 
 drinking men totally untroubled by breeding just the 
 kind of society for Teresa. The Rattlers were not 
 immoral in the accepted sense, only low-lived, and fishy 
 in money matters. She was capable of inviting them 
 to The Domain! 
 
 "Well, I think I'll go to bed," said Arthur. "Where 
 have they put you?" 
 
 "In the Grey Passage," answered Teresa, with a 
 wicked grin. "Too far from the children, I'm afraid. 
 I shall have to get moved to-morrow; I want to keep 
 a close eye on them." 
 
 Arthur slammed the door in the temper he could 
 never control when Teresa was about. 
 
 When he came out of the bath-room, he found his 
 room in possession of two flannel-clad and dressing- 
 gowned young people, waiting, perched on the end rail 
 of the bed. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" he asked. 
 
 "Waiting for you," answered Guin. "We wanted 
 to see you before you went to bed." 
 
 Something in the child's words and manner stirred 
 a queer memory in Gervase's brain. Where had he 
 heard her say that before? No; of course, it was not 
 her. It was something like what Kythe had said to 
 him, only a short time ago. It was like the way Kythe
 
 152 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 had said it, too; and there was a troubled expression, 
 altogether new to Gum's face, that was reminiscent of 
 Kythe. 
 
 He puzzled over it for a few moments, giving it 
 more attention than its importance seemed to war- 
 rant. 
 
 He sat on the bed beside the rail, and Guin squatted 
 close to him, hugging his arm. Lance, astride of the 
 thick wooden rail, opened fire. 
 
 "Have you seen Mother?" 
 
 "Yes, old man. Just for a few minutes." 
 
 "What has she come for, Uncle Arthur? Has she 
 come to take us?" 
 
 "Take you, dear old man? Take you where?" 
 
 "Take us with her. Away," hoarsely. 
 
 "I won't go; I won't go," exclaimed Guin, passion- 
 ately, her face smothered against his shoulder. "I 
 won't, I won't. I'll wish she had been really dead, if 
 she is going to take us back." 
 
 The vibrating passion of it, the unrestrained, almost 
 despairing resentment, again recalled Kythe. Ger- 
 vase felt his brain in a whirl. He did not know much 
 about girls of that age, and had not dreamt of these 
 tragic intensities to their natures. 
 
 "Of course she won't take you away. Why should 
 she?" he soothed. 
 
 "Because she'll know we'd hate it," answered Lance, 
 gloomily. "That's reason enough, for her." 
 
 The concentrated bitterness of their tone, in alluding 
 to their mother, made a very painful impression on 
 Gervase. He knew Lance was right. It would be
 
 FAMILY AMENITIES 153 
 
 reason enough, for Teresa, if she took it into her head; 
 and she would never count the cost, nor consider the 
 consequences. 
 
 "Don't you worry about that," he advised. "I ex- 
 pect your mother has come because she is sick of 
 wandering about, and wants to be comfortable and 
 settled. If she had wanted you, she would have had 
 you sent; she would hardly have come herself." 
 
 He talked to reassure them, but did not convince 
 himself. 
 
 "Is the door properly shut?" asked Guin, with real 
 and dreadful anxiety, lamentable to behold. "Cos 
 she listens; and if she knew we minded " 
 
 Lance slipped down softly and tried the door. 
 
 Gervase was desperately shocked. These children 
 had never before shown any trace of their association 
 with evil-doers; and he had often wondered that they 
 had come so clean out of Teresa's hands and haunts. 
 Evidently there were things undreamed of in their 
 lives, things they had sloughed and left behind them 
 with the happy adaptability of childhood ugly things 
 that the sight of their mother revived. 
 
 "She listens." How horrible to hear that child say 
 it, with full knowledge of its infamy, of her own 
 mother! Gervase felt hot anger rising against his 
 sister; yet knew he would never have the courage to 
 challenge her and tell her of her degradation. 
 
 He recollected the extremely calm way in which 
 the children had received the news of their mother's 
 announced death. At the time Gervase had had an 
 uncomfortable impression that they were more relieved
 
 154 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 than distressed; and Teresa's return left him in no 
 doubt of their complete absence of filial sentiment. It 
 was, perhaps, he consoled himself, better that way than 
 that they should be under her unwholesome influence. 
 
 He tucked the two uneasy young people into their 
 beds, in the two small rooms where he and Hugh had 
 slept; and went to his own bed, full of foreboding. 
 Falling asleep with his mind on the peculiar likeness to 
 Kythe displayed by Guin under the influence of emo- 
 tion, he dreamed that he clasped Kythe in his arms on 
 their marriage and found her to be Guin. 
 
 Next day was Sunday. Gervase nearly always put 
 in an appearance at Church to encourage old Ray- 
 mond, he used to say, and keep him up to the mark. 
 Lady Katherine was no longer able to sit out the serv- 
 ice, and only came for the Sacrament. 
 
 In the hall, waiting for the children to be ready, 
 Gervase looked up at a sound on the big stair. It 
 was Teresa, also palpably ready for church. 
 
 He said no word. Lance and he walked in front, 
 Teresa and Guin a few paces behind. Teresa carried 
 an ostentatious prayer-book, and a larger hymn-book 
 with tunes. The family seats were at the top of the 
 chancel, facing north and protected by jutting carved 
 wings of woodwork. Short pews cut them off from 
 the aisle. They had their own entry. 
 
 Gervase walked in, holding the door of the carven 
 enclosure open for his sister, with a sound like rushing 
 wind in his ears. He knew the sensation their en- 
 trance would create, and wished he were at the North 
 Pole.
 
 FAMILY AMENITIES 155 
 
 Across the aisle, lower down the church, sat the 
 Desmonds. The Domain enclosure was in full view 
 from where they sat. Kythe and Guin exchanged a 
 greeting that they fondly imagined to be hidden from 
 others. It expressed surprise on the one hand, and 
 dismay on the other. 
 
 There was, of course, the greatest excitement. The 
 village wondered what had brought "that flighty 
 madam" back again, and how Lady Katherine took it. 
 The Raymonds, the Leighs, and the Desmonds saw 
 the distressing side, and felt deepest sympathy for 
 Lady Katherine, Arthur and "those unfortunate chil- 
 dren." No one had any thought of sinister secrets or 
 mysteries. 
 
 Down at the bottom of the church, in one of the 
 short pews beyond the north aisle, sat old Johnstone. 
 Bowed, grizzled, and withered, he had not lost the 
 keen faculties of sight and hearing; and was besides, 
 watching for the family from The Domain. To him 
 alone did the situation seem sinister; and the sight of 
 Teresa worked him up to danger pitch. 
 
 He would give Master Arthur time, he kept saying 
 to himself, with a glitter of fanaticism in his old eyes. 
 He would give him time. "I've bided so long, I can 
 bide a bit longer yet." But if nothing came from 
 Master Arthur in reasonable time, then he would see 
 to things himself. Lady Katherine had always been a 
 lady to see things done straight. To Lady Katherine 
 he would go, if Master Arthur failed him. 
 
 With swift and dexterous purpose, Teresa got her- 
 self out of the church before the neighbours had time
 
 156 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 to disperse. Gervase found her, bowing with malicious 
 recognition to the Leighs, and prepared to make every- 
 one feel uncomfortable by being forced either to greet 
 her or snub her publicly. He himself was greeted 
 warmly by the Desmonds and by Mrs. Raymond. His 
 sister so manoeuvred her movements as to make an 
 introduction unavoidable. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond smiled kindly and held out a not 
 unfriendly hand. This was the girl who had asked 
 Lady Katherine to forgive her and to give her chil- 
 dren a chance. Now that she had come back to the 
 safe haven she had despised in her stormy youth, the 
 older woman resolved to say no word and to do no 
 deed that would make the path of peace and order hard 
 for those unruly feet. 
 
 So she smiled and shook hands, and held the hand 
 an extra moment while she asked Major Gervase how 
 Lady Katherine was. 
 
 Teresa flashed a quick, malicious glance over them 
 from her mocking eyes. She knew as well as they 
 did what they were all thinking. 
 
 "How do you do, Mr. Desmond? You are Mr. 
 Desmond, aren't you?" 
 
 Mr. Desmond had stepped back when his wife shook 
 hands with this woman, as if not liking to see the 
 contact. Gervase noticed that, and felt furious. But 
 he did not catch the surprised look on Mrs. Desmond's 
 face at Teresa's cool greeting of her husband. 
 
 Gervase thought it "jolly bad taste," all the same. 
 Desmond might have made himself notorious, but it
 
 FAMILY AMENITIES 157 
 
 was "a bit thick" to rub it in like that, and before his 
 wife, too. 
 
 Mr. Desmond responded, not stiffly, yet with little 
 empressement ; and busied himself with getting his 
 wife home, his show of concern for her health setting 
 everyone's teeth on edge. Teresa walked behind them 
 with her children, Gervase going down the road through 
 the village with Tom Leigh part of the way to the 
 Manor Farm. He found a boy to whom he entrusted 
 a scribbled message for Hugh. 
 
 Teresa did not go, as was usual, to the front en- 
 trance of The Domain. She turned aside and fol- 
 lowed the Desmonds up the lane, and opened the small 
 door in the wall with a key she produced from some- 
 where. An expression, purely wicked, lit her face as 
 she turned it, from practised habit, with the peculiar 
 twist the lock required. Lance noticed it and wondered 
 what it meant. He and Guin passed in, their mother 
 standing purposefully outside the threshold, watching 
 the party from The Meadows up the lane. 
 
 When The Meadows garden door was reached, Mr. 
 Desmond gave a sharp and furtive look back, and saw 
 her watching. 
 
 That afternoon Teresa began her old ways. 
 
 "I am going over to see Hugh," she announced, 
 after lunch. "Children, get ready to start at three. 
 We will go and dig Uncle Hugh out, and make him 
 give an account of himself." 
 
 "We don't go to Uncle Hugh's," objected Lance. 
 "Gran doesn't like it."
 
 158 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Gran won't mind your going anywhere, with your 
 mother to look after you," grinned Teresa. 
 
 When they had left the room, Gervase protested. 
 
 "If you can't keep out of bad company yourself," 
 he said, working himself up so as to keep hold of his 
 courage, "you might at least leave the kids out of it. 
 It will be shameful if you mix them up with that low- 
 lived Rattler lot." 
 
 "Compared with their own mother, dear Arthur, 
 the Rattler lot are harmless," said Teresa, suavely. 
 
 "You needn't go out of your way to make bad 
 worse," argued Arthur, ineffectively. 
 
 "Well, if I am not to go to Hugh's because they 
 are too disreputable, shall we go to the Leighs'? Or 
 to the Desmonds'?" 
 
 She eyed him tormentingly. 
 
 "No? Too respectable? A poor look-out for me, 
 isn't it? One brother's friends too bad, and the other's 
 too good what am I to do for company? Any sug- 
 gestions? Should I confine myself to associating solely 
 with the servants?" 
 
 "If you come unexpectedly, without finding out if 
 you are wanted " he began. 
 
 "How can I find out if I am wanted at the Rat- 
 tlers', unless I go there? For all you know, they may 
 want me passionately, when they see me! Come, 
 Arthur, I'm here; and I'm going to stay. You can't 
 turn me out without a scandal a loud scandal. I'll 
 take care it's a loud one. So you had better 
 make the best of me, and find me some amusing com- 
 pany."
 
 FAMILY AMENITIES 159 
 
 "Why was your death announced in the Sydney 
 Weekly?" asked Arthur. 
 
 "Ah! Why? Do you mean to say you haven't 
 tumbled?" She laughed unreservedly, her mouth wide, 
 her eyes dancing. "A very good reason, and quite 
 successful. What a dreadful lot of Aunt Jemimas you 
 are here! I feel as if I had got into one of Mrs. Trim- 
 mer's moral stories for young people." 
 
 "No story would be moral with you in it!" 
 
 "No. But it might be amusing, or exciting. Oh, 
 I can see I am going to have very good fun here. Is 
 that Mrs. Desmond going to have a baby?" 
 
 Gervase thought this coarse and offensive. Mrs. 
 Desmond and Aunt Hermione and Mrs. Leigh and 
 Lady Katherine never talked like that. He hated wo- 
 men to bring those sorts of things to men's notice. 
 
 "I haven't asked," he said, curtly. 
 
 "Haven't you used your eyes either? She looks like 
 it. Disgusting, at her age. She ought to have fin- 
 ished with that sort of thing. How long has he been 
 back? They didn't lose much time, did they?" 
 
 Gervase made no comment. He was inexpressibly 
 annoyed. 
 
 "She can't have much spirit, or decency, to take 
 him back like that after the way he treated her," 
 sneered Teresa. But still he took no notice. The 
 vulgar, vixenish outlook, which was all that could be 
 expected of Teresa, offended him beyond speech in con- 
 nection with Mrs. Desmond. 
 
 Finding he would not discuss the Desmonds, she 
 harked back to her starting point.
 
 160 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Well? Where is it to be? The Rattlers, or the 
 Manor Farm?" 
 
 "Oh, please yourself," he retorted, and left the room. 
 
 Teresa laughed her vicious, musical laugh, and went 
 into the garden. 
 
 She had lost no time, since her return. The porter 
 at Fairlands station, the driver of the hired car, the 
 under-housemaid who attended to her room, one of 
 the garden boys, her own children she had pumped 
 them and elicited scraps of local information, and 
 heard one or two of the things she wanted to know. 
 Out in the garden, she got hold of old Adams. 
 
 "Your sons working here still, Adams?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, Missie," said the old man. "And my grand- 
 son." 
 
 "My grandmother is fortunate," she laughed. "And 
 which of you have the keys of the Old Tower?" 
 
 "I have, Missie. Would you like to go in, any 
 time? It's a long time since anyone used it, not since 
 Master Hugh left. A long time, a long time." 
 
 "Is there anything to see if I do go in?" she asked, 
 lightly; for indeed there was nothing, except a winding 
 stair down into a fairly dry cellar, and another up 
 only five or six steps up to a room with a window 
 looking on the garden and the place where another, 
 looking on the lane, had been walled up. This room 
 Hugh had used for a carpenter's shop, with a bench 
 and a turning lathe. It was still just as he had left it. 
 In the cellar, Adams stowed wood and coal for the 
 greenhouses, and grew mushrooms. 
 
 Leaving the old man, she strolled to the Towei and
 
 FAMILY AMENITIES 161 
 
 opened the door beside it into the lane. Walking up 
 it with cat-like tread, she listened and listened, out- 
 side the garden wall of The Meadows, to the voices 
 and laughter she heard within it. Mr. Desmond was 
 in great form, and Mrs. Lennox was "playing up." 
 
 A smile, altogether evil, sat on Teresa's face as she 
 listened. Then she made up her mind. 
 
 Calling to Lance and Guin, she collected them in 
 The Domain garden, and suggested a walk. 
 
 "Take me for a walk somewhere. Where? Oh, 
 anywhere. Anywhere you usually go." 
 
 And they went up the lane together. 
 
 Lance's call brought Hero and Kythe to the garden 
 door for a few moments. Teresa spoke to them pleas- 
 antly; and Hero, conscious of no difficulties, called 
 back into the garden, 
 
 "It is Lance and Guin and their mother." 
 
 Something made them hesitate, look round at Mrs. 
 Gervase, and look back over their shoulders. Then 
 Kythe, in her self-possessed way, said, 
 
 "Are you off for a walk? We must go now, Mother 
 wants us. Good-bye." 
 
 The door closed. Teresa was perfectly certain some 
 sign had been made forbidding the girls to ask her in. 
 She hummed a little bravoura run and trill, to herself, 
 during the walk, and answered the children so absently 
 that they left off trying to be polite to her, and sheered 
 off by themselves, talking in low tones. Presently 
 they found she was walking so quickly as to be difficult 
 to keep up with. 
 
 They skirted The Domain in a wide circuit and
 
 1 62 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 came back into the Manor Farm Road that ran out of 
 the village past the front entrance to The Domain, 
 by taking a narrow path through the wood that had 
 got to be a right of way. At the great gate of The 
 Domain, was Gervase, obviously in an altercation with 
 a shabby old man. 
 
 "I wun't let you put me off with that, Master Arthur. 
 It's not natural I shouldn't want fur to know. I got 
 to find out about my boy, and clear him of the things 
 they are saying of him. If you wuz to arxk the young 
 lady, now. If you wuz only to arxk her. She'd not 
 let an old man go to his grave without knowing a thing 
 like that; and if I don't get it from you or her, I 
 warns you fair, Master Arthur, I'll go to Lady Kath- 
 erine, I will. I'll go to her ladyship, as won't see me 
 wronged no longer, not if she knows about it, she 
 won't." 
 
 At the end of his vehement speech he found him- 
 self in the presence of "the young lady." 
 
 "What's the excitement, Arthur?" she asked, with 
 mischievous curiosity. "What is old Whatsis-name go- 
 ing to Gran about?" 
 
 "Johnstone's my name," said the old man, loudly, 
 but quaveringly. "Johnstone. Father of Willie John- 
 stone, what was a friend of your gentleman friend's." 
 
 If ever Teresa looked daunted, it was then. 
 
 "And I was saying to Master Arthur here," went 
 on old Johnstone, "that I wants to know about my 
 boy. I wants to know what you done with him, that 
 was going to do so much to help him, after all the
 
 FAMILY AMENITIES 163 
 
 trouble. What you done with my Willie. I got a 
 right to know, and a right to go easy to my grave and 
 to get my rest without being kept out of knowing what 
 I got a right to know " 
 
 He broke off, wandering a little. 
 
 "Is this a joker, or a lunatic?" asked Teresa, of 
 her brother, with careless insolence. 
 
 She did it well, but Arthur saw she was disturbed. 
 Lance and Guin were furious at her insolent tone to 
 old Johnstone, whom they regarded with favour as 
 one well thought of by Tenterley and by Brookes. 
 Johnstone, who was always respectful to the gentry, 
 but had never been required to take that kind of in- 
 solence, broke out afresh. 
 
 "Ah! You'd like fine and well to have it made 
 out a lunacy. You'd like the old man who knew some- 
 thing of your goings-on to be a lunatic. You'd like 
 to muzzle him in a 'sylum, you would, and get him 
 out of the way." 
 
 Gervase interrupted, peremptorily. 
 
 "We can't have this sort of thing in the streets, 
 Johnstone. If you have anything definite to say- 
 something real and practical come to the house to- 
 morrow morning and we will hear you quietly. Any 
 time between nine and eleven. Come in, Teresa." 
 
 "What is it all about?" he asked, angrily, in the 
 library. 
 
 "How should I'know?" she parried, mockingly. "If 
 you keep tame lunatics, or village idiots, I can't be 
 expected to know the forms their folly takes!"
 
 1 64 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Did you ever know Willie Johnstone?" 
 
 "I shouldn't remember it, if I had! Why should 
 I?" 
 
 "Why is he so certain you would?" 
 
 "How can I be expected to account for his mad- 
 ness?" 
 
 When Gervase went to say good-night to Lady 
 Katherine, he found her stronger, and more collected 
 than he had seen her for some time. 
 
 "How is she behaving?" asked the old lady. 
 
 "Just as one would expect," answered Arthur, with 
 a shrug of annoyance. "Wanted to take the children 
 to Hugh's; came to Church, and forced me to intro- 
 duce her to the Desmonds. Tried to be funny with 
 Desmond " 
 
 An angry red flamed on Lady Katherine's cheeks. 
 
 "It is an outrageous thing of her to have done, 
 to come back here. Nothing can come of it but 
 trouble. I will not see her or speak to her, Arthur. 
 Do not let her come near me." 
 
 "There is one person very anxious to see her," re- 
 marked Arthur. "I think you ought to know some- 
 thing about it, Gran. I haven't a notion if there is 
 anything in it or not, but she looked so caught, it 
 makes me suspicious. Old Johnstone Amos John- 
 stone has got it into his head that she can tell him 
 something about his son's death. He says she was 
 mixed up in something I can't make head or tail 
 of it, he gets so excited. He has gone for me twice 
 about it, and threatens to see you; and she came up
 
 FAMILY AMENITIES 165 
 
 while he was talking to me, and he almost threatened 
 her." 
 
 There was unmistakeable horror on Lady Kath- 
 erine's face. 
 
 "He is coming here to-morrow, to talk it out." 
 
 "He mustn't, Arthur. Don't allow it. Can I trust 
 you to see to it? Oh, how helpless I am here. May 
 God forgive her, for I never can." 
 
 Terribly alarmed, Arthur soothed her and begged 
 her not to worry, promising to deal faithfully with 
 Amos Johnstone. When he bade her good-night and 
 hoped she would sleep, she shook her head hopelessly. 
 
 "I can't sleep, Arthur. I lie awake hours and hours. 
 Listening to those carts, rumbling along; like Doom. 
 Like your grandfather did. Listening and listening, 
 and hearing them even when they were not there ' 
 
 Her voice tailed off into a whisper, and he crept 
 away in deep concern and alarm. There must be 
 something desperately serious in old Johnstone's quest, 
 and half-veiled threats. 
 
 The story of his sister's intrigue with a market- 
 garden man leapt back to his mind. He marvelled 
 that he had not thought of it before. Was it Willie 
 Johnstone? And if so, who was the "gentleman 
 friend" of whom old Amos had spoken? It almost 
 seemed as if he were on the verge of discovery of 
 some sort; it might well be a crime. 
 
 A crime of wliich his grandfather and grandmother 
 had knowledge? A crime, perhaps, committed by 
 Teresa ? The thought made his head swim.
 
 1 66 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 He could easily think of Teresa as murdering her 
 low-born lover! 
 
 Next morning, to his surprise, Gervase was told 
 that Lady Katherine would like to see him in her 
 morning-room. He found her, white-faced but reso- 
 lute, and less feeble than he could have believed pos- 
 sible. 
 
 "I am not going to give way any longer," she told 
 him. "I have been more sick in mind than in body, 
 Arthur, and no effort seemed worth while. I have been 
 a coward. But I must take control of things now. 
 Where is Teresa?" 
 
 "In the study." 
 
 She made him give her his arm to the study door, 
 then asked him to go. Teresa was full length on the 
 sofa with a French comic paper in her hand. She 
 got up, pretty quickly and respectfully, for her. 
 
 Lady Katherine seated herself in a big chair, Teresa 
 clearing a space for her to pass. Wherever Teresa 
 was, an accumulation of disorder surrounded her pa- 
 pers ill-folded, books bent backwards, handkerchiefs, 
 and other personal belongings, and a litter of cigarettes 
 and matches, both new, half-finished, and done with. 
 She lit another cigarette, sat on the sofa in a crouch- 
 ing attitude, and waited. 
 
 "I have thought things over," said Lady Katherine, 
 in a hard, unyielding voice; "and I will not have you 
 here. It is an intrusion so indecent that I am sur- 
 prised even you should attempt it. I will not tolerate 
 it." 
 
 Teresa turned an impudently interested face to the
 
 FAMILY AMENITIES 167 
 
 older lady. The expression seemed to say, "And what 
 do you propose to do to prevent it?" 
 
 "You will leave here," went on Lady Katherine ia- 
 exorably, "in three days. I will give orders that a 
 car be ready for you and your luggage; and I will take 
 your ticket to any destination that you desire overseas. 
 I will also arrange for you to be escorted to the ship 
 and kept in sight until you sail. Do you understand?" 
 
 "And the children?" 
 
 "They will stay here." 
 
 "Not unless I do." 
 
 "They will stay here." 
 
 "Illegitimate children belong by law to their mother," 
 said Teresa, softly. "And these are not English chil- 
 dren; they are Australian citizens." 
 
 There was a threat in every word. 
 
 "If you claim them," said Lady Katherine, unflinch- 
 ingly, "and you will not get them except by legal pres- 
 sure, for no one here will help you to take them, and 
 I will put all on their guard I will take the matter 
 into Court, and show that you are not a fit person to 
 have the custody of children." 
 
 Teresa laughed. 
 
 "That would suit me down to the ground," she 
 purred. "Then we would have out all the dirty family 
 linen and give it a good washing at last." 
 
 "Do you think I do not know how you rely on 
 that threat, and* how you are planning to trade on 
 it?" asked Lady Katherine, with biting scorn. "I 
 know it to be your trump card. And I have hidden 
 so much for the sake of the family credit and for the
 
 1 68 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 sake of my sons and their sons, that no doubt you 
 felt safe in holding that belief. But I have gone as 
 far as I mean to go, and you can push me no farther. 
 I will not be a party to your wickedness any longer, 
 nor will I allow you to have the control of the chil- 
 dren. We will have it out now." 
 
 "Why should you take so much evil of me for 
 granted?" asked Teresa, her handsome eyes assuming 
 a pathetic intensity. 
 
 "It is no use, Teresa. Don't try pathos. It makes 
 even less impression on me than threats. I know why 
 you sent me your children. I know why you had your 
 death put in the paper. I know why you came back." 
 
 "It was a good dodge, wasn't it?" remarked Teresa, 
 with a wicked laugh. "It did the trick fish rose to 
 the fly, instantaneously. Come, Gran; you are a bit 
 of a sportsman, don't spoil sport for others." 
 
 "Sport!" echoed Lady Katherine, with so much of 
 bitterness, the younger woman mentally described her- 
 self as having drawn blood. "You vile creature. You 
 degrade everything you even speak of. In three days 
 you understand? You leave this house; and if 
 you want money to go, your destination must be over- 
 seas." 
 
 Lady Katherine left the room, well aware that by 
 her action she might be precipitating a crisis, yet feel- 
 ing too much roused to observe caution. And Teresa 
 crouched, staring at the fire, wondering which of the 
 various lines of viciousness open to her she should em- 
 bark on, wondering how much Johnstone knew, and
 
 FAMILY AMENITIES 169 
 
 how she could escape the deportation Lady Katherine 
 was planning, and yet secure the money that she needed 
 above all things. 
 
 Whatever she did, she would have to do quickly; 
 that much was certain.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 LORD GOTTO TAKES A HAND 
 
 LORD GOTTO, a man of the most limited perceptions, 
 was deeply and intimately convinced that he was 
 gifted beyond his fellows with the quality of penetra- 
 tion. He could see, he was in the habit of asserting, 
 as far into a brick wall as most people, this being a 
 class of saying to which he was much addicted. " 'A 
 nod is as good as a wink' to me, any day" was another 
 favourite (of whose real significance he was blissfully 
 unconscious); and he frequently asserted his mathe- 
 matical proficiency in the number of beans that made 
 five. In regard to the brick wall proposition, he gen- 
 erally followed it up by adding oracularly, "And a 
 bit further too." 
 
 It was on this form of philosophy that he fell back 
 for angry consolation when Mr. Talbot chipped him 
 about warrants for people's arrest; but if Mr. Talbot 
 flattered himself that that ended the matter he never 
 made a greater mistake in his life. 
 
 "If that quibbling, hair-splitting lawyer thinks he 
 is going to be able to come the old soldier over me," 
 shouted Lord Gotto to Lady Gotto, who rocked im- 
 patiently in her chair because she could not bear any- 
 
 170
 
 LORD GOTTO TAKES A HAND 171 
 
 one to talk loudly and arrogantly except herself, "he 
 has jolly well got to have a lesson. I'm not the kiuu 
 of fellow to be barking up the wrong tree, and I'll show 
 him." 
 
 And he proceeded to demonstrate his acuteness by 
 prosecuting enquiries in the Sherlock Holmes manner, 
 finding clues and unearthing motives, and tracking ac- 
 cessories, and shouting his deductions aloud across the 
 dinner table to the bored and often rudely-snubbing 
 Lady Gotto, who had no patience with his foolishness, 
 nor indeed with that of anybody else except her own 
 and the people who flattered her. And he talked in the 
 first-class carriages in which he travelled with all his 
 personal luggage on the seats; and at hotels and at 
 his club and on the golf-course; until Mr. Talbot's 
 friends felt seriously uneasy and everybody else was 
 bored stiff. 
 
 At Tenterley's, the subject of my lord's obsession 
 was touched on. The evening gatherings in the little 
 shop were still a feature of the village life. The old 
 police constable had joined the great majority, and a 
 younger but very chatty officer was in his place. The 
 flippant postman had died a hero's death in South 
 Africa, and the coalman had found a better job in 
 London; but their successors frequented Tenterley's, 
 and hobnobbed with the market-garden carters, and 
 chatted with parson and school-master and organist as 
 of old. 
 
 Constable Thomas, large, florid, impressive, spread 
 himself importantly on the one substantial seat that 
 would stand a constable's normal weight; and Turton,
 
 172 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 on a short, hard bench, smoked reflectively, one knee 
 crossed over the other and an elbow on the knee. Ten- 
 terley, engaged in a delicate operation on a carved pic- 
 ture frame, sat low near his bench, his keen eyes half 
 hidden between a myriad little lines and puckers that 
 gave a quaint character of cheeriness to his honest, 
 acute old face. On the table, one leg dangling, sat a 
 young carter, breathing a beery fragrance, just out 
 from feeding his horses and refreshing his own inner 
 man. 
 
 Two other men lounged in the doorway. One was 
 an elderly carter, the other the bird-seed and poultry- 
 food man from over the way. In a far corner, dejected 
 and forlorn, sat Amos Johnstone, his pipe out, his eyes 
 fixed on the empty fireplace in unhappy reverie. 
 
 "Well, constable, you did ought to know," laughed 
 one of the carters. "They got you prop'ly tied up in 
 the coort, they did, the other morning." 
 
 There was a laugh at the constable's expense, in 
 which he joined good-naturedly. 
 
 "There's noon but makes mistakes, times," he said. 
 "I've heerd worse nor than 'un, in the coorts." 
 
 "Ah." With wise interest and agreement. 
 
 "Mr. Talbot, he says to me, I had to pull you up, 
 Thomas, and sharp, too, he says. It wouldn't a looked 
 well if I'd a passed it without rebuke, he says. But, 
 he says, he knows what a job like mine be, and he 
 won't hold it over against me, he says; nice and fair, 
 he spoke. He's a real gentleman, is Mr. Talbot, and 
 about the beet justice on the Bench in these parts
 
 LORD GOTTO TAKES A HAND 
 
 and I don't know that there's many to beat him else- 
 where." 
 
 "Ah," nodded Tenterley, in agreement. "A very 
 fine gentleman, is Mr. Talbot. Very different kind 
 from that oold Gotto that's always trying to make 
 himself soo important." 
 
 "Proper meddling old 'ooman, that old Gotto," re- 
 marked the young carter. "What's this bee he has 
 got in his bonnet about Mr. Desmond, now?" 
 
 Tenterley lifted his head sharply and crinkled up 
 his eyelids; the constable leaned forward and looked 
 interested. 
 
 "What's he saying about Mr. Desmond?" asked Tur- 
 ton. 
 
 "Says that a warrant ought to be out for his arrest, 
 'cos of complicity in that case about the body nigh 
 to Farmer Johnstone's sheds. Always on to Mr. Tal- 
 bot about it, he is." 
 
 "Now who did you hear that from, Jim Caston?" 
 
 "From gardener at Fairlands Park. They do send 
 a powerful lot of stuff to market from there a heap 
 more than from The Domain, which it's a dirty shame, 
 I call it, seeing as how they could afford to give it 
 away, to hospitals and the like, but they never gives 
 a fardenworth away. Gardener, he was telling me. 
 Shouts it, he does, at breakfast, dinner, and tea, for 
 to let everybody hear." 
 
 "But what d<5es he think Mr. Desmond had to do 
 with it?" asked Turton, staring. 
 
 "Says it is plain that that there murder was what
 
 174 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 made him clear off all them years. He has it, old 
 Gotto has, that it were body of that Mr. Marx, the 
 son of the millingnaire that died not so long ago. His 
 son the millingnaire's son he was kidnapped or de- 
 coyed, or something like that, with a big sum of money 
 on him, and never heerd of no more." 
 
 "And Mr. Desmond, what has pots of money of 
 his own, did it to get the money? Goo on!" said 
 Tenterley, scornfully. 
 
 Constable Thomas watched them all, leaning for- 
 ward, arms on his knees ; and saw old Johnstone listen- 
 ing with a greedy, craving expression that caught his 
 attention. 
 
 "It was a queer story, that about Mr. Desmond," 
 he ventured. 
 
 "Ay. Queer and crooked," said Tenterley, curtly. 
 He had championed the missing man stoutly, and felt 
 personally cheated when he returned. 
 
 "Noo one wou'dn't have believed it," said the bird- 
 seed man, affably. "And my niece, she's housemaid 
 at Gotto's, she says that it's fair crool to hear the way 
 the old man goos on about the crime, as he calls it; 
 not that Mr. Desmond don't deserve all he get, after 
 the way he behave." 
 
 "Ah, but there's a lot of diffrence 'tween playing 
 it up on a woman, or with a woman, as you might 
 say, and taking a man's life," opined the other carter. 
 "Mr. Desmond, he treated his wife crool, he did. But 
 that's not to say he committed murder." 
 
 "Well," said Tenterley, tartly, "we were all wrong
 
 LORD GOTTO TAKES A HAND 175 
 
 before, so we'd best not be too sartain now. And if 
 Mr. Desmond killed young Mr. Marx, perhaps it would 
 be a better excuse for him than if he hadn't. I was 
 thinking, he might have killed him for something that 
 wasn't the money!" 
 
 "Both after the same girl," nodded the young car- 
 ter. "Very likely; and the money would come in 
 handy to get away with. Well, it's a funny place. 
 People appear, and disappear, and there's no explana- 
 tion " he broke off abruptly. 
 
 "There's explanations, all right," interrupted Amos 
 Johnstone, standing up and cutting him short. 
 "There's explanations. But them as has them to give 
 wun't give them. I never spoke much of it afore, but 
 Mr. Desmond, he might tell something about my Willie, 
 and so might Miss Teresa, if they was arxked." 
 
 He looked so wrought up, so flushed, that they all 
 thought him fit for some mad deed that in truth 
 would get him, finally, "put away" as insane. And 
 when he pushed his way to the door and turned up 
 the lane, they stood in the road looking after him, 
 and making comment according to their kind. 
 
 When Johnstone got to the broad, planted road on 
 which the front entrances to The Meadows and The 
 Leas were situated, and which meandered pleasantly 
 on to Farmer Johnstone's farm, The Homestead, he 
 paused. Full of schemes, plots, mysteries, and un- 
 ravelment of them, as his poor mind was, it tended to 
 make him cunning and suspicious. 
 
 "I wun't," he said to himself. "If he's that sort,
 
 176 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 he'd have me made away with too; and I got to find 
 out about my Willie. I mustn't let myself be made 
 away with. I'll go to this 'ere Lord Gotto." 
 
 It was a harder job than he bargained for, to get 
 past the careless but nervous household staff to an 
 interview with the bawling lord. Some of the serv- 
 ants at Fairlands Park were afflicted with their master's 
 vice of arrogance, some of them too much afraid of 
 him to chance his anger. Johnstone had not the 
 knack of making himself seem of importance. 
 
 He haunted the gates of the drive until afraid the 
 lodge-keepers would give him in charge as a suspicious 
 character. And at last the great car came whizzing 
 along. Luckily it was an awkward turn, and the 
 driver had to slow down; otherwise Johnstone would 
 never have had the courage to stop them. 
 
 "What's he want?" bawled Lord Gotto. "Wants to 
 speak to me? What the devil about? Who is he?" 
 
 "My name's Johnstone, Amos Johnstone, brother 
 of Farmer Bartholomew Johnstone, of the Homestead 
 Farm, Lower Domain, where the body of an unknown 
 man was found," said Johnstone, gabbling off his long- 
 prepared speech. "It is about the body, my lord. I 
 want to speak to you; private, arxking your pardon." 
 
 "I can't speak to you now!" retorted Lord Gotto, 
 angrily. Then, as Johnstone made no further sug- 
 gestion, the shouting peer ordered him to come to 
 the Park next ifibrning at eleven. Then he bawled at 
 the chauffeur to drive on. 
 
 He Was full of his own perspicacity in so working 
 up the affair that "information was beginning to roll
 
 LORD GOTTO TAKES A HAND 177 
 
 in, to roll in," and made it his chief topic of conver- 
 sation for the day. It naturally endeared him greatly 
 to the members of his club in whose hearing he 
 lunched, and to his family later on. 
 
 When Johnstone got to the Park next morning, he 
 found Mr. Talbot as well as Lord Gotto. On a spasm 
 of confidence which he afterwards regretted, Lord 
 Gotto had sent for the J.P. to teach him his les- 
 son. 
 
 Poor old Johnstone! His tale, about his lost Willie, 
 was a very halting one. Got into bad company, and 
 misappropriated what was trusted to him, for gambling 
 and drinking. Knew a "gentleman," who "thought a 
 lot of him." The "gentleman" was a lover of Missie 
 at The Domain, and they all disappeared together. 
 
 "All disappeared?" roared Lord Gotto. "What the 
 devil do you mean?" 
 
 "Just try and explain, Johnstone," said Mr. Talbot, 
 gently. "Don't shout at him, Gotto. You confuse 
 him. Come, my good man; your son did he disap- 
 pear suddenly " 
 
 "He never came to say good-bye," mournfully in- 
 sisted Johnstone, "and I had a penny or two put by, 
 that I promised to hand him. But he never came, 
 nor never wrote; and the young lady, she wuz gone too, 
 and they saying at The Domain that she had been sent 
 back to her mother, but not a bit of luggage left the 
 house till more'n'ten days later, and wuz sent to the 
 big station Victoria, 'twas, I think in London ten 
 days after I saw her goo off with the gentleman that 
 wuz her sweetheart. He used to meet my Willie over
 
 178 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 there by the sheds, where the manure heaps wuz. 
 Some game they had on there that I couldn't get the 
 hang on, but many a time I saw them there a bigger 
 man than my Willie; and one to swear! I don't know 
 that I ever heard anyone lay to it like that. And my 
 Willie told me, the young lady liked him fine too my 
 Willie, I mean; not the other. He used to come and 
 goo in the market-carts, the other gentleman did; all 
 hidden up. I never said no word till now, out of re- 
 spec' for the fam'ly, and Milady so good to my pore 
 wife when she lay a-dying, and reading the Bible to her, 
 and the Squire stopping and arxking for her every 
 day, and they giving my Willie his very first little pair 
 of breeches " 
 
 "What a thoroughly disreputable business," bel- 
 lowed Lord Gotto, as old Johnstone paused. "It is 
 high time it was shown up. And this goes on under our 
 nose; immoral intrigues and God knows what besides 
 murders wholesale wholesale." 
 
 "There is no question of any murder yet," remarked 
 Mr. Talbot, "other than the one we know of already. 
 What makes you want to rake all this up, Johnstone? 
 Do you imagine the body you found was this man 
 who was your son's friend?" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Talbot, sir. And I wants the ground 
 turned all round them shedses. My boy's lying there 
 too, somewhere about; and he's got the same call to 
 be tuck up and put in holy ground, the same as the 
 other. He's got his rights to that, and to have his 
 name cleared. I wants to see it done afore I goos, 
 so's I may rest easy. I got a right to my rest; it's
 
 LORD GOTTO TAKES A HAND 179 
 
 all that I got to look forrard to, and I wants to rest 
 easy." 
 
 "And will your brother consent to allow this to be 
 done?" 
 
 Johnstone shook his head. 
 
 "Not without some of the gentry getting at him," he 
 admitted, mournfully. 
 
 "But look here, Johnstone. The young lady she 
 is not young any longer she is back. She seems to 
 have been principally concerned in all this intrigue; 
 you say you saw her go off with her lover. If she 
 is back, why don't you ask her?" 
 
 "I arxked her, Mr. Talbot, sir. I arxked her and 
 Master Arthur that's Major Gervase, sir. And she 
 outfaced me that she knew nothing at all about me 
 or my Willie; and Major Gervase, he said to come and 
 see him in the study, but when I came, he saw me in 
 the yard and said he couldn't discuss it." 
 
 "I thought you said you hadn't told anybody else," 
 roared Lord Gotto, with such suddenness that John- 
 stone dropped his hat. 
 
 "I didn't tell, my lord. 'Cos why, they all knoo 
 about it already! I arxkt; I didn't tell. I arxkt them 
 to tell me what become of my boy, which she and her 
 spark, they promise him all sorts of things. And all 
 she says was, 'Is it a joke or a lunacy?' And Major 
 Gervase, he 'can't discuss it'!" 
 
 The wail of anguish in the man's voice reached Mr. 
 Talbot's heart. 
 
 "Would you like me to speak to Major Gervase for 
 you?" he asked.
 
 i8o WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 The look of gratitude on Johnstone's face was even 
 more pathetic than his quavering voice. 
 
 "And if you could persuade my brother, Mr. Talbot, 
 sir, to have that there ground turned over," he pursued, 
 thanking both the gentlemen effusively, and taking a 
 humble leave. 
 
 "I never heard such a tale in my life!" said Lord 
 Gotto, loudly and angrily, making horrid sucking noises 
 with his teeth and taking not the slightest notice of 
 Johnstone's humble farewell. "It's disgraceful, that's 
 what it is. Disgraceful. It ought to be shown up; 
 and by heaven, Talbot, I'll see to it that it is." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Talbot, mildly, "it hasn't got any- 
 thing to do with either Mr. Desmond or young Marx, 
 has it?" 
 
 This put Lord Gotto in a fury. 
 
 "How do we know it hasn't? How do we know 
 how many more people were involved? Half the coun- 
 try-side might have been in it, for all we know!" 
 
 "In what?" asked Mr. Talbot. "Stealing Farmer 
 Johnstone's market stuff, or making love to the Gervase 
 girl?" 
 
 "I'll tell you what's wrong with you, Talbot," said 
 Lord Gotto, loudly and firmly. "You have no faculty 
 of deduction. You can't see when two and two make 
 four. You don't see what is sticking out under your 
 nose. I can see as far into a brick wall as most men 
 perhaps a bit further and 7 don't require to hear a 
 policeman swear one lie and half a dozen witnesses 
 swear more lies, before I know what's what, and who's 
 who."
 
 LORD GOTTO TAKES A HAND 181 
 
 "And what is what, and who is who, and what is it 
 that is in the brick wall, or under my nose, in this par- 
 ticular matter?" 
 
 Mr. Talbot was nettled. 
 
 "I can find you in evidence, Talbot, but I can't find 
 you in brains to assimilate it," shouted Lord Gotto, in 
 what was intended to be genial waggishness. "You 
 wait for your policeman, old man, and your experts; 
 and your witnesses. They'll tell you all about it! 
 Come in to lunch. Let's tell milady." 
 
 Mr. Talbot was not a man to take hasty action, 
 or to intrude in people's affairs without just and sound 
 reasons. In this case, so vague, so involved, he could 
 see no reason that would avail him except the plea for 
 poor old Johnstone's peace of mind. He could hardly 
 in decency drag up Teresa Gervase's youthful love af- 
 fairs, no matter how discreditable; and to expect her 
 brother to discuss them with him to please Johnstone 
 was altogether too preposterous. Yet, in his capacity 
 as a justice, he felt he had a clear right to ask that 
 all information should be given to the old man to prove, 
 either that his son and his son's friend or associate 
 had nothing to do with the remains found in the place 
 where they used to foregather; or failing that, what the 
 fate of that son had been. 
 
 He called on Farmer Bartholomew Johnstone first. 
 It was decidedly, the least unpleasing of the two inter- 
 views. 
 
 Farmer Johnstone was angry, impatient and scorn- 
 ful; and did not want to waste his time over nonsense. 
 Amos was a pore daft old fool. What did people listen
 
 182 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 to un fur? If all the dafties was to get listened to, the 
 world 'ud be a queer place. Darned sight queerer nor 
 what it is already. 
 
 Mr. Talbot pointed out that Lord Gotto was quite 
 determined to re-open the question of the identity of 
 the body found near the manure-heaps. Amos's 
 grievance was well-known; it was no new thing. It 
 gave colour to a lot of suspicions that might cause 
 annoyance to quite innocent people. And he, person- 
 ally, would think it a great favour if Farmer Johnstone 
 would allow a thorough overhauling of the premises. 
 Lord Gotto would make good all damage and incon- 
 venience. 
 
 When he left, Farmer Johnstone had promised, 
 grudgingly and conditionally, that he would think it 
 over and let Mr. Talbot know a state of things, in 
 regard to the class of person to which Farmer John- 
 stone belonged, which might reasonably be looked upon 
 as meaning that he was agreeable to the proposition 
 and only not wishing to be hustled into carrying it out 
 at any except his own time. 
 
 Mr. Talbot rightly regarded this as a moral and 
 actual triumph; and it heartened him for the far more 
 difficult interview with Major Gervase, towards which 
 he looked with profound distaste and wished he had 
 not in his good nature undertaken it. 
 
 Gervase, too, was anything but pleased. He re- 
 ceived Mr. Talbot with cordiality; but stiffened when 
 that gentleman broached his reason for calling. After 
 a sharp exchange of compliment, Mr. Talbot fired off 
 a shot in good earnest.
 
 LORD GOTTO TAKES A HAND 183 
 
 "Your sister, Major Gervase forgive me for being 
 so plain has not got a good reputation in this part 
 of the world. She, too, left the village under a very 
 serious cloud, and if I may venture to say so^ in 
 rather a strange fashion. She is, so far as we know, 
 the last person who saw young Johnstone. It was her 
 lover who met him at the Homestead Farm, near those 
 sheds of Johnstone's. It is quite possible that young 
 Johnstone was the murderer of that lover, in some quar- 
 rel about her; and that the remains found were those of 
 this unknown person, this lover. I think it is most 
 important that she should make a statement; and in 
 my capacity as a justice, it is my business to see that 
 she does. If she will not, we can only come to one 
 conclusion, and that is, that she was an accomplice in 
 some serious crime." 
 
 It was the purest bluff, but he felt it to be justified. 
 And Arthur did not know enough to recognise it as 
 bluff. He was seriously alarmed. 
 
 "You cannot expect me to want to have my sister's 
 name dragged into all this," he protested. "It will be 
 terrible for Lady Katherine; and there are the young- 
 sters Good Heavens! It will be a horrible business. 
 Besides, when you have stirred it all up and made 
 everybody uncomfortable, what do you expect to find? 
 It is perfectly absurd to suggest that a girl of that 
 age got all these men to murder each other!" 
 
 He talked at random, to gain time. 
 
 "Will your sister see me?" asked Mr. Talbot, 
 gravely. 
 
 "She is not up," answered Gervase, thankful that
 
 1 84 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Teresa's slovenly habits kept her in bed until all hours. 
 "I will ask her and will let you know what she says; 
 and I must be guided by that as to what I shall tell 
 my grandmother." 
 
 "I should not allow a long delay, if I were you," said 
 Mr. Talbot, significantly. 
 
 "And I shall certainly not put pressure on either 
 of them," retorted Arthur. "If there is anything un- 
 pleasant that you feel it your duty to do, you must 
 take full responsibility for it. I think you are riding 
 on a very false scent and will look a fool for your 
 pains. I suppose we have that consummate old idiot 
 Gotto to thank for this!" 
 
 This conclusion did not please Mr. Talbot, and he 
 left in an ill-humour that a subsequent encounter with 
 the Sherlock Holmesing peer did nothing to allay.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 TERESA'S TALONS 
 
 THE result of Lady Katherine's interview with 
 Teresa, as might have been expected, was another 
 collapse, and a period of weakness that kept her to 
 her bed. Teresa secretly rejoiced in the midst of 
 everyone else's distress. Hoping for the old lady's 
 death, she realised that it would leave her free to re- 
 main and to act as she pleased. For she knew Arthur 
 to be too weak, and too much afraid of her, to take 
 any strong steps to dislodge her. 
 
 That Lady Katherine might die was her chief hope. 
 Nothing would suit her book better. The three days 
 passed without anything further being said about her 
 departure. 
 
 Lady Katherine was perfectly conscious of all this, 
 but too weak to take any action for the moment. 
 
 When Arthur told Teresa of Mr. Talbot's visit, 
 she went into peals of mocking laughter. Not a word 
 would she say that had any bearing on the situation. 
 Nevertheless, she took stock of things and found them 
 awkward. 
 
 She had come on a perfectly definite quest, to which 
 she was prepared to devote as much leisure and energy 
 
 185
 
 i86 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 as it required. This raking up of old and entirely un- 
 interesting scandals was going to interfere with and 
 handicap her activities. Suppose they found Willie 
 
 Johnstone ? She did not like dwelling on that 
 
 possibility. 
 
 Poisonous old fool, Johnstone. Pity someone could 
 not make him put his head in a bag. An asylum was 
 the proper place for him, anyway. 
 
 On Sunday, in church, the sly malice in her eyes 
 was noticeable to the most casual observer, and was 
 commented on at Tenterley's, where it was opined 
 that, no matter what it were that she had come back 
 for, she were up to no good. 
 
 After lunch, Hugh came round. Bad accounts of 
 Lady Katherine's condition had reached him; and he 
 rode over to enquire. He was not a bad-hearted man, 
 and was genuinely sorry. 
 
 Arthur brought him in to the library, where they 
 smoked and drank whiskies, until Teresa intruded. 
 
 "My long-lost brother ! " she exclaimed, dramatically, 
 with her wide smile. 
 
 "Pity you aren't my entirely-lost-sister," he retorted, 
 uncompromisingly. "What mischief has brought you 
 back here? Something shady, I presume?" 
 
 "Well, I don't exactly know whether you are just 
 the person to put on airs about that!" countered 
 Teresa, with effect. 
 
 "I suppose it is your welcome arrival that has 
 knocked Gran out of time," continued Hugh, unruffled. 
 
 "I'm afraid my family is not as affectionately dis- 
 posed as it ought to be," sighed Teresa.
 
 TERESA'S TALONS 187 
 
 "You may flatter yourself," assured Hugh, "that 
 there is not one living soul in the world who is glad 
 you are alive." 
 
 "It is a great tribute," agreed Teresa, solemnly. 
 
 Then Arthur appealed to Hugh. 
 
 "Look here, Hugh. Do you remember anything 
 about her carryings-on, just before she went away? 
 There is a fuss being made about a fellow called John- 
 stone one Willie Johnstone, who was in the market- 
 garden business. His father wants to know what be- 
 came of him, and declares that Teresa knows." 
 
 "I remember Johnstone all right," said Hugh, read- 
 ily. "He used to come here to collect stuff. There 
 was an arrangement there still is, isn't there? about 
 having our stuff taken up to market; he used to come 
 here, and see it loaded up." 
 
 "Did you ever see him and Teresa together?" 
 
 "She always had a lot to say to him," replied Hugh, 
 crumpling up his forehead in an effort to remember. 
 "I had the room in the Old Tower for a workshop, and 
 I often used to see her and him. He used to go down 
 with her into the cellar." 
 
 "He used to?" in extreme surprise. 
 
 "Yes. Some yarn about the mushroom beds. She 
 used to say old whatsisname didn't understand them." 
 
 "When did you last see him, Hugh?" 
 
 "Oh, I really^can't remember." 
 
 "Did you ever see a friend of his a big man, fair, 
 who used frightful language?" 
 
 Hugh shook his head. 
 
 All through this dialogue, Teresa stood, apparently
 
 i88 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 unmoved, her elbow on the mantelpiece, one foot on 
 the fender, her splendid eyes flashing backwards and 
 forwards between the two brothers who hated her. At 
 mention of the big, fair man who used frightful 
 language she shifted her position and looked down at 
 her beautifully shod feet. 
 
 "What did you do down the cellar with Will John- 
 stone?" suddenly fired off Arthur. 
 
 "Mind your own business," retorted Teresa. 
 
 The two men left the room in silence, and with one 
 accord found their steps leading them to the Old 
 Tower. Taking the keys from Adams's nail, they 
 swung open the big door and went in to investigate. 
 Lance and Guin were just making for The Meadows 
 and peeped in with them. 
 
 "Can't we have Uncle Hugh's room for a playroom?" 
 they pleaded. "We've always meant to ask you, Uncle 
 Arthur." 
 
 "I don't see why not," agreed Arthur carelessly. 
 "I'll tell Adams to clean it up. Run away now." 
 
 The children departed, in high feather; and the in- 
 vestigation proceeded, without, however, revealing 
 traces of Willie Johnstone or his fate. 
 
 Teresa passed them as they emerged, dusty and cob- 
 webby, and laughed her mocking laugh. She went out 
 at the little door into the lane. 
 
 The enquiry about Willie Johnstone was getting an- 
 noying. She felt that her other business might be in- 
 terfered with materially. 
 
 Mr. Desmond nearly always went for a walk with 
 one or other of his Daughters, on Sunday afternoon.
 
 TERESA'S TALONS 189 
 
 It was his old habit; singling out the children in turn. 
 Teresa walked up and down the lane two or three times, 
 before he came out. He had Kythe with him a re- 
 luctant, rather sullen Kythe, who revolted from her 
 father's company. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Desmond; this is quite fortunate," purred 
 Teresa, in her deep voice. 
 
 Mr. Desmond looked, on the contrary, as if it 
 were quite unfortunate. 
 
 "My boy and girl are at your house, I believe? 
 I wonder if your daughter would be so very kind as 
 to find them and tell them I want them to come for a 
 walk?" 
 
 Kythe went, demurely and without alacrity. She 
 no more enjoyed running errands for Mrs. Gervase 
 than going for walks with her father; and she knew 
 Lance and Guin would simply hate being fetched away 
 by their mother. 
 
 She passed in at the gate, and Mr. Desmond stood, 
 looking embarrassed, but more stubborn than em- 
 barrassed. What Teresa said to him was hi a per- 
 emptory whisper. At first he looked angry, then 
 startled, then sullen; and she cut in again with a 
 ripple of quick, incisive whispering. 
 
 When Kythe came out with Lance and Guin, they 
 all went for a walk together. The brutal tone was in 
 Mr. Desmond's voice, and malice indescribable in 
 Teresa's eye. They talked in low tones with short 
 sentences and long pauses. 
 
 Gervase went home with his brother, and paid his 
 respects to Mrs. Hugh. Her dyed head looked ar>
 
 190 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 palling, ridiculous as a pretence and crude as an 
 artistic effect. The salve and powder combined were 
 peeling flakes off her lips, and her nose had a whitened 
 end that looked like a clown's. She was a good- 
 natured creature, and said the right things about 
 Lady Katherine, and surprised Arthur by the quite 
 charming manners in which she had trained her little 
 girl. 
 
 "We christened her Katherine, you see," explained 
 Mrs. Hugh. "So we had to have her brought up to 
 behave nice." 
 
 Arthur responded gratefully, made himself agree- 
 able to the vulgar sisters, and went on to the Manor 
 Farm, where he poured out his perplexities to Tom 
 Leigh and Mr. and Mrs. Raymond, who were on their 
 way to the Mission Church in a distant corner of the 
 parish. Mr. Raymond was genuinely shocked. 
 
 "And if that dreadful Lord Gotto has got hold of 
 it," said Aunt Hermione, "it will be worse than the 
 bell-man!" 
 
 He stayed and dined with the Leighs, making his way 
 home with the hope of finding Kythe in the lane. 
 After a little dawdling, he heard the click of the latch, 
 and she came. It was some days since they had had 
 a meeting, and he drew her inside the garden door, 
 among some bushes and held her close in his arms. 
 
 Neither spoke. He kissed her several times, con- 
 scious that her lips were passionate and unchildlike, 
 and enjoying it, the while it made him uneasy. She 
 laid her face in his neck, and leaned against him, 
 with little sighs of restful content,
 
 TERESA'S TALONS 191 
 
 Neither of them noticed the passing of time until 
 a faint beat of footsteps fell on their ears. Steps were 
 coming down the lane, leisurely, measured; a pair of 
 lingering sweethearts, it sounded like. 
 
 "Let them go past," whispered Kythe, a little 
 nervously. She reached out her hand and pushed the 
 door to, without noise. 
 
 The footsteps came near, growing more audible. 
 The pair were in no hurry, whoever they were. 
 
 Near the door they paused. Gervase clasped Kythe 
 a little closer and kissed her mouth, in sudden sympathy 
 with the lovers outside, who, presumably, were doing 
 the same. 
 
 Then the door was pushed half open. The murmur- 
 ing voices in the lane became more distinct. 
 
 "You will let me know when I can see you again?" 
 
 The rich, purring tones were very recognisable. 
 
 "Yes. But we'll have to be jolly careful. Don't 
 talk here. It is not safe." 
 
 "Good-night, Dave." 
 
 There was the sound of a brief kiss, a low-toned 
 wicked laugh, and Desmond stepped over the thresh- 
 old, shutting the door with extreme caution behind 
 him. Walking on the grass borders, he reached the 
 house almost without a sound, and got in by his 
 study window. 
 
 Gervase felt Kythe stiffen in his arms. In utter, 
 unmoving silence they stood, so horrified at the revela- 
 tion flashed on them, as hardly even to be relieved at 
 their own escape from detection. They heard the faint 
 sounds of Mr. Desmond's careful progress, and as if
 
 192 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 in accompaniment, the quick springy footsteps of the 
 woman who went on down the lane. When the steps 
 paused, both strained every nerve to catch the sound 
 they knew would come next the sucking plug of The 
 Domain garden door, faint in the distance. 
 
 "Go in, darling," said Gervase, tenderly. "Go in 
 and go to bed, and don't think about it until to-mor- 
 row. I'll come over and see you to-morrow." 
 
 She said never a word; only held him tight, and 
 kissed him, and trembled dreadfully. He watched 
 her go, with a heart wrung with pity and shame and 
 deepest concern. 
 
 What a devil Teresa wasl 
 
 Thoughts, horrible thoughts, held him in thrall all 
 night. He had made love to young Kythe, in what 
 the girl could not but believe to be earnest; and he had 
 definitely envisaged the thought of marrying her. 
 And here he was, involved in a sort of secret intrigue 
 with her, while his sister had a shameful one with her 
 father. It was as vile a situation as could well be 
 devised. 
 
 What a devil Teresa was ! 
 
 He tossed and turned, unrested and uncomforted, 
 and wondered what in the world he ought to do. 
 
 Lady Katherine was better next day, and he sat 
 with her awhile, avoiding the subject of Teresa and 
 such-like disquieting matters. He told her that Hugh 
 had been, and that he had called on Mrs. Hugh. The 
 day passed wearily and lengthily; in the late afternoon 
 he went over to The Meadows.
 
 TERESA'S TALONS 193 
 
 Hero and Kythe, with Guin, were having tea in the 
 play-room, and Guin was recounting vaingloriously 
 Uncle Arthur's promise to let her and Lance have the 
 Tower for a playroom. 
 
 "And Lance says we must look for secret panels 
 and doorways with springs," she added, hopefully. 
 "Here's Uncle Arthur! Uncle Arthur, do you think 
 there'll be a secret panel in the playroom of the 
 Tower?" 
 
 "I should be very much surprised if there were," 
 answered Gervase, swinging himself over the window 
 sill. "May is coming in a minute, Hero, and she 
 says you're not to eat all the almond icing, because 
 she'll want some." 
 
 He talked, lightly enough, until Lance turned up, 
 and then rose to go. 
 
 "Coming to see me to the lane?" he asked, catching 
 Kythe's arm. 
 
 "Have you told anyone?" he asked her. 
 
 "No," said Kythe. "Ought I?" 
 
 "Heaven knows," answered he. 
 
 "Oh, Arthur, take me away. Take me away from 
 this horrible house and all these things that make me 
 feel as if I were going mad. It doesn't seem like real 
 life, our lives. It seems like nightmares. And Mother 
 is going to die. I know she is going to die, and I can't 
 bear it. I don't want to be here to see it. I should 
 kill him." 
 
 "Very well," said Arthur, setting his teeth and 
 making up his mind. "I'll tell your father I am going
 
 194 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 to marry you, and I'll arrange with your Uncle Harry 
 for you to have a year with him on the Continent first. 
 He said he did not want to come home yet, didn't he?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," cried Kythe. "And said he was lonely, 
 too; and they were talking of May going out to him." 
 
 "And I can come and see you now and then," re- 
 sumed Gervase. "And when your mother is all right 
 again of course she will be all right, you goosie 
 we will be married. I'll talk to Gran about it tonight." 
 
 Making up his mind to the effort, he went to Lady 
 {Catherine's room after dinner. 
 
 "Gran! I have been making up my mind. I want 
 a wife and heirs of my own, as poor young Lance can't 
 inherit; and I am thinking of marrying the little Des- 
 mond girl. Would you be pleased, or would you hate 
 it?" 
 
 There was a long and horrible pause. 
 
 The old lady's face was grey and stricken. In her 
 distress she could find no words, she only moaned and 
 drew deep, painful breaths. 
 
 "I am afraid it is quite impossible, Arthur." 
 
 He caught the faint whisper. 
 
 "Why, Gran, dear?" 
 
 Again a painful pause. Then, 
 
 "Teresa because of her she has been a curse to 
 us, Arthur." 
 
 With difficulty he heard the words, so faint was her 
 voice. 
 
 "I did not know you knew about that," he said, 
 greatly pained. "But if you send her away, Gran, 
 need it matter so much?"
 
 TERESA'S TALONS 195 
 
 He thought he heard the reply, something about 
 "the children," but rose to get her some brandy and 
 then refused to let her say more. He wandered up the 
 lane and found Kythe waiting for him, and in the 
 shelter of the climbing rose bushes, where there was 
 a small rustic seat, they sat in forlorn comradeship for 
 a long time. Kythe was horrified to hear that Lady 
 Katherine knew about her father's aberration. 
 
 A little after ten, Mr. Desmond came stealthily along 
 the walk, treading on the grass. He opened the door 
 and was joined by someone outside. A long exchange 
 of whispering took place, and he accompanied his com- 
 panion down the lane, and, apparently, into The 
 Domain garden. Kythe cried passionately and begged 
 Gervase to get her away; and even suggested going for 
 Aunt Hermione and getting her to come and confront 
 her brother with his wickedness. 
 
 They were still talking, less agitatedly, when the 
 door in the wall opened stealthily and Mr. Desmond 
 came in. 
 
 "Who is there?" he asked, suddenly and sharply, 
 with a sound in his throat that was almost blood- 
 thirsty. 
 
 "I am, Mr. Desmond," answered Gervase. "Arthur 
 Gervase." 
 
 "What are you doing?" 
 
 The threat in his tone was unmistakable. 
 
 "I think," answered Gervase, stirred to wrath by 
 the attempt to bully him, "that my conduct is quite 
 as defensible as yours." 
 
 "What might you mean by that?" asked Mr. Des-
 
 196 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 mond, in the same tone; "and whom have you there 
 with you? Kythe? What is the meaning of this?" . 
 
 He spoke curtly, contemptuously, in tones that stung. 
 
 "I don't know what particular right you have to 
 ask," returned Gervase. "Shall we come inside and 
 talk it over, or would you prefer to come back to 
 The Domain?" 
 
 He emphasised the word "back." 
 
 "Come in," said Desmond, curtly. 
 
 In his study, he turned on the light and sat with 
 his back to it. Kythe, her fear gone, looked him un- 
 flinchingly in the face, with the steady gaze of hatred. 
 
 "May I receive an explanation?" asked Mr. Des- 
 mond. 
 
 "Certainly. I want to marry your daughter, and 
 came this evening to tell her that my grandmother 
 considers your intrigue with my sister, which she has 
 unfortunately discovered, a very strong objection to 
 such an arrangement." 
 
 There was a long, long silence. 
 
 Then Mr. Desmond dropped his head on his arms 
 and broke down. 
 
 His terrible sobs sounded loud in the shocked hush 
 of their voices. The scar on his head glistened angrily. 
 Not another word was spoken. Once when Gervase 
 moved a little in his chair, the noise seemed monstrous 
 and indecent. They might have sat like that for 
 hours had not the strange sympathy that had often 
 operated so oddly, brought Mrs. Desmond down to her 
 husband's room.
 
 TERESA'S TALONS 197 
 
 They rose as she entered, but she took little notice 
 of them. Her eyes were for the sobbing man with the 
 bowed head. Shielding him from their sight with her 
 body, and putting a tender hand round his convulsed 
 throat, she motioned them impatiently away. They 
 crept from the room with guilty stealth, shutting the 
 door behind them. 
 
 Gervase sped away to the Rectory, leaving Kythe 
 with May and Hero. None of the brothers were at 
 home. 
 
 To the Raymonds he told all he knew, and walked 
 back with them to The Meadows. Mr. and Mrs. Des- 
 mond were still in the study; his strangling sobs had 
 died down, there was a low murmur of voices. No 
 one liked to go in. 
 
 It was late before any one slept, and Mr. Desmond 
 was pathetically grateful for his sister's ministrations. 
 For, obviously, Mrs. Desmond was none the better 
 for the storm of emotion through which they had 
 passed, and Dr. Willett was sent for the first thing in 
 the morning. 
 
 How much of confidence had passed between hus- 
 band and wife, no one knew. Mr. Desmond was out 
 early, as was his wont; and took his place at the 
 breakfast table with very nearly his usual appear- 
 ance. Neither he nor Mrs. Desmond said anything 
 to Kythe. Her shy eyes shunned her father's face, 
 and her manner ,"in her mother's room, was uneasy 
 and evasive. She had no notion if Mrs. Desmond 
 had been told of the incident in which Gervase had
 
 198 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 taken a part. Gervase waited for the Raymonds to 
 do or say something that would give him a lead, but 
 they, too, were at fault, and knew not what to say 
 or advise. 
 
 In the next few days, all sorts of things happened 
 with a rush. Farmer Johnstone suddenly made up 
 his mind that it was his dooty to do something to 
 please the gentry; and set several labourers to work 
 to clear the accumulations of rubbish from round the 
 old sheds, where the manure-heaps lay, preparatory 
 to a series of excavations. This gave rise to tre- 
 mendous excitement; and anyone who had leisure 
 drifted round without apology to watch the opera- 
 tions, exchange reflections with Farmer Johnstone, and 
 drink some of the home-brewed for which the Home- 
 stead Farm was famous. 
 
 Gervase, on the other hand, unsettled and uncertain 
 of himself, threw his energies into the task of con- 
 verting Hugh's deserted workshop in the Old Tower 
 into a suitable room for Lance and Guin. Teresa, ma- 
 licious and mocking, came at pretty frequent inter- 
 vals to gibe and sneer and laugh mysterious laughs 
 that conveyed no idea of the cause of her merriment. 
 Her presence was never welcome, and always brought 
 a certain amount of irritation. 
 
 Lance, with a steady concentration on his own 
 fad, made minute and diligent search for the secret 
 panel or spring door which he had set his heart on 
 finding. There was as little in the room, old though 
 it was, as there was in Farmer Johnstone's manure- 
 heaps, to encourage any such fancy; yet by a coin-
 
 TERESA'S TALONS 199 
 
 cidence, both sets of searchers found something for 
 which they little bargained, on one and the same day. 
 It was Gum's clever fingers, and not Lance's patience 
 and perseverance, that brought them to the goal of 
 discovery.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 MR. DESMOND'S CHILDREN 
 
 KYTHE heard from Guin that Uncle Arthur was 
 busy about the room; but she did not feel that it 
 was business important enough to keep him away 
 from her after what had happened. She fretted and 
 lay awake and wondered how things could possibly 
 work themselves out; and then made up her mind 
 to have it settled one way or the other. Her mother 
 needed constant care, and Mr. Desmond spent so 
 much of his time with her that there was no opportun- 
 ity, even had Kythe had the inclination, for confi- 
 dences. Mrs. Desmond was, as May had said, almost 
 entirely monopolised and cut off from her children 
 by the objectionable man who was their father; and 
 Kythe felt lost, lonely and desperate. 
 
 She came to the Tower room, at the invitation of 
 Lance and Guin, and sat, watching Gervase, as he 
 directed the removal of the ugly fire-grate that spoilt 
 the room. When the men had gone, Gervase came 
 and sat beside her in the deep window-seat. Lance 
 and Guin had dived into the cellar, engrossed in some 
 piece of vandalism for the beautifying of the upstairs 
 room. 
 
 200
 
 MR. DESMOND'S CHILDREN 201 
 
 "Are you going to speak to my father again?" asked 
 Kythe, her face burning. 
 
 "If you like," said Gervase, looking troubled. "Had 
 I not better write?" 
 
 "Yes, perhaps," answered Kythe, after consider- 
 ation. Then added, "He'll say no." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I know he will," asserted Kythe. "It is too mixed 
 up." By this she was alluding to her father's intrigue 
 with Gervase's sister. 
 
 Gervase nodded, understandingly. 
 
 "What are we to do, then?" he asked, grasping his 
 nettle. 
 
 She hung her head for a moment. 
 
 "Will you take me away?" she whispered. 
 
 "I could not do that, sweetheart," he replied. "It 
 would be too disgraceful. People would think me a 
 hound, and quite right too. Remember how young 
 you are, darling. But I would try and get Gran to 
 fix it up. I shall have trouble with her too, you 
 know. She was fearfully bowled over when I told 
 her about you." 
 
 "How did she get to know about Mrs. Gervase?" 
 asked Kythe, anxiously; and Gervase admitted that 
 he had not liked to ask her. 
 
 "But what are we to do about it?" asked the girl. 
 "We knew . . . about each other before they began 
 it. Why should we let it interfere?" 
 
 "We won't," said Gervase, drawing her to his side 
 and kissing the masses of soft fawn hair that were 
 so irresistibly inviting. "Only wait a bit, Kythe dar-
 
 202 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 ling. Wait till your mother is all right, and Teresa 
 gone. Gran does not intend her to stay here, and we 
 will soon be rid of her." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 They started guiltily apart. Teresa was just out- 
 side the door, and Gervase had inadvertently raised 
 his voice in speaking the last sentences. 
 
 She looked at them with mocking, wicked eyes. 
 
 "Do you really think so?" she gibed. "Do you 
 think you will get rid of me as easily as that? I 
 
 can assure you " she was in one of her evil moods 
 
 and was lashing herself to fury, "it isn't quite such 
 a simple proposition. I have a tighter grip than you 
 seem to understand, and a closer relationship. Have 
 you any idea, poor dear innocent turtle doves, billing 
 and cooing so confidingly; have you any idea who 
 Lance and Guin's father is, I wonder?" 
 
 Kythe stared at her, fascinated. The evil face was 
 convulsed with passion; the woman had lost all her 
 grace of distinction with her hold over her temper. 
 
 "Look at Guin's hands, if you want to find out. 
 There is another pair, the dead spit of them, not so 
 far off. Clever hands," with extreme sarcasm. 
 
 "Hands always doing something that isn't their job 
 hanging pictures, for instance." 
 
 There was a dead silence. Then Kythe fainted. 
 
 Teresa sheered off, laughing her hateful laugh; and 
 Gervase was left to face the situation. 
 
 He took, the girl home without one word being ex- 
 changed. Only when he said good-bye did he kiss 
 her, long and lingeringly, with despair in his heart.
 
 MR. DESMOND'S CHILDREN 203 
 
 The kisses comforted her a little; but when he was 
 gone, she bethought her that perhaps he had intended 
 them for farewell, and in her misery felt as if her 
 heart must burst. 
 
 As for Gervase, words will not describe his state 
 of mind. He could not think out the thing that had 
 been flung at him. Thought refused to come, refused 
 to work, recoiled from the task set her. He could 
 only feel furious, baffled, sickened, defrauded. 
 
 Marriage with Kythe was, beyond doubt, out of 
 the question. That much stood out clear. The rest 
 was a confused jumble, in which the disappearance 
 of Mr. Desmond, the announcement of Teresa's death 
 and Mr. Desmond's sudden return, the remains found 
 at the Homestead, young Johnstone, and Lady Kath- 
 erine's mysterious illness and distress, were inextri- 
 cably mixed. He could not sort it out. His mind 
 rejected it; his soul sickened at it. 
 
 What a devil Teresa was. 
 
 A vision of immeasurable scandal rose before his 
 eyes, a sea of infamy and exposure in which their 
 name would be sullied beyond bearing. Why did 
 not someone murder Teresa? How had such a woman 
 escaped? He thought poorly of Australians, that they 
 could ever have let her survive. 
 
 "I'd swing for her," he muttered savagely, "if I 
 hadn't got other people to think of." 
 
 What was it he had promised Kythe to write to 
 her father? How damned silly that sounded now. 
 Kythe little Kythe Good God! The mere thought 
 of her, and the memory of her stricken face, sent the
 
 204 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 blood rushing uncontrollably through him. It would 
 be nothing to be surprised at, if he were to murder 
 Teresa! 
 
 What a devil she was! 
 
 That woman, and that man, responsible for those 
 nice kids it was like a practical joke of the Creator's. 
 Not much chance of decency, poor little beggars, if 
 the laws of heredity count for anything unless they 
 skipped an influence here and there. Kythe little 
 Kythe his daughter, too. How did such a scoundrel 
 come to have such a child? He roused himself with 
 a start and found he had nearly reached the Manor 
 Farm. Turning abruptly on his steps, he went to 
 Redlands to find Hugh. 
 
 Hugh, casual, stolid, easy-going, sat with his feet 
 on the table, and shouted a welcome. After a short 
 time, it dawned on him that his brother was unnerved, 
 and he pushed the whisky towards him remindingly. 
 
 It astonished him, however, to see how greedily 
 Arthur swallowed one drink after another. 
 
 "I say," he remonstrated. "Aren't you going it 
 rather? Not that I mind, but it's not exactly your 
 form. Anything up?" 
 
 "Yes. Came to tell you about it." 
 
 "Teresa?" 
 
 "Yes. And Desmond." 
 
 "Lord! Since when?" 
 
 Arthur sat forward, staring into the fire as if hypno- 
 tised. 
 
 "About fifteen years," he replied, slowly. "Must
 
 MR. DESMOND'S CHILDREN 205 
 
 have gone away together. He is the father of those 
 children." 
 
 This time Hugh had no expression to fill the bill. 
 He sat silent, and they stared at each other. 
 
 "Hugh, old man," began Arthur, "I was going to 
 marry the little girl the Desmond girl." He could 
 not bring himself to say Kythe's name. "It's the devil, 
 old chap, what?" 
 
 Hugh expressed sympathy in a queer way he had 
 without words, but with sounds and grunts that were 
 convincing if unusual; and both smoked on, occasion- 
 ally taking a pull at their glasses. 
 
 By and by Hugh spoke. 
 
 "What you going to do?" 
 
 "God knows!" sighed Arthur, in such desolation 
 that Hugh grunted again and drew his chair nearer, 
 putting a hand on the back of his brother's chair. 
 
 "How did you find out?" 
 
 "Spat it at us Teresa did me and the little girl. 
 She fainted." 
 
 This time Hugh's sounds of sympathy were of the 
 most bloodthirsty character. 
 
 "There's a lot more to it," announced Arthur, 
 glumly. "There are those remains, and that fellow 
 Johnstone, and all that yarn. It's the very devil." 
 
 "So is she," replied Hugh. "Pity we didn't push 
 her overboard when she brought us home!" 
 
 "What are we going to do about it?" was his next 
 query. "Kick Desmond? Whip Teresa? Get dam- 
 ages out of someone what?"
 
 206 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Drown ourselves, I should think," said the gloomy 
 Arthur; and once more silence reigned. 
 . "Does Gran know?" 
 
 "I believe she has known all the time." 
 
 Hugh whistled. This indeed was a new idea. 
 
 Arthur's distress would have been even heavier had 
 he known .how Kythe was meeting the trouble. Her 
 youth and inexperience naturally made the shock 
 greater. 
 
 Flung in a corner of the big sofa in the playroom 
 she lay without sign of life or consciousness until 
 a noisy incursion of Lance and Guin, to fetch her over 
 to see the Tower room, roused her to a vivid realisation 
 of the position. 
 
 These two, these cheery friends and playmates, they 
 were her half-brother and sister. She looked at them 
 with new eyes. Teresa's vicious words came back and 
 her gaze sought Guin's hands capable, strong-fingered 
 square-tipped and clean-skinned. There was a like- 
 ness . . . and in horror she looked into Guin's face 
 to see whether there was any other likeness. 
 
 Was it Lennox, or Hubert, she was like? 
 
 "What in the world is the matter?" 
 
 They stood, arrested by her ghastly face. 
 
 Then she cried. Cried stormily, unrestrainedly, at 
 the end of her resources. She had no strength left 
 for control or reticence. May came, and Hero came, 
 and finally Mr. Desmond came, and through the gar- 
 den came Mr. and Mrs. Raymond, to see if anyone 
 would come home to dinner with them. But their 
 presence made no difference. She cried on,
 
 MR. DESMOND'S CHILDREN 207 
 
 "She is hysterical," said Aunt Hermione, at last. 
 "Really, David, I think she would be the better for 
 a shake!" 
 
 "Come, Kythe," said Mr. Desmond, not unkindly, 
 "what is the trouble? Don't you think you could 
 tell us?" 
 
 And he laid a firm hand on her shoulder, giving 
 her ever such a mild shake, though not in any way in 
 rebuke. Indeed, he was sorely troubled himself, 
 guessing at something of the cause of her outbreak. 
 He knew little of his youngest daughter's strange na- 
 ture. Her dislike of him had been cordially recipro- 
 cated. He resented her existence, her critical, con- 
 demning eyes, her aloof and alien ways; and most of 
 all he resented that she should be the one to have dis- 
 covered part of his secret. But he could not be deaf 
 and blind to her distress, and take no part in such a 
 scene in his own house and family. 
 
 Blind passion seized on Kythe, at his touch. She 
 flung his hand furiously from her, shrinking into the 
 corner of the sofa, gasping with sobs, trembling and 
 quivering, but fighting for breath to tell him, to tell 
 them, to tell everybody . . . 
 
 "It is him," she cried. "Him; how dare he touch 
 me? Aunt Hermie, where is Guin? Guin? Lance?" 
 
 The two had gone outside, to leave their elders in 
 control of the situation. They came back on hearing 
 her call. 
 
 "Lance," cried Kythe, struggling to calm her voice. 
 "Didn't you say that your mother said Guin had hands 
 like your father?"
 
 208 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Yes," answered Lance, curtly. He was taken 
 aback. 
 
 "Hold out your hands, Guin." 
 
 She could not prevent her voice quavering into a 
 falsetto. 
 
 Puzzled, Guin held her hands out, looking from them 
 to Kythe, and then Mr. Desmond, all at sea. 
 
 "Look at them," said Kythe, hysterically, her voice 
 trembling and breaking again. "And look at his." 
 
 She seized her father's wrist and put the two hands 
 together, looking round at them all defiantly. 
 
 A dark flush spread over Mr. Desmond's face. Of 
 all things, somehow, he had least expected this. 
 Strangely enough, he did not look at any of his own 
 family, but at the boy whose wide, grave eyes showed 
 that he had grasped the idea so crudely presented to 
 him, and understood. 
 
 It was Mr. Raymond who cut the dreadful scene 
 short. 
 
 "Take David into the study," he said, low and stern, 
 to his wife. "Lance, will you take your sister home, 
 and give me your word not to speak about this until I 
 come over and see you?" 
 
 Lance hesitated, then beckoned with his head and 
 chin to Guin, who, hopelessly bewildered, went away 
 with him. 
 
 "Go to your mother, girls," said Mr. Raymond 
 "and see that you don't say anything to worry her. 
 Now, Kythe, tell me what made you do this wicked, 
 this abominable thing."
 
 MR. DESMOND'S CHILDREN 209 
 
 He sat beside her, angling for her confidence, in 
 vain, for some time. Until some chance word touched 
 her sore heart, and melted a little of the icy anger 
 she felt towards all of them. 
 
 "It was Mrs. Gervase told it," she said, so suddenly 
 that he was startled. "You don't know, but Father 
 knows, that I know " 
 
 She broke off, and he waited. 
 
 "Father knows that Major Gervase wants to marry 
 me. We were in the garden, near the door in the 
 wall, and we heard Father come in. He was out, meet- 
 ing Mrs. Gervase. He was angry, and we came in 
 with him, and he and Major Gervase quarrelled. That 
 was the night mother was ill. 
 
 "To-day I was sitting with Major Gervase, and she 
 Guin's mother heard us say she would soon be 
 gone, because Lady Katherine would not have her. 
 Then she told us about Guin's hands, and who her 
 father was; and I was ill. I'll kill Father if he ever 
 touches me ... touches me again. He was with 
 her all those years. 
 
 "He was with her all those years, and then came 
 back; came back to us and to mother, and to live 
 here! I hate him, so that I want to kill him. It is 
 no use telling me it is wicked; I don't care, I can never 
 be so wicked as he is." 
 
 In ungirl-like quiet, with a vindictiveness in odd 
 contrast to her violent tears, and so bitter and cold- 
 drawn that the Rector felt chilled, she brought out 
 her tale unadorned. Each phrase of it astounded him
 
 210 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 more and more. The knowledge that this child had 
 a serious love affair with Major Gervase, struck him 
 dumb. 
 
 Enjoining her to wait until he came for her, the 
 Rector went to find his brother-in-law. 
 
 "Have you anything to tell us, David? Can't you 
 tell us, now that this has been burst on us, something 
 that will make it less dreadful?" 
 
 Mr. Desmond lifted a hunted face. 
 
 "Is there anything more for you to know?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, David," cried his sister. "Yes. Yes. I 
 have known you all your life; we were in the nursery 
 together, you and I and Harry, and nothing can wipe 
 out that. There is no knowledge like that knowledge; 
 and I know yes, I have been furious with you, and I 
 have condemned you, and been ashamed about you; 
 but now that I hear this terrible thing, I know that it 
 was not all your doing. There is something you could 
 say, something we would all believe, that would make it 
 better. Or, at least, not so utterly awful. I do believe 
 that, David; and so does Charlie; and you know we 
 can't tell you half so well as you know that Honoria 
 would believe it without being told! Tell us, David. 
 We have earned the right to know, with all this sor- 
 row." 
 
 Mr. Desmond sat, on his desk chair, leaning for- 
 ward with one arm over his knee, looking into vacancy, 
 one hand feeling for the scar among his thick shock of 
 hair. There was something faintly pathetic about the 
 seeking fingers. He was vaguely conscious of his 
 sister's words, but the pattern of the carpet was more
 
 MR. DESMOND'S CHILDREN 211 
 
 vivid to him than her appeal. There was something 
 like a film panorama, that seemed to be passing before 
 him over that pattern of the carpet a panorama of 
 the strange things his memory contained. When he 
 lifted his eyes, with an effort, and wrenched his mind 
 back to his sister, he could not remember what in the 
 world it was she had said to him. 
 
 "Oh. Ah, yes," he murmured, absently. "Of 
 course. I beg your pardon, Hermie. What were you 
 saying?" 
 
 And he got up and walked to the window. 
 
 There it was. The garden with the fatal door, out 
 of which he had gone to his doom. The years that 
 the locust had eaten, the hard, secret years of ban- 
 ishment and toil, the personal degradation, the loss, the 
 tangling intrigue it began and ended with that door, 
 out of which he had stepped so harmlessly, in at which 
 he had entered to find his daughter in the arms of 
 Teresa's brother. He lost himself in the mazes of the 
 disaster which had overtaken him. 
 
 He turned with a start, to see Mrs. Raymond cry- 
 ing, and her husband trying to soothe her. She cried 
 bitterly and hopelessly; and Raymond cast a glance, 
 the reverse of friendly, at his brother-in-law. Des- 
 mond left the window. 
 
 "If you are willing," he said, still with that mazed 
 and speculative look on him, "I will come home with 
 you now, if you will give me some dinner, and tell you 
 how it was. Wait a minute, will you, while I go 
 and tell Honoria. Don't cry, Hermie." 
 
 He seemed to brush something away from before
 
 212 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 his face, as he went, rather blindly, towards the door. 
 
 Raymond watched him go, and urged his wife to 
 keep herself in hand. Now that the shameful tale 
 so much more shameful than they had thought was 
 to be told, he felt a strong reluctance to hear it, or to 
 look his old friend in the face while he told it. 
 
 As Desmond came down the stairs again, Mr. Ray- 
 mond remembered that he had told Kythe to wait 
 for him. 
 
 "One minute!" he called to Desmond, and hurried 
 down to the playroom. 
 
 The room was empty and Kythe nowhere to be 
 found.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 EXPLORERS AND EXCAVATORS 
 
 LANCE took his astonished little sister away, gripping 
 her arm as if he were saving her from some great 
 danger. He was not shocked, only troubled. The 
 revelation was the kind of thing he knew, instinctively 
 as well as out of past experience, might be expected 
 of the evil woman who was their mother. Of Mr. 
 Desmond he had never had much opinion, having un- 
 consciously imbibed the view prevailing about him 
 among his own children. 
 
 It had not yet struck him that those children were 
 his half-brothers and sisters. His mind had not trav- 
 elled further than his relation to their father, and 
 that father's shameful relation to his mother. A fur- 
 ious anger surged in him that his mother had given 
 him this man of all men for a father. 
 
 Lance did not want Guin to think about it at all. 
 At the great day-school for which Fairlands was fa- 
 mous, he was known as Daddy, because of his un- 
 faltering care for his sister. He called for her every 
 day, and if not able to take her home, saw her go in 
 the company of some other girl or girls. No boyish 
 preoccupations had ever come between them; and he 
 
 213
 
 214 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 was strong enough, and intellectually independent 
 enough to hold his views, stand up for them, and 
 make them respected. 
 
 All the Desmond and Gervase boys went to that 
 school. They had jointly established a great record 
 there. All the girls went to the "Lodgeries," as Fair- 
 lands Lodge girls' school was called. It had fine tradi- 
 tions also, and the Desmond girls had added to its roll 
 of honour. It was there also that Teresa had dis- 
 tinguished herself in her own peculiar way. 
 
 Lance felt a raging anger, with his mother, Des- 
 mond, and Kythe. Poor little Guin how scared and 
 puzzled she looked! His boy's nature did not allow 
 of his gauging the torment of soul Kythe had gone 
 through; without an ounce of sympathy, he called her, 
 in his mind, a little devil, and thought she was just 
 a right daughter for Mr. Desmond. 
 
 "I hope she'll rub it into him, anyhow!" he thought, 
 in angry consolation. 
 
 Lance was full of the liveliest excitement about hav- 
 ing the Tower room for their own; and it was to that 
 haven he escorted Guin, as the likeliest spot in which 
 to distract her thoughts from the row that Kythe had 
 made. They were still altering and decorating it, a 
 task at which Gum's manual dexterity was of value; 
 and they had dragged Gervase out again and again to 
 make him admire, instruct, or advise. It was to please 
 their fastidious taste that he had ordered the removal 
 of the ugly grate which had been good enough for 
 Uncle Hugh; but they were not satisfied yet. 
 
 "Let's go and finish the grate," said Lance insinu-
 
 EXPLORERS AND EXCAVATORS 215 
 
 atingly; and Guin responded handsomely, getting her 
 hand into his and making him run to the garden door. 
 
 They had filled in the fireplace with bricks and tiles 
 "lifted" from the stable and the greenhouses; but there 
 was still a something lacking. 
 
 Then Guin, forgetting her over-discussed hands and 
 her dear friend's queer behaviour, and the general 
 "beastliness" of everything, had an inspiration. 
 
 "Lance! Two of those lovely paving blocks from 
 the cellar. Could we get them up, do you think? 
 They would just do!" 
 
 Down they went to prospect. They had already re- 
 moved a slab thence to make into a hearthstone. It 
 had the Gervase arms on it and belonged to the cellar 
 threshold. Adams had raised a storm about its re- 
 moval and threatened to tell Lady Katherine. 
 
 "We can take them from that corner, in the angle," 
 she whispered, full of excitement. "Then we can pile 
 in rubbish and stuff and no one will see, so there won't 
 be a row like there was over the other one." 
 
 So they betook themselves to the task, with various 
 implements of vandalism, and toiled with a vigour 
 worthy of a better cause at the solid floor. 
 
 Lance succeeded in prizing up, with heated, strug- 
 gling energy, one stone of unsuspected dimensions so 
 far as depth was concerned; and was proceeding with 
 the far easier task of dislodging its already loosened 
 neighbour, when Guin said, with intense emphasis, 
 
 "Look here, Lance!" 
 
 The solid masonry of the massive walls was hand- 
 somely interrupted at intervals by strips of heavy
 
 216 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 woodwork elaborately if roughly carven. These lines 
 of carving reached up into the darkness to the roof of 
 the cellar. 
 
 "Couldn't we get this off and put it in our room?" 
 she asked. "Then it could be seen. There are all 
 sorts of jolly things on it here are some of our oak- 
 leaves, and here is the crown and the helmet; and 
 there are some lions and things besides." 
 She traced the designs with her deft fingers. 
 "Acorns, as well as oak-leaves," she continued. 
 "Lance, they are jolly!" 
 
 "How is it fastened on?" asked Lance, peering 
 at the solid structure, and leaving the stones with some 
 relief. 
 
 Guin felt along one strip, he peered along another. 
 "I can't see how it is fastened," he grumbled. 
 
 "Have you your knife?" asked Guin, after a mo- 
 ment's silence. Her attention was concentrated on 
 something she had found in the carving. 
 
 Lance produced a complicated arrangement of many 
 devices, from which she selected a sharp-pointed punch. 
 With it she extracted from a leaf which she had been 
 touching with her clever finger-tips, a shaped piece of 
 cork. The space from which she slipped it out was 
 a keyhole. 
 
 "I could feel it had been picked out before," she ex- 
 claimed gleefully; "and that it was different from the 
 wood. I wonder where its key is?" 
 
 The flags were returned to their place with desperate 
 haste, and dusted over with rubbish to hide all signs 
 of depredation. Then Lance started for the smithy,
 
 EXPLORERS AND EXCAVATORS 217 
 
 whence he returned with a powerful picklock, which 
 the amused functionary there presiding selected and 
 committed to his care. 
 
 The lock resisted their unskilled attack for a long 
 time; then suddenly and unaccountably yielded. It 
 had apparently been well oiled at no very distant 
 date, and turned easily and noiselessly. A door 
 opened two or three inches, parting all down the mid- 
 dle of one strip of carving. 
 
 A vigorous push sent it slowly swinging back, and 
 a gush of stale air came out, making them shrink and 
 retreat. There was a dark void before them, full of 
 mysterious possibilities. 
 
 "Golly!" said Lance. "We have found it this 
 time!" 
 
 Some of the newspaper in which their possessions 
 had been wrapped was produced from the room up- 
 stairs, and twisted into torches to test the air. The 
 unmatchable joy of the explorer and adventurer was 
 theirs, with the added delight of freedom from the 
 supervision of grown-ups. 
 
 The paper torches burned flickeringly and revealed 
 three deep steps into an irregularly-shaped room, with 
 a door at the further end. There was a table, some 
 books, crockery, chairs, camp-bed and rugs, and odd 
 litter. It had plainly been lived in. A good deal of 
 usable stuff, in the shape of candles, a paraffin lamp, 
 matches, soap, arid towels, rugs and pillows, lay about 
 in untidy confusion. Two of the candles they lit at 
 once. 
 
 They tip-toed about, frightened as well as excited.
 
 218 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 At any moment some occupant of the room might ap- 
 pear and demand their right to intrude. Lance took 
 the precaution of pushing the door back to its widest 
 limit and weighting it with one of the heavy chairs, be- 
 sides putting a large log of wood where it would prevent 
 the door from shutting-to if slammed. 
 
 "It wouldn't do to get trapped here," he remarked. 
 
 Then they opened the further door. It gave on to 
 a short flight of steps. 
 
 Lighting paper torches, and holding their flame down- 
 wards until they flared, they advanced step by step. 
 Lance's torch burnt low, and he paused to flare it up 
 again. Guin went down two or three more steps. 
 
 Lance raised his torch again; and found himself 
 looking into the terrified face of his sister. 
 
 "Lance! Lance!" 
 
 She was gasping, pressing him back. They fled up 
 the steps to the room they had left. Guin shut the 
 door behind them and jammed a chair against it. 
 Lance clutched one of her arms and looked in her face 
 in silent query. 
 
 "It's dead," she whispered, hoarsely. "A woman. 
 Dead. Lying there " 
 
 Feverishly they removed the log from the outer 
 doorway and dragged the door after them, after 
 trampling out their torches and extinguishing some of 
 the candles. With beating hearts they repaired to the 
 garden, and took stock of the situation. 
 
 "Tell Uncle Arthur," was the unanimous decision. 
 
 Gervase, coming into his room to dress for dinner, 
 found it in possession. Astride of the bed-rail sat
 
 EXPLORERS AND EXCAVATORS 219 
 
 Lance, with face rather whiter than usual; and lean- 
 ing against him holding on to his jacket was a very 
 washed-out version of Guin. They started up with 
 the utmost relief, and shouted a welcome that was more 
 tearful than gay. 
 
 "What's up?" asked Gervase, noting the signs of 
 emotion at a glance. 
 
 "A dead woman? How did you know she was 
 dead?" he asked abruptly, when the startling tale had 
 been blurted out. The first thing that occurred to him 
 was that the woman might possibly be saved. 
 
 "She was it was there was bones," faltered Guin, 
 who had never had harder work not to cry. Lance 
 kept tight hold of her arm, and pinched it to agony in 
 his attempts to be comforting. He, too, was afraid of 
 her crying, because he might have followed suit. 
 
 Gervase refrained from further questions, seeing 
 the state they were in. Possessing himself of the 
 implement with which the lock had been turned, the 
 piece of cork that Guin had extracted from the key- 
 hole, and enough information to locate the secret 
 door, he rang to hurry dinner on, sent a message to 
 Lady Katherine, and arranged for one of the maids, 
 who was a friendly and reliable creature, to bring her 
 sewing to the window-place outside the children's bed- 
 rooms so that they should not be alone. This gave 
 them great comfort, though neither of them would have 
 condescended to mention it. 
 
 After rushing through his dinner, Gervase went to 
 the police-station. There he found, unexpectedly, 
 Amos Johnstone and Mr. Talbot.
 
 220 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 A stiff greeting was exchanged, and Gervase noticed 
 the hectic excitement of little Amos. His shrivelled 
 face was flaming. 
 
 "Thomas," said Gervase, ostentatiously avoiding 
 intercourse with Mr. Talbot, "I want you to come with 
 me to The Domain. A discovery has been made there 
 by my nephew and niece that will have to be investi- 
 gated, and I do not think we had better lose any time." 
 
 Thomas was not minded to bandy words with the 
 young Squire, and obediently proceeded to put on his 
 helmet and arm himself with note-book, handcuffs, 
 and other paraphernalia of his office. But when he 
 looked deprecatingly at Mr. Talbot that gentleman in- 
 tervened. 
 
 "I think Major Gervase had better know what has 
 happened," he observed. "I do not know the nature 
 of your discovery, Major Gervase, but a discovery 
 has also been made at the Homestead Farm this after- 
 noon. Johnstone has had men at work there for some 
 days, clearing and searching. To-day they found some 
 keys one a large key with the helmet and crown of 
 the Gervases which nobody in this place could fail 
 to recognise as similar to the collection of antique keys 
 at The Domain. I think you will see how greatly that 
 increases Amos Johnstone's supposition that the mur- 
 der of the unknown man, and the disappearance of his 
 son, have some connection with your er family's 
 affairs." 
 
 The slow, painstaking, courteous statement found its 
 way to the recesses of Gervase's understanding. He 
 could not fail to recognise the stern threat behind Mr.
 
 EXPLORERS AND EXCAVATORS 221 
 
 Talbot's irreproachable manner, nor to see how damn- 
 ingly significant the find was. And there was the body 
 found by the children ! 
 
 Lance had said the lock he picked had been oiled, 
 quite recently. By whom Teresa? Obviously. It 
 hit him in the face, now he thought of it. The key to 
 the secret door would no doubt be in her possession. 
 
 What share had that evil woman in the death of 
 these two people, the man found buried at the Home- 
 stead Farm, and the woman lying unburied in the 
 underground room?
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 WILLIE JOHNSTONE 
 
 GERVASE stared stupidly at Mr. Talbot. The words 
 and ideas ran round and round in a meaningless hunt 
 after each other. He felt dizzy. 
 
 Then he heard Mr. Talbot say, more kindly, 
 
 "Sit down a minute. Don't try to talk," and he 
 subsided into a chair and drank some cold water. 
 
 "You had better come with us," he said to Mr. Tal- 
 bot, when he had recovered. "The children poor 
 little beggars, they are sick with fright have found the 
 body of a woman in the cellar of the Old Tower." 
 
 He made no objection to Amos Johnstone accom- 
 panying them. The little man trotted behind with 
 Constable Thomas, stumbling with excitement; while 
 Gervase and Talbot walked ahead with hurrying 
 strides. As they went, Gervase gave the magistrate 
 all the information he possessed, which was little. 
 
 The cellar door opened easily, the lock being of 
 the very simplest construction ; and with a good supply 
 of lights, they entered the room and opened the further 
 door. 
 
 At the foot of twelve steps, stretched lengthways 
 beside the wall, lay the skeleton of which Guin had 
 
 222
 
 WILLIE JOHNSTONE 223 
 
 caught sight. There were tattered remains of female 
 clothing looking like a skirt and an evening cloak. 
 There were no boots; the bones of the feet, fallen to 
 pieces, lay uncovered. The skull had rolled a little 
 apart from the neck. 
 
 "What a gruesome sight," said Mr. Talbot. 
 "That poor little girl shocking for her, Gervase." 
 
 "Dreadful," exclaimed Gervase. "And she looked 
 most awfully broken up." 
 
 They found themselves getting quite friendly again. 
 
 The stair led, as Gervase anticipated, to a long 
 passage, paved and masoned, that rose and dipped 
 and turned and twisted, and ended in a frowning 
 door. The door had on its carven panels the Gervase 
 insignia helmet, crown, and oak-leaves. 
 
 "Archseologically," said Mr. Talbot, "an enchanting 
 discovery; but I am afraid, Gervase, this will spell 
 serious trouble." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Gervase, gloomily. "Well, it 
 has got to be faced now. I wonder where this comes 
 out " 
 
 "That key, sir," observed Constable Thomas, "the 
 one found at the Homestead; it might fit one of these 
 doors this one or the one further back." 
 
 The clothes, fragments of which were examined, 
 must have been of rich and handsome texture. A 
 circumstance that Constable Thomas noticed, with 
 trained acutenessj was curious. They were not 
 fastened, in any place, by the hooks or buttons with 
 which they were furnished. 
 
 "All unfastened," he noted carefully.
 
 224 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 He also noted something else. 
 
 There was no female underclothing. The corpse 
 had been wearing a man's vest and pants. 
 
 In the underground room, close to the cellar en- 
 trance, was found a heavy iron bar, that looked as if 
 it had been wrenched from a furnace. It was thickly 
 rusted. And in a corner made by the angle of the three 
 steps, lay a hammer, thick with dust and fluff. 
 
 Careful note was made of the position of the corpse, 
 its surroundings, and the contents of the room. The 
 remains, wrapped in blankets, were removed to the 
 workhouse infirmary, where Dr. Willett hurried with 
 eager curiosity, the moment information was got 
 through to him. The remnants of clothing were col- 
 lected for close examination. 
 
 Mr. Talbot gave some instruction in an undertone 
 to Constable Thomas, and then, without invitation, 
 accompanied Gervase home. He sat till late, Gervase 
 getting more and more surprised at the visitation. 
 
 "I told Thomas to bring the result of the investiga- 
 tion here," remarked Mr. Talbot, looking at his watch. 
 "You don't mind my staying, do you? Of course there 
 will only be a superficial examination; but there might 
 be something we ought to talk over." 
 
 Suddenly Gervase understood. He turned his 
 flushed face to the shadow and cursed Teresa deep, 
 if not loud. 
 
 That disturbing soul had lurked about furtively all 
 the evening, for some purpose of her own, plainly 
 illicit. She had seen the expedition to the cellar and
 
 WILLIE JOHNSTONE 225 
 
 the removal of the body; and she sped, cat-like, up the 
 lane. 
 
 No sound broke the silence. There were no foot- 
 steps save her own in the lane, no voices the other 
 side of the wall. 
 
 In growing audacity, she went to the front door. 
 
 Mr. Desmond was not at home. He was dining at 
 the Rectory. 
 
 To the Rectory she went. 
 
 Mr. Desmond came out to the door. She spoke, 
 rapid and low, giving him the news. 
 
 In silence he stared at her and heard her to the end. 
 Then he drew himself up and took a deep breath. 
 
 "You have done your worst," he said, curtly. "Do 
 the rest; it will be better than this. It is out of your 
 hands now." 
 
 Mrs. Raymond, coming out to ask whether his caller 
 would not come in for a moment, heard him say it. 
 She thought he said it almost triumphantly. He shut 
 out Teresa's evil smile with a slam of the door, and led 
 his sister back to the sitting-room. 
 
 Teresa took herself home, hardly knowing whether 
 she felt angry or interested. It was a good game. 
 Exciting. It had reached a critical point. 
 
 She joined her brother and Talbot in the smoking- 
 room, without any sort of embarrassment. Smoking 
 her little Spanish cigars, drinking bigger tots of whisky 
 than either of the men, telling amazing tales of auda- 
 cious doings in phrases more audacious still, she loung- 
 ed on the sofa with one foot thrown over the arm, her
 
 226 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 head back, her wide happy smile and beautiful teeth in 
 astonishing contrast to her manner and speech. Mr. 
 Talbot thought many things, none of which he said. 
 Gervase felt sick with shame and anger. 
 
 The seance was broken by the arrival of Dr. Willett 
 and Constable Thomas, the last-named breathing hard 
 and standing with his helmet in his hand near the door. 
 
 Teresa half rose, a sudden feeling of uneasiness 
 coming over her. 
 
 Gervase rose; so did Mr. Talbot. 
 
 "I am afraid our errand is a most unpleasant one, 
 Gervase," said Dr. Willett, gravely. "The body found 
 in your Tower premises is that of a man, not a woman; 
 and Amos Johnstone identifies it as his missing son." 
 
 "Dear, dear," exclaimed Mr. Talbot. "That is 
 tragic, is it not? Yet it is what we have all antici- 
 pated in a way, I am afraid. I confess I could not 
 make out what woman it could possibly be. Will you 
 ask your sister, Major Gervase, to give us some ex- 
 planation of this sad business?" 
 
 They all turned to Teresa. 
 
 "/ have nothing to tell!" answered Teresa, lightly. 
 "What has it got to do with me?" 
 
 "A good deal, I am afraid, if what the man's father 
 says is true. Come, Mrs. Gervase, do you not think 
 you had better be frank with us?" 
 
 Teresa broke into a peal of insolent laughter. 
 
 "Frank; with you, you poor innocents? What a 
 delicious proposition." 
 
 "Then I am afraid we have no alternative but to 
 place you under detention."
 
 WILLIE JOHNSTONE 227 
 
 "Me?" 
 
 Her astonishment and dismay were so unaffected as 
 to be almost comic. The position was one for which 
 she was palpably so unprepared, that they did not need 
 any assurance of her sincerity. She was utterly non- 
 plussed, and they saw it. 
 
 "I do not want to take Mrs. Gervase to away," 
 began Mr. Talbot to Gervase; "but I must have some 
 arrangement made which will ensure that she does 
 not er evade the enquiry " 
 
 "Send for Mr. Desmond," broke in Teresa, curtly. 
 
 "Mr. Desmond!" 
 
 They were all taken aback now. This was a com- 
 plication indeed. And the first thought that came 
 most unwelcomely, into Mr. Talbot's mind, was, what 
 a triumph for Lord Gotto! 
 
 "Mr. Desmond is dining at the Rectory," she con- 
 tinued. Her wits never played her false and she saw 
 her danger, acting promptly and shrewdly. Get in her 
 accusation first, or she would be "in the soup." 
 
 And so it fell out that there was another ring at the 
 Rectory bell, and another caller for Mr. Desmond. 
 This one came into the house, and appeared, without 
 being announced, at the drawing-room door. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mr. Desmond, sir," said the 
 officer, "and yours, sir," to the Rector, "and your 
 lady's. You are, wanted, sir, if you would be good 
 enough to step over, at The Domain. Mr. Talbot 
 has asked me to come over to fetch you, sir." 
 
 "Suppose I can't come," said Mr. Desmond, resent- 
 fully.
 
 228 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Constable Thomas coughed behind his hand and 
 looked uncomfortable. 
 
 "I wouldn't say that, sir, if I was you. Reely, I 
 wouldn't. They wouldn't a-sent me, sir, not without 
 good reason. Can you get your coatanat, sir, without 
 going upstairs? I think as how you'd better, not mean- 
 ing any offence, sir, nor yet to the Rector. You un- 
 derstand that dooty, it's dooty; and that's what it 
 is, so to speak." 
 
 "Will you go up to the house, Hermie, and tell Hon- 
 oria, if it becomes necessary?" 
 
 His voice was hard and had that quality, that of 
 late had died out, of brutal, unsparing authority. 
 
 He put on hat and coat, and went with Thomas 
 without another word. The Rector escorted his wife 
 to The Meadows, then started for The Domain, as 
 fast as his feet would take him. 
 
 It was a strange scene on which he entered. His 
 arrival was hardly noticed; Gervase gave him a brief 
 glance and a nod; Constable Thomas moved aside to 
 let him pass. Desmond, Talbot, and Teresa spared 
 him no attention at all. 
 
 The sofa made a sort of barrier, sideways, before 
 the fireplace and hearth. Talbot, standing with his 
 back to the hearth, pipe in hand; Dr. Willett, his 
 hand on Gervase's arm, holding him back; Constable 
 Thomas guarding the door, and Desmond, a little ahead 
 of him, the further side of the sofa; all had their eyes 
 fixed on Teresa. With one foot on the sofa, she pointed 
 at Mr. Desmond with her supple, dramatic fingers,
 
 WILLIE JOHNSTONE 229 
 
 hurling at him the charge she had so long held over 
 his head. 
 
 "Why else do you suppose he 'disappeared'?" she 
 asked, in the tone of one who at the same time sup- 
 plies the answer. 
 
 "There seems to be a slight absence of motive/' 
 suggested Mr. Talbot, mildly. 
 
 "Motive? He was jealous of the market-gardener 
 boy. Not without some though not sufficient rea- 
 son. If you remember, Arthur, it was because of a 
 market man that I was expelled from school." 
 
 An expression that broke from Dr. Willett made her 
 turn to him with an evil smile. 
 
 . "Just a minute ago you were asking for frankness," 
 she gibed. "Do you like it?" 
 
 "Aren't you going to say anything, Desmond?" asked 
 Gervase. "Of the two, if it is any good to you to know 
 my opinion, she is more likely to have done it than 
 you." 
 
 "Oh, I have killed men, in my time," said Desmond. 
 "But not that poor lad. At least perhaps that is 
 hardly true. Have you found any marks of violence?" 
 
 "No," said Dr. Willett. "But he might have been 
 stabbed, strangled, poisoned 
 
 "He died of fright," said Desmond.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 BROTHERS AND SISTERS 
 
 WHEN Mr. Raymond left Kythe in the playroom, 
 she lay for a few moments with closed eyes and aching 
 head, hardly conscious of anything but misery. And 
 when she heard sounds which suggested that he might 
 be returning, she got herself out of the low window and 
 down the garden. 
 
 It was beginning to dawn on her how savage had 
 been her treatment of Guin and Lance. True, they 
 were not sensitive on the subject of parents; yet it 
 was a dreadful thing to have done to them. 
 
 That was the worst of having a man like that for a 
 father. It drove one to do terrible things, to think 
 them, to feel them. What would Major Gervase say, 
 when he heard? 
 
 She could not bear to think of that. She had a drag- 
 ging fear at her heart that she would not see Gervase 
 again; and she dared not face such a possibility. The 
 impulse was on her to seek out Lance and Guin and 
 beg their pardon for her attack on her father through 
 them. At the same time it would give her a chance 
 of seeing Gervase. 
 
 Peeping in at The Domain garden door, she saw 
 230
 
 BROTHERS AND SISTERS 231 
 
 Lance and Guin go down to the cellar; and seized with 
 an access of shyness, refrained from calling to them. 
 Then she crept up the stair to their room to wait for 
 them. 
 
 She heard them in the cellar, stumble and run, and 
 scamper up the stairs. She heard them slam the out- 
 side door, turning the key; and then race away into 
 the garden. No notion of what had happened dawned 
 on her, of course, and it was a minute or two before 
 she realised that she was locked in. 
 
 That did not give her much uneasiness either. She 
 was pretty certain they would come back. She curled 
 herself up on the spacious sofa and nursed her woe; 
 and tears came again blindingly and sorely, making 
 her throat ache and her eyes burn. And after sobbing 
 and crying hopelessly for nearly an hour, she slept 
 from sheer exhaustion. 
 
 She did not hear Gervase come with Mr. Talbot and 
 Constable Thomas. The sounds made in the removal 
 of the remains did not fall on any waking sense. She 
 slept until one in the morning, and woke, bewildered, 
 stiff and terrified. 
 
 Her terror was the greater when she remembered 
 where she was; at fkst she could not think. The 
 chiming of the old clock, the rumbling of the market- 
 carts and the tlip-tlop of the hoofs of the plodding 
 horses, seemed as, if they would go on, had gone on, 
 for ever. After hours of sheer fright, made worse by 
 a torturing thirst which she dared not move to slake, 
 she heard the men moving in the garden. 
 
 Again, she was too shy to call out, and waited in the
 
 232 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 hope of hearing the downstairs door opened. She tip- 
 toed about the room in the early sunshine, washed and 
 tidied herself at the corner washstand; and ate a piece 
 of cake she found in the cupboard near it, mixed up 
 with the soap and Lance's tools. By and by she fell 
 asleep again on the sofa, and woke up to find Lance 
 staring at her. 
 
 "What in the world are you doing here?" asked 
 Lance, not very genially. "Your people are in an 
 awful state. They think you have disappeared!" 
 
 "I wish I could," said Kythe, dismally. 
 
 "How did you get in?" asked Lance, concentrating 
 on the practical side. 
 
 "Last night, while you and Guin were down the 
 cellar." 
 
 "Have you been here all night?" with incredulity. 
 
 Kythe nodded. 
 
 Lance was speechless. All night, alone, in the place 
 where a body was found how utterly awful. 
 
 "Didn't you hear us run away?" 
 
 Kythe nodded again. 
 
 "Did you hear the men come?" 
 
 "No. What for?" 
 
 Lance was silent. He simply could not tell her. 
 
 "I wanted to tell you and Guin I was sorry, Lance. 
 I couldn't go to bed " 
 
 She broke down and had hard work not to start cry- 
 ing again. 
 
 "Oh, rot," said Lance, very uncomfortable. "Never 
 mind that. We didn't mind at least, Guin didn't.
 
 BROTHERS AND SISTERS 233 
 
 What in the world made you go and do it, Ky? I 
 should never have thought it of you." 
 
 "Nor me," whispered Kythe, nearly weeping. "I 
 was a beast, Lance; I don't know what made me. It's 
 him. He makes me want to do all sorts of things 
 awful things. And there's a lot more you don't know 
 it's been going on and going on I wish I were 
 dead." 
 
 Lance put an arm round her shoulders. 
 
 "Never mind, Ky. Don't cry. We are all right; 
 it shan't make any difference. But I say? You ought 
 not talk of him like that, now. Don't kick a fellow 
 when he's down, you know." 
 
 "What is the matter with him? Is he dying?" 
 
 There was almost eagerness in her voice. 
 
 "No," said Lance, soberly. "Perhaps he wishes he 
 were. He's in prison, Ky. They say he murdered a 
 man, who was found, here, last night. Guin and I 
 found him. She did. She thought it was a woman." 
 
 He was whispering now, and she was holding tightly 
 to his arm and jacket. 
 
 "Here? Here, where I slept? Let's get out, Lance. 
 Oh, let us get out. Come away; don't let us stay here. 
 Oh, Lance!" 
 
 "No, I won't go home," she said, outside. "I am 
 afraid I'll be glad. Mayn't I come and have break- 
 fast with you?" - 
 
 Adams went round to The Meadows to say Miss 
 Kythe was having breakfast at The Domain. It did 
 not occur to either of them that they would do better,
 
 234 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 in the present state of things, to keep apart; and the 
 effect of the information on her family at The Meadows 
 was mercifully veiled from them. 
 
 In the porch, at the side entrance, they paused. 
 Kythe felt shy and awkward. 
 
 "Will Guin be cross?" she said. 
 
 "Not she," said Lance. "I say, Kythe. What made 
 you how did you think of it?" 
 
 "Your mother told me." 
 
 "My mother?" with profound amazement. 
 
 "Yes. It is true, isn't it?" 
 
 "7 don't know! Why should it be?" with angry 
 protest against his own conviction that it was true. 
 "But when did she tell you? What for?" 
 
 "She was in a fearful temper. Arthur and I were 
 in your room " 
 
 It was the first time she had used Gervase's Christian 
 name in speaking of him, and it made Lance stare 
 harder. 
 
 "Uncle Arthur? Well, what was she in a temper 
 about?" 
 
 "We were talking of her, and saying she was to be 
 made to go. Lady Katherine says she is not to stay; 
 and she was listening and heard us. And she went 
 for us, and said it all awful things, about Guin's 
 hands, and hanging pictures and having hold on us 
 Lance! Will it prevent Arthur and me being mar- 
 ried, you and Guin and me being sort of brother and 
 sisters?" 
 
 "What's that?" asked Lance, sharply. "Married to 
 who?"
 
 BROTHERS AND SISTERS 235 
 
 "To me to him us. We want to." 
 
 "Rot." His incredulous scorn was very emphatic. 
 
 "It's not rot. It's true. You ask him, if you like. 
 He came and told my father; and Father burst out 
 crying and it was dreadful " 
 
 Teresa's voice sounded near at hand, and they 
 stopped talking and hurried in. 
 
 Guin received the visitor rather shyly, though cor- 
 dially; and presently a messenger came to say that 
 they were none of them to go to school that day, and 
 that Kythe was to go back to The Meadows at once. 
 
 Gervase joined her in the garden. 
 
 "I will see you home, Kythe," he said. "All right, 
 Lance; you can go." 
 
 Lance watched them go, with varying emotions. Of 
 which surprise was the greatest. 
 
 Silently, Kythe went with her lover. 
 
 In The Meadows garden, among the rose bushes, he 
 took her in his arms. 
 
 "This is the last time, Kythe," he said. "There is 
 no way out of it, and we must give it up. You see 
 that, don't you?" 
 
 "Will you tell me what happened about my 
 father?" asked Kythe, fighting for time; time in which 
 to think of some plea that would move him. 
 
 "Guin and Lance found a secret door in the cellar 
 last night. There' was a dead man a skeleton in the 
 passage, and it was poor Willie Johnstone. My sister, 
 Lance and Guin's mother do you understand, Kythe? 
 They are your half-brother and sister, she is their 
 mother and your father is their father she gave in-
 
 236 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 formation to the police that your father committed 
 the murder out of jealousy, and that was why he went 
 away. And the green baize apron he was wearing 
 when he was last seen the remains of it have been 
 found alongside Johnstone's body." 
 
 Horror at Teresa's wickedness and treachery kept 
 her silent for a moment. Swiftly came another devas- 
 tating thought. 
 
 "Will my father be hanged?" 
 
 That would indeed be her mother's death sentence! 
 
 "My dear, I do not know what will happen. I do 
 not think he did it, but he cannot bring any witnesses 
 to prove him innocent it is a bad business Kythe, 
 don't be hard on him. He is in a terrible position, and 
 she has been pursuing him for years. She has hunted 
 him from place to place and country to country what 
 a fiend she is!" 
 
 "She ought to be the one hanged," said Kythe, sav- 
 agely. "But why can we not wait, Arthur? We are 
 not real relations why should it separate us?" 
 
 "There is no real why, except that it must," he an- 
 swered, forcing himself to be brutal, as the only pos- 
 sible way. "I cannot go on with it, Kythe. It would 
 not be decent. It is utterly impossible." 
 
 Kythe looked at him blankly. She was not wanting 
 in pride; and as she looked, the situation seemed to 
 change in aspect. 
 
 "Very well," she replied, with amazing dignity and 
 self-control. "That is what is called jilting, isn't it? 
 You are right in saying it would not be decent. 
 It is not decent to want to marry a man who doesn't
 
 BROTHERS AND SISTERS 237 
 
 want to. And if you cannot face the first trouble that 
 comes, you are not fit for me to want. I am sorry I 
 have allowed you to kiss me." 
 
 She walked away from him without another word of 
 farewell, ignoring his "good-bye, darling." In her 
 breast was a raging anger, embracing Gervase, her 
 father, and all men. Curs, she called them; and said 
 it over and over. How happy they had been, without 
 Father, and when Lennox was away, and before Ger- 
 vase came to live! She, at any rate, would never be 
 happy again. 
 
 And now her father was in prison. More wretched- 
 ness and trouble for mother! And what for the man 
 who was the cause of it? Gervase's words came back 
 to her "she has been pursuing him for years. She 
 has hunted him from place to place and from country 
 to country" and it sounded more terrible even than 
 the death sentence of which he stood in danger now. 
 
 Something of her father's burden of wretchedness 
 came home to her understanding. The wrenching sobs 
 she had seen wrung from him, the breaking-down of 
 his fortitude, the failure of his armour of hard insen- 
 sibility, began to have more and more meaning, more 
 reality than Gervase's kisses, more poignancy than her 
 own distress. They clutched at her heart and turned 
 her anger to tears, and sent her flying to her mother 
 in a passion of pity and self-reproach, in which her own 
 wild sorrow for the moment was swamped. 
 
 Lance was beginning to recover his nerve; and not 
 being allowed to go to school, nor to play in the Old 
 Tower, which was sealed up until the enquiry should
 
 238 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 be over, his natural interest in the event in which 
 he and Guin had played so important a part came 
 buoyantly to the surface. He pumped information 
 out of the servants, the tradesmen, the postman, and 
 all other chance callers, even "trying it on" with Con- 
 stable Thomas. Finally, he had an Iclaircissement 
 with his uncle. 
 
 It was at tea-time. A tray was taken into the 
 library for Gervase, who came in looking tired and 
 harassed. 
 
 "May we come in, Uncle Arthur?" , 
 
 They did so without further permission. 
 
 "Uncle Arthur," Lance began, dropping on to the 
 rug and pulling Guin down beside him, "we want to 
 know all about it." 
 
 "All about what?" 
 
 "What is happening; to my mother, and father." 
 
 Gervase looked at him in dismay. 
 
 "I'm afraid I can't discuss it, Lance, old chap. It 
 is not a story to tell children 
 
 "We knew you would say that," interrupted Guin, 
 "but it is not fair. We were the people who found 
 the man dead, and it's our father and mother. We 
 want to know. It is more our business than anyone 
 else's. We don't want to grow up, to be told things 
 all wrong years after it happened, by people who've 
 half-forgotten or never knew properly " 
 
 She broke off, flushed and excited, remembering how 
 in days gone by they had often listened, with more 
 or less of interest, when grown-up people tried to
 
 BROTHERS AND SISTERS 239 
 
 fashion a tale out of the past. The corners never fit- 
 ted, she used to say to Lance. 
 
 "We know too much," said Lance, wisely, "not to 
 be told more. Mr. Desmond's our father as well as 
 Kythe's. It's horrible, and we hate it; but we know 
 it, and it is no use hating it. You none of you can 
 prevent it. Is he going to be tried for bigamy as well, 
 or doesn't that matter? And why is that woman in 
 Mother's room? You ought to tell us, Uncle Arthur." 
 
 Thus adjured, Gervase endeavoured to meet the situ- 
 ation. 
 
 "Mr. Desmond is arrested under a warrant, for the 
 murder of Willie Johnstone, son of old Amos," he 
 began, evading the question of bigamy. "It was his 
 body you found. Your mother is under detention and 
 will probably be taken to prison to-night, charged as 
 an accessory or an accomplice or something. The 
 clothes on the body were her clothes. Mr. Desmond 
 says the man died of fright." 
 
 He stopped, arrested by a sudden movement of 
 Lance's. 
 
 "Mother's clothes? That's rummy. Uncle Arthur, 
 I remember Mother showing a man a jacket and 
 trousers and things, and saying they came off a corpse. 
 I remember, because I was frightened at night, sleep- 
 ing in the room where they were in the cupboard." 
 
 "For heaven's sate," cried Gervase, "don't you say 
 a word about that!" 
 
 It would be the last straw if these unfortunate chil- 
 dren were to be put in the witness-box to help rivet
 
 240 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 the guilt of this matter on their father and mother. 
 In any case, he was afraid he would not be able to 
 prevent Guin being called, as to the finding of the body, 
 at the inquest which was to open next day. What 
 toils they were taken in! And there was the terrible 
 task before him of telling Lady Katherine. So far she 
 knew nothing; but it could not be kept from her longer. 
 
 He admonished the children sternly to keep silence 
 about their mother's affairs and then dragged his re- 
 luctant steps to Lady Katherine's room. 
 
 Lady Katherine was sitting up, looking more herself; 
 and Gervase felt savage when he thought of the story 
 he had to tell, which would probably throw her back 
 again to the pitiable weakness from which she had re- 
 vived. 
 
 He kissed her and pulled up a chair. 
 
 "You will want all your strength, Gran. A shock- 
 ing thing has happened; the worst that has come on 
 us yet." 
 
 And he told her, from first to last, she listening with 
 never a word. 
 
 She lay back, when the recital ended, her lips mov- 
 ing silently, her hands working. Then she collected 
 herself. 
 
 "At last; it has come at last," she said, hoarsely. 
 "What has Mr. Desmond said?" 
 
 "Nothing yet, except that Johnstone died of fright." 
 
 "Will you see his solicitor, and ask him to come and 
 see me? Who is acting for him?" 
 
 "His own man of business, I think. Raymond wired 
 him first thing this morning."
 
 BROTHERS AND SISTERS 241 
 
 "I do not know whether what I have to say is any 
 use; but it had better be said." 
 
 After a brief reflection, she added, 
 
 "You spoke of marrying one of the Desmond girls, 
 my boy. You realise now, do you not, how utterly 
 impossible it would be?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, in a husky voice. "I told her 
 so." 
 
 It cost him a terrible effort to speak of Kythe. He 
 longed for her, now he had cut himself off from her, 
 in a way he was finding it hard to combat. It would 
 mean, in the end, that he would have to leave The 
 Domain. 
 
 Everything he cared for, swept away from him 
 by the disgraceful Teresa and her intrigues, in which 
 he had no part! His soul rose up in revolt. Why 
 should he sacrifice his life and his love 
 
 "Tell him to see me to-morrow without fail," Lady 
 Katherine was saying. 
 
 The key of the door in the cellar was found among 
 Teresa's things well oiled and in good condition. It 
 matched the keys found by Farmer Johnstone's men, 
 and there was little doubt that those two belonged to 
 the doors of the long passage. So rusted were they, 
 however, that they could not be used without breaking 
 the wards; and the heavy carved door at which the 
 investigation stopped was opened by other means. 
 
 The exit was a stone slab, that opened on a hinge, 
 and that fastened with enormous iron bolts. The 
 stone, lifted, proved to be the inner threshold of one 
 of the ramshackle sheds near the manure-heaps in the
 
 242 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Homestead Farm, hard by where Farmer Johnstone's 
 men were searching and digging. 
 
 The stone was so large, the bolts and hinges so stiff 
 that the strength of two or three men was required to 
 lift it. Even if in good repair, well oiled, it would be 
 a task for a man. Teresa, for instance, could never 
 have used that exit unaided. 
 
 This discovery, added to the other, was naturally 
 the main topic of conversation in Lower Domain that 
 day. At Tenterley's, at The Blue-nosed Man, and 
 wherever people foregathered, it was discussed with 
 varying degrees of heat and excitement. Amos John- 
 stone was easily the most popular person in the village ; 
 and further developments were awaited with thrilling 
 interest. 
 
 As the market-carts rumbled through on their lei- 
 surely way, people called the news to the sleepy drivers, 
 who ruminated on it until slumber overtook them and 
 left them to the wise guidance of their plodding horses. 
 Servants from The Domain and The Meadows went 
 about full of importance and were given respectful at- 
 tention. Dr. Willett was the object of supreme in- 
 terest on account of his presence at the examination 
 of the corpse. 
 
 Lance and Guin, in a state of intense excitement, 
 went in search of Kythe. By some mystery of telep- 
 athy, they informed her of their presence and she 
 came with them to The Domain garden. 
 
 She looked years older, and thinner. She was living 
 and using up her emotional resources at a fearful rate. 
 
 In the garden she was very silent.
 
 BROTHERS AND SISTERS 243 
 
 "Have you any news?" asked Lance. "We want 
 to know all we can. It concerns us more than anyone 
 you and me and Gum." 
 
 "My mother is dying," said Kythe, blankly. 
 
 They did not know what to answer. 
 
 "There is going to be an operation to-morrow. The 
 nurses are coming to-night. Lennox is here, and Lut- 
 trell and Hubert are coming to-morrow, and Uncle 
 Harry." 
 
 "If there is an operation, it may be all right," sug- 
 gested Lance. 
 
 Kythe shook her head. 
 
 "Dr. Willett does not think so. It's her heart. It 
 is all this that has killed her; and I have helped. I 
 have helped to make her miserable. I've promised her, 
 Lance, that I'll look after him" 
 
 The two, in whose veins, as in hers, ran the man's 
 blood, looked at her, as she said that, as across a gulf. 
 She was further removed from them, it seemed, than 
 if she had died. They saw her go with relief; and 
 she left, in leaving them, the last of her childhood 
 behind her.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE TRAP 
 
 MR. DESMOND did not manage to get his story told 
 to his sister and brother-in-law. They ate dinner in 
 a brooding silence, which lasted over the coffee and 
 for some time afterwards. Then he roused himself. 
 
 It was, however, to talk of his wife. He wanted 
 to know, thirstily, greedily, what had happened when 
 Kythe was born. Was she ill? Did she recover 
 quickly? Had her health been good since? His 
 gnawing anxiety betrayed itself in every word and 
 every searching question. He pursued the enquiry 
 with a lack of reticence that embarrassed the Rector 
 and left Mrs. Raymond speechless. 
 
 Long silences, in which Raymond and his wife waited 
 expectantly for the enlightenment promised them, 
 broke the conversation. It seemed as if he could not 
 bring himself to speak of what befell him; and in very 
 truth that was the case. Then came Teresa's inter- 
 ruption, and his mood changed. 
 
 He repeated to them the sum of her disclosures, and 
 moved restlessly about the room, his hands in his 
 pockets, his alert glance now here, now there, his head 
 poised to listen, while he stood before the fire, or at 
 
 244
 
 THE TRAP 245 
 
 the window, or studied one of the pictures, or looked 
 at a paper unseeingly. And still his tale remained un- 
 told. 
 
 "It will all come out now," he said at last, in a 
 loud, defiant way. The defiance, they felt vaguely, 
 was not for them; it was directed elsewhere. "It will 
 all come out. It will have to. Who will believe it, 
 I wonder?" 
 
 "Oh, David," implored his sister, half-tearfully, half- 
 fretfully, "had you not better tell us?" 
 
 He looked at her, from his coign of vantage on the 
 hearth-rug, as if something entirely strange had sud- 
 denly been brought to his notice. 
 
 "Hadn't I better tell you?" he repeated slowly. 
 "Well, that is what I am trying to do. Trying to do." 
 
 His gaze wandered again, and he fell silent once 
 more. 
 
 When his sister made a sound of mingled impatience 
 and concern, he looked at her with that strange look 
 of having discovered something new. 
 
 "You were with me," he began; and then broke off. 
 
 "It was you, wasn't it, with me, when I went out, 
 that day?" 
 
 Mrs. Raymond nodded, her heart in her mouth. 
 
 "I stayed in the playroom with the children," she 
 ventured. 
 
 "Hubert and Hero," he confirmed. "The babies 
 What a dear little pair they were." 
 
 He lost himself again. 
 
 "When I went out," he said, after a lapse, "I went 
 for those nails. For nothing else. I had hardly seen
 
 246 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 her. I just knew her by sight. Once I had lifted my 
 hat, as I almost walked into her, coming out of our 
 garden-door. I knew nothing about her. It was no 
 doing of mine. God! How a man can get en- 
 tangled " 
 
 He spoke loudly, protestingly. The sweat gleamed 
 on his coarsened face. 
 
 "Trapped, and entangled, and snared; kidnapped 
 and me a married man and she a school girl ! Does it 
 sound likely? Who would believe it? And black- 
 mailed; and falsely accused and convicted; and hound- 
 ed; and now run to earth an inconceivable story, 
 and true true. But who will believe it?" 
 
 Hoarse, perspiring, protesting, he pleaded as if be- 
 fore some tribunal. 
 
 "Trapped," he repeated, "and robbed. Robbed of 
 my life, my wife, my home, my happiness, my honour. 
 Who will believe me?" 
 
 Who indeed? Had he not already been judged and 
 condemned unheard? 
 
 "But what did happen, David?" 
 
 "I went for those nails," he repeated, drearily. 
 "Out of the garden-door. Would anyone have be- 
 lieved," in frenzied protest, "that anything could have 
 happened, in that short distance?" 
 
 "What did happen?" probed the Rector, as one 
 despairing but patient. It seemed as if the man could 
 not get beyond his protest. 
 
 "The garden-door of The Domain was open. It 
 wasn't often open. I could not remember having seen 
 it open before, except when the market-garden stuff
 
 THE TRAP 247 
 
 was being taken out. An errand-boy came out. He 
 was whistling he was whistling 'John Jones' I did 
 not hear the latch catch and knew he had left the door 
 undone. I thought I would look in. I crossed over 
 and went that side of the road in pure curiosity; in 
 pure curiosity. I meant to peep in. Pure curiosity." 
 
 His voice tailed away in a heavy sigh. 
 
 "What did you see?" 
 
 "I saw nothing. I heard I heard a groan, and 
 something like a call for help. And then I stepped in. 
 I stepped in stepped in to my doom. The last happy 
 moment I ever knew." 
 
 He looked so hunted, so haggard, so racked with 
 some anguish of recollection, the Rector forebore to 
 press the question burning on his lips. 
 
 "What did Honoria do?" began Desmond again, 
 rousing himself unhappily from his painful thoughts. 
 
 Now that he was loosing the pent-in tide of memory 
 his desire to know, in regard to his wife, was insatiable. 
 They catered for it, as well as they were able, restrain- 
 ing their own curiosity as best they could. 
 
 Then came the second summons; and Constable 
 Thomas bore off his prisoner, the tale remaining untold. 
 
 "The man died of fright." 
 
 That was what the Rector heard Desmond say, in 
 The Domain library. To be able to make such a 
 statement, he must have been present when young 
 Johnstone died. Was it something that Desmond did, 
 some threat, some act of violence, that so frightened 
 the man to his death? It looked very much as if that 
 must have been the case.
 
 248 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Nothing more would he say; and Teresa declared 
 she would tell her story "at the right time." Now 
 that she was charged too, the Rector presumed she 
 would be telling it! 
 
 In talking it over with Mr. Talbot, the Rector got 
 some small measure of comfort. 
 
 Mr. Talbot had formed a very strong opinion of 
 Desmond's innocence; and believed the murder to 
 have been committed by Teresa. 
 
 "She has got him so that he cannot disprove it," he 
 remarked. "He has been under the harrow all these 
 years poor wretch, what a fate ! " 
 
 "It is enough to rob one of one's belief in Provi- 
 dence," said the Rector, sorrowfully. "What does 
 Gervase say, Talbot? I have hardly seen him to speak 
 to, and to-night I naturally could not ask." 
 
 They were walking home together after Desmond's 
 arrest. 
 
 "I cannot ask him much either," explained Mr. Tal- 
 bot. "After all, she is his sister and he knows I 
 want to get at her! Do you know what I hate the 
 thought of, Raymond? That bounding old Gotto. 
 He will shriek 'I told you so' from everlasting unto 
 everlasting." 
 
 Mr. Talbot's fears were not unjustified. Before 
 he had time to calm his troubled spirit with his nightly 
 pipe, glass, and Ovid, the uplifted peer was battering 
 on his door, and heralding his arrival with noise and 
 triumphant laughs. 
 
 "What did I tell you, what did I tell you?" he 
 roared. "You can't get up earlier in the morning than
 
 THE TRAP 249 
 
 Gotto, I tell you. You think you can, but you can't. 
 When it comes to seeing through a brick wall, there's 
 not many can beat me. You know it now, so perhaps 
 you will believe me next time." 
 
 Mr. Talbot silenced him for a moment with the 
 whiskey, to which he helped himself largely. He had 
 already had quite a plentiful allowance. His face, of 
 a crimson-purple, most unpleasant to behold, looked 
 as if it might burst at any moment; and he diffused 
 an atmosphere reminiscent of empty casks and deserted 
 l?ar-rooms, that Mr. Talbot found disgusting. 
 
 Gulping and shouting; his drink reverberating 
 noisily in his throat and his inside; the noble and 
 objectionable lord pursued his own panegyric without 
 interruption. It was not until he began to instruct 
 Mr. Talbot as to how the enquiry should be conducted 
 that tempers got ruffled. 
 
 "She'll make your best witness," bawled Lord Gotto, 
 referring to Teresa. 
 
 "I wouldn't hang a dog on the evidence of a woman 
 like that," retorted Mr. Talbot. "And she is under 
 suspicion herself." 
 
 "There's your chance, to get her as King's evidence." 
 
 "Her evidence isn't worth the smallest considera- 
 tion. I should be very sorry for any case for the 
 Crown to be built upon what she could say; and so 
 long as it is in my hands, before it goes higher, I shall 
 assess her evidence at what it is worth. You needn't 
 shout at me, Gotto. It is not the slightest use. And 
 tell me, who gave you news of this?" 
 
 "The wretched man's father Jackson Johnson."
 
 250 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Oh! Amos Johnstone. He must have hurried!" 
 
 "A very good thing he did. I can see that quite 
 well, Talbot. A very good thing; someone has got to 
 watch this case, to prevent your letting that rotter off. 
 For, mark my words, that's what you want to do, 
 Talbot. You want to let him off. You are prepared 
 to strain the law. You are prepared to leave loop- 
 holes. I have my eye on you, don't make any mistake 
 about that. And if I find evidence of any hanky- 
 panky, I'll show it up. You can take that from me. 
 I'll show it up without mercy." 
 
 He gulped and gurgled and reverberated alarmingly, 
 as he rose, drank, struggled into his fur coat, and got 
 himself off, bawling angrily. 
 
 Mr. Talbot, who did not like Mr. Desmond, and had 
 felt most strongly about his unexplained return, went 
 to bed feeling that any advantage he could possibly 
 use for that gentleman's help would be a pleasure; and 
 that if he could provide him with a free pardon for any 
 and every crime he had ever committed, it would be 
 only fitting to do so, in the hope of adding to Lord 
 Gotto's annoyance. 
 
 The whole of Fairlands appeared to share Lord 
 Gotto's extreme views; and it was repeated from 
 mouth to mouth that Mr. Talbot meant to twist things 
 in Mr. Desmond's favour at the enquiry. The inquest, 
 of course, was to come first; but a Coroner's jury ver- 
 dict did not really count for much. It was Mr. Talbot 
 who counted. If he would not commit for trial, it was 
 quite certain his fellow justices would agree with him. 
 It was a scandalous state of things that the administra-
 
 THE TRAP 251 
 
 tion of justice should be in such hands. If men like 
 Gotto were on the Bench, now! He was the chap 
 to make 'em wake up and sit up. 
 
 Lower Domain was less cocksure. Mr. Desmond 
 was not popular. His conduct had been peculiar, and 
 in a way inexcusable, but no one wanted to see him in 
 prison, much less hanged. The pendulum swung in 
 his favour. Tenterley was gravely concerned; the 
 market-garden men openly said it was a damned shame 
 and the general opinion was that it would be a thorough 
 good riddance if flighty madam at The Domain could 
 be put in his place. 
 
 "A good fright would larn her," said the men. 
 
 "Pity we can't drown her," said the women. 
 "Drown her and done with her." 
 
 Then it was known that she was arrested too. 
 
 Amos Johnstone went about with a kind of Nunc 
 Dimittis expression on his face, speaking in excited 
 whispers, trotting about restlessly and erratically. He 
 could stick to nothing in the way of work, and his 
 brother cursed him heartily and said hard things of 
 him and his dead son. Nevertheless, Farmer John- 
 stone was much impressed, although he would not 
 admit it, with the dogged instinct that had stuck to 
 the trail all those years and been proven right in the 
 end. He cherished a greater respect for Amos hid- 
 den away carefully from its object and was proud 
 of the distinction shed on the family. 
 
 "It was the finding of that there body, that set 
 me athinking," the poor fellow explained everlast- 
 ingly and at Tenterley's the view was expressed
 
 252 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 that old Amos he weren't such a softy as he looked. 
 
 By the evening of the day, when Teresa, in a closed 
 carriage, with a female prison attendant, had been 
 driven away to a place of detention, and when Lennox 
 and Hubert arrived, news of Mrs. Desmond's condi- 
 tion leaked out. Dr. Willett went his rounds with a 
 shadow on his cheery old face; and a stream of callers, 
 high and lowly, found their way to The Meadows, 
 asking for news and expressing regret and sympathy. 
 At Tenterley's, the situation was summed up. 
 
 "If they don't let him out to see her afore she goos, 
 it won't be justice, it'll be sheer damn cruelty. 
 Worse'n Roossia. Mr. Talbot, he'll never stand for 
 that. He's a rightjious man and he won't goo and 
 part man and wife like that wi'out a last word. I'd 
 sooner he'd get away and 'scape, like he did afore, 
 than see a thing the like of that done. Worse'n 
 Roossia, that'd be." 
 
 Having made up her mind to what appeared to be 
 a painful effort, Lady Katherine did not suffer as much 
 from the consequences as Gervase had feared she 
 would do. She braced herself for the ordeal that had 
 to be faced; and in many ways seemed to be returning 
 to her old self. Gervase came to her room, at the 
 end of her interview with Desmond's solicitor, Mr. 
 Beaumont, a lean, melancholy man, very long in the 
 legs and small in the head, who looked as if his dealings 
 with humanity had been disappointing; and found him 
 in the act of stowing away a document with a broken 
 seal in his shabby despatch-case.
 
 THE TRAP 253 
 
 "It is mentioned in my will," Lady Katherine was 
 saying, " 'To be handed to Mrs. Desmond.' " 
 
 "It would, I venture to think, have been more to the 
 purpose if it had been handed to Mr. Desmond im- 
 mediately on his return," observed the lawyer, with 
 some severity. 
 
 Lady Katherine said nothing; and Gervase inter- 
 vened hastily, with enquiries for her health. 
 
 After a few such insignificant remarks, Gervase 
 gave further information. 
 
 "Teresa has made a statement," he said, gravely. 
 "She says the clothes on the skeleton were hers, and 
 that she helped Desmond escape. Her room has been 
 searched they found the key of one of those doors 
 in her dressing-bag. She says that Desmond lived 
 with her until he jibbed at providing for his children, 
 and that then he bolted; and eventually murdered the 
 man that she sent to find him, and luckily got it 
 brought in manslaughter. He served five years for it, 
 got away to the States and then to South Africa, where 
 he enlisted in a Mounted Police Force under another 
 man's name, and did time on the Breakwater at Cape 
 Town for that. He served in the South African War 
 and got to be sergeant-major in a corps of Light Horse, 
 and has a lot of medals and distinctions in the name 
 of Lennox. Then he went to the Philippines and 
 knocked about there; and she tracked him down all the 
 time. It was there she sent him the news of her death. 
 He threw up everything, as she knew he would, and 
 came home; and as soon as she heard he was here, 
 she followed."
 
 254 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "What does she say about the way Johnstone met 
 his death?" asked the lawyer, after a non-committal 
 pause. Lady Katherine was looking smitten. 
 
 "She says Desmond was jealous of the lad, with 
 whom she had a sort of flirtation when no one else 
 was available. Desmond found Johnstone, according 
 to her, kissing her; and got him by his neckcloth, 
 breaking his neck as he flung him down the inner 
 stairs. She got into Johnstone's clothes, and they got 
 away in old Johnstone's market-cart, disposing of the 
 stuff in the usual way. She appears to have gone up 
 to market in that sort of disguise, at night, on other 
 occasions, and helped the young fellow to unload, and 
 so forth; so she was known amongst his mates and the 
 others, who took her for a boy. As Johnstone had 
 already proved dishonest, it was no surprise to anyone. 
 His father got the cart and horses back, and you know 
 how all the rest of it, Teresa's going off and so on, 
 was hushed up." 
 
 "It sounds fatally plausible," said the depressing 
 man of business. 
 
 "It sounds too horrible," said Lady Katherine, with 
 trembling lips. "Bad as I knew her to be this is 
 inhuman. Stripping the body, hardly cold; and she 
 only seventeen! Getting into its clothes, dressing it 
 in hers it sounds hardly human, hardly believable." 
 
 "She was rather driven to it, by her account, by 
 Desmond, who carried things with a high hand. We 
 have seen some signs of a sort of brutality in him 
 everyone has noticed it. And besides, near where the
 
 THE TRAP 255 
 
 body was lying they found the green baize apron, that 
 there was so much talk about, all gone to pieces, but 
 quite recognizable." 
 
 "Does she say anything," asked the lawyer, "of an 
 accident to him?" 
 
 "No, not that I heard of," answered Gervase. 
 
 Lady Katherine and the lawyer looked hard into 
 each other's eyes. 
 
 "They escaped by that exit, lifting the huge stone 
 the two of them without help? That may be where 
 this comes in," said the lawyer, impressively, tapping 
 the despatch-case. "We shall see." 
 
 Lady Katherine nodded, and Gervase felt slightly 
 mystified; but neither of them vouchsafed any further 
 explanation. 
 
 Desmond, so far, had made no statement at all, since 
 saying that Johnstone had died of fright. That, and 
 the presence of the apron, were evidence that he had 
 been present when the death took place, or shortly 
 after. But he reserved his defense and was not pres- 
 ent at the inquest. 
 
 A commendable discretion, also, was displayed by 
 the Coroner's Court. The enquiry was cut down to 
 the narrowest possible limits compatible with the law; 
 and the finding of the jury, who had no wish to as- 
 sociate themselves with the Gotto clique, was that the 
 body was that of -William Johnstone, the clothes and 
 effects those of Mrs. Gervase and Mr. Desmond, and 
 that there was no evidence to show how deceased came 
 by his death.
 
 256 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Teresa was called as a witness, but declined to go 
 into the box, on the ground that she was reserving 
 her evidence for her defense before another court. 
 
 That green baize apron! Dragged from its ob- 
 scurity, it became the centre of devouring interest. 
 Such a clue, such a case, was a real boon to press and 
 public; and it leapt from the dimness of local obscurity 
 to the blinding light of a cause celebre and a yellow- 
 press stunt. Lower Domain, hitherto "the world for- 
 getting, by the world forgot," became the haunt of 
 those hacks of the baser papers who seek sensational 
 (and nearly always mis-reported) interviews, silly and 
 offensive photos, and spicy "pars." 
 
 "Somebody did ought to put one of they chaps in 
 the pond," opined Tenterley. "It'ud be a lesson." 
 But the bulk of the population preferred the oppor- 
 tunity of seeing their own sage words, and profound 
 suggestions, and unimpressive physiognomies, in print. 
 Lower Domain found itself in the limelight, as it had 
 not done even at the time of Mr. Desmond's dis- 
 appearance; and it thoroughly enjoyed the sensation. 
 
 Needless to say, Lord Gotto gave interviews to every- 
 one. The press representatives, however, so systema- 
 tically watered down or edited his altogether outra- 
 geous and libellous remarks, as to provoke him to 
 declare that they were all in the disgraceful conspiracy 
 to protect Mr. Desmond and defeat the ends of justice. 
 It is incontestable that, had any of the representatives 
 aforesaid caused to be published verbatim, the re- 
 markably frank and abusive statements of the noble 
 lord, he, they, and their papers would have found them-
 
 THE TRAP 257 
 
 selves involved in proceedings for libel, slander, defa- 
 mation, and contempt of court; but the pungency of 
 the remarks was beyond question, and Lord Gotto 
 was right in declaring that they would have been of 
 the greatest interest to a very wide circle. 
 
 Seldom had so much drama been crowded into so 
 little space. There was the truth about Mr. Desmond 
 and the green baize apron that would come out at 
 last. There were revelations about Mrs. Gervase and 
 her wild doings, and the husband of whom no one had 
 ever heard anything. There was the fate of Willie 
 Johnstone, and the murder of the other man buried 
 near Farmer Johnstone's shed 3. There was the secret 
 passage. There was the dangerous illness of Mrs. 
 Desmond, plainly the result of her husband's arrest. 
 And there was Lady Katherine, mixed up in it all. 
 
 It is not too much to say, and it is no reflection on 
 their really kind and loyal hearts, that the inhabitants 
 of Lower Domain were prepared to enjoy, since such 
 things had to happen, the things that had happened in 
 their midst; and this did not in any way lessen their 
 deep sympathy with Lady Katherine and Mrs. Des- 
 mond. The popular hope was that Mr. Desmond 
 might be cleared, but that Mrs. Gervase might get her 
 deserts. Farther than that they did not go; there was 
 a great lack of enlightening theories or explanations. 
 
 Amos Johnstone -was silly with excitement, and it 
 seemed not unlikely that his destination, after all, 
 would be the Asylum. He wandered about with fussy, 
 trotting steps, found it impossible to sit still for two 
 minutes together, and kept a constant vigil outside the
 
 258 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 police-station, where he poured out a trickle of foolish 
 questions. 
 
 People flocked over to the grubby little town of 
 Gorlett for the enquiry. The Court would not hold all, 
 or nearly all, of those who thronged round it, greedy 
 for sensation, picking up and passing round every 
 likely and unlikely story that imagination could coin. 
 
 Among the few sparse fragments of truth, it was 
 said that Mrs. Desmond was dying and that Teresa 
 was turning King's evidence. 
 
 Mr. Talbot was not able to prevent it. The case 
 for the Crown was considered weak, and any evidence 
 there might be against Mrs. Gervase would involve 
 lesser offenses than murder. So it was decided to use 
 her evidence for the prosecution. 
 
 It was her own shameless vileness that damaged that 
 evidence and helped to break down the case for the 
 Crown. Her strongly-displayed animus against the 
 man who was the father of her children, her frank 
 admission of pursuit and persecution and threats of 
 exposure, of his efforts to evade her and his defiance 
 of her, created an impression only natural under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 On the top of that came the story of the sealed docu- 
 ment handed by Lady Katherine to Desmond's lawyer, 
 and supported by an affidavit from Lady Katherine 
 herself. 
 
 The bottom was completely knocked out of the case. 
 
 "I do not think it would be possible," said Mr. Tal- 
 bot, with grave severity, a to find a jury in the length 
 and breadth of the land, who would convict on the
 
 THE TRAP 259 
 
 evidence of such a witness. The prisoner is dis- 
 charged. There is no case on which to commit him 
 for trial. I will not add any words that will make his 
 burden heavier, for whatever he may have done con- 
 trary to law and good order, he has paid for over and 
 over again. I shall communicate with the Attorney 
 General with a view to a charge of perjury against this 
 witness; and I desire to express the sympathy of the 
 Court with the victim of her accusation and with the 
 honourable family whose name has been so unde- 
 servedly besmirched by this unworthy member of it. 
 
 "You are discharged," said Mr. Talbot, leaning to- 
 wards the prisoner and speaking with extraordinary 
 consideration. 
 
 It was the second time he had said it. Mr. Des- 
 mond did not seem to understand. 
 
 The Rector was at his side, leading him away, before 
 he collected himself, and he was driven home without 
 any lingering. 
 
 In the room where Kythe and Gervase had seen 
 his strong control break down; the room where his 
 wife had come to him in his shame and agony; he sat 
 alone, waiting for the doctor's verdict. 
 
 He had been told, the day before, when the enquiry 
 opened, of his wife's dangerous condition, and the op- 
 eration that had become horribly necessary. Dr. Wil- 
 lett was upstairs now, with two strange men and a 
 nurse. May was sobbing helplessly, Mrs. Raymond 
 waiting to see what use she could be, Lennox, Luttrell 
 and Hubert crowding aimlessly and miserably in the 
 playroom with Hero.
 
 26o WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Alone he sat, refusing all company, staring out into 
 the garden, going over the strange story told in the 
 Court that day and the day before, ranging among his 
 bitter memories, seeing ever and again the hideous 
 scenes in which he had figured, through which he had 
 lived, the hell in which he had agonised; and wonder- 
 ing why he had not killed the woman who had brought 
 him to it. 
 
 She had not only brought him to agony and despair; 
 she had brought Honoria to it too. She had killed 
 Honoria. His hands clenched, and the tell-tale scar 
 reddened and glistened. 
 
 He touched it with his fingers to still its throbbing. 
 
 It was that scar that had saved him. Teresa had 
 forgotten ! 
 
 The enquiry had dragged all to light. 
 
 Desmond remembered the various phases of it, but 
 hardly as if they concerned him. 
 
 He remembered listening to Teresa's vicious account, 
 with its artful suppressions and eliminations, hearing 
 her dotting the i's, crossing the t's, underlining the 
 meanings, that were to condemn him; owning to her 
 love for him her shameful love because he was like 
 another man she had loved damning him deeper with 
 every word. 
 
 He heard the change in his counsel's voice, the little 
 lilt of triumph, when he asked, 
 
 "Did the prisoner give you active assistance in all 
 this in undressing and re-dressing the corpse, in get- 
 ting out by the exit at the Homestead Farm?"
 
 THE TRAP 261 
 
 "Yes." An unhesitating yes. 
 
 "In spite of his serious condition?" 
 
 "Do you mean his danger of arrest?" 
 
 "Very smart, Mrs. Gervase. But not smart enough. 
 I refer to his physical condition. Come now, will you 
 tell the Court how he came by that scar on his head, 
 who the half -conscious man was who was helped into 
 Johnstone's waggon, and who the man was who helped 
 him in? And how, if that man were the prisoner, he 
 could have taken part in any act requiring strength or 
 exertion?" 
 
 And as Teresa made no answer to this broadside, 
 counsel continued, 
 
 "We will call Amos Johnstone presently. He will 
 tell us what he can, and I think it will be sufficient." 
 
 Desmond remembered it, word for word, as he stood 
 staring out of the window into the garden the garden 
 from which he had gone out that fateful day. It was 
 not the scene in the Court that was real; it was those 
 other scenes recalled from the past, whipped into vivid 
 life by that woman's tongue. 
 
 He remembered how he had gone down the lane, 
 lightly and unheedingly; he could hear the garden door 
 slam behind him. He remembered, as he had told his 
 sister, seeing an errand-boy come whistling out of The 
 Domain garden door, and go lazily down to the village 
 street, without turning his head. The Domain garden 
 door failed to give that familiar suck and plug; it had 
 not shut. He saw it, standing ajar. 
 
 He remembered the impulse of idle, boyish curiosity,
 
 262 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 on which he had peeped in. Peeped in and seen noth- 
 ing; and then hastily withdrawn, rather ashamed of 
 but amused at himself and his impulse. 
 
 And then he had heard a sort of cry, and peeped in 
 again. 
 
 Turning his head to the left, he saw the doorway 
 of the Old Tower. On the threshold sat Teresa, young, 
 audacious, alluring, her foreign, expressive face twisted 
 as if in pain. 
 
 "Have you hurt yourself?" he asked, moved to ex- 
 plain his presence. "I thought I heard someone call." 
 
 "I have hurt my knee," complained Teresa, in her 
 rich, warm voice. She stared at him as if startled. It 
 was the sight of him peeping in, as he got to know 
 afterwards, that startled her and made her slip on the 
 step. 
 
 "Do you know," she said, "at first I thought you 
 were someone quite different! You gave me a 
 fright!" 
 
 "Can't I help you?" he asked, itching to do some- 
 thing useful. 
 
 "Yes. Help me down this stair, please." 
 
 Surprised, he helped her to her feet. 
 
 He could feel her now, in his arms, feigning help- 
 lessness, clinging to him for support. She was warm 
 and supple; the feel of her hair in his face, her body 
 against his, was an adventure. Her face, now laugh- 
 ing, now pre-occupied, and then twisted up again to 
 sham pain she had only given her knee a little graze 
 was as tempting as a face could be, with its wide 
 smile, its warm youth.
 
 THE TRAP 263 
 
 He helped her down, with the leathern case and 
 parcel that she was carrying. 
 
 She opened a door, in the dark; and stumbled with 
 him down some steps, fumbling with the door and 
 then swinging it to behind them. He looked round 
 in surprise, at the long, low, roughly-furnished room. 
 
 His face scorched still as he remembered how it 
 went on. 
 
 She sat on the table beside him, holding on to him, 
 pulling down her silk stocking to show her grazed 
 knee. Was ever a man caught in such a toil so easily? 
 
 It was dark; only lighted by one candle. She held 
 him fast; told him she was afraid; afraid of some- 
 thing he did not know of; something that had hap- 
 pened. A dreadful thing she could not tell him, but 
 she was afraid. 
 
 He did not know, he never knew, how long he stayed 
 there, comforting her, laughing with her making love 
 to her. That dreadful love-making his face scorched 
 at the thought of it. 
 
 "Haven't I got pretty knees?" she said. 
 
 He remembered how he answered remembered how 
 the infamy of it came home to him in a flash, of the 
 honour and loyalty he was being lured to forget. He 
 remembered how he made for the door, and heard 
 her tremulous, frightened laugh for she was fright- 
 ened, of something he did not understand. He re- 
 membered getting the clumsy door to open across the 
 steps; and stepping up into the cellar. 
 
 Something moved in front of him, and he stopped for 
 an instant. A light flashed into his eyes, dazzling him.
 
 264 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 The dark form confronting him made an inarticulate 
 sound, and then with a furious oath struck at him. 
 
 He remembered the blow, and the rain of sparks it 
 seemed to shower round him, or strike off him. It 
 gave him a momentary surprise. He heard the thud 
 of his own fall; and the fall or ring of something 
 metal on stone paving. He knew no more, till the 
 maddening pain, as of a screw twisting in his head, 
 brought him to a wretched and confused conscious- 
 ness.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE SCAR 
 
 THE girl was huddled beside him, holding his head, 
 round which she had wrapped a towel. It had been 
 bleeding heavily; his neck was sticky with blood. 
 
 She gave him water, which revived him consider- 
 ably. He was a healthy, powerful man; and though 
 he felt stupid and confused, and was in acute pain, 
 he began to feel that he had not been so severely in- 
 jured as might have been the case. 
 
 The girl was frankly terrified; and in her relief at 
 his recovery, nestled against him, holding his head in 
 her arms, kissing his lips alluringly. He was too con- 
 fused to repel her; and presently he felt drowsy and 
 dozed. When he roused himself, and got to his feet, 
 and she helped him into a chair by the table, he began 
 to think of what he had better do. 
 
 If he went back, the murderous attack in the cellar 
 might be renewed! Who it was, that waited and 
 watched there, neither of them knew. The mystery 
 of it baffled and xdaunted them, and he remembered 
 how he became acutely conscious that she had some 
 knowledge of possible dangers which he did not pos- 
 sess, and that his momentary impulse of childish cur- 
 
 265
 
 266 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 iosity had landed him in a position more serious than 
 he cared to think of. 
 
 He remembered the half -guilty start with which he 
 heard the approach of footsteps from beyond the fur- 
 ther door at the other end of the long, low room. The 
 girl clutched him with gripping hands round his 
 shoulders; he rose to his feet, the towel falling from 
 his head; a fresh trickle of blood crawled down his 
 cheek and ear. His arm was round her waist. They 
 stood, as if in the most intimate relation, waiting; 
 their eyes glued to the door, which opened slowly and 
 cautiously. 
 
 The man who came in was Willie Johnstone. He 
 stood a moment as if struck with paralysis. No sound 
 came from his open mouth. 
 
 Then he flung an arm across his eyes. A cry that 
 was neither a word nor a shout; and then a hoarse, 
 protesting call. 
 
 "Craven! No. Ah no!" 
 
 The last word was a scream, and he fell backwards. 
 
 He was dead when they reached him. 
 
 Desmond did not know how long they spent, trying 
 desperately to restore the stricken man. He seemed 
 to live life after life in that dim underground region. 
 
 He tried to go for help; but she prevented him. 
 His head ached and throbbed, and bled incessantly. 
 His brain grew dizzy with perplexed thought. He 
 had no strength left to move or to decide. He lay 
 down on a rough camp bed to try to think things over. 
 
 The girl crept into his arms. His blood raced as he 
 remembered
 
 THE SCAR 267 
 
 She told him then what had happened, what had 
 led up to this, what she was afraid of. It had to be 
 told him over and over again, before he could grasp 
 the ins and outs of it. 
 
 The man he was like, whom she called Craven, had 
 been her lover, a year ago. She was expelled from 
 school on account of him. He was a brute, she said; 
 his temper, his language, his threats; a friend he 
 brought with him; she grew terrified of them both. 
 Willie Johnstone was one of their tools; they used the 
 market-waggon for getting about in, at night. Teresa 
 had found the door in the cellar, discovered the lock, 
 fitted the piece of cork into the keyhole to disguise it; 
 and had come in unexpectedly on the gang, who had 
 found the other entrance near Farmer Johnstone's shed. 
 They had not suspected the existence of the inner cel- 
 lar door, as, when closed, it fitted into the wall without 
 a trace. 
 
 They were receivers of stolen goods. Craven fell 
 in love with Teresa, and she joined them and stood in 
 with them, enjoying the illicit excitement of their peril- 
 ous trade. They had lately had reason to believe they 
 were marked down, and were making all their plans 
 for getting away. Craven, said Teresa, was jealous 
 of young Johnstone, and meanly accused the lad of 
 being the one who had given them away. Johnstone, 
 who was also jealous of Craven the girl had evidently 
 pitted one against the other in her unscrupulous in- 
 trigues then quarrelled violently with Craven. They 
 had fought near the farm sheds and Craven had been 
 quite unexpectedly and unintentionally killed.
 
 268 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Johnstone was half mad with terror at what he had 
 done. He hid the body temporarily under some rub- 
 bish in the sheds, and found Teresa in the cellar. 
 Both of them were at their wits' end, between their 
 dread of an accusation of murder and the imminent 
 peril of arrest for the original offence of theft in which 
 they believed they stood; and Craven's other mate, 
 who also knew how to gain access to the underground 
 tunnel, came upon them before they had formed any 
 plan or summoned up courage to deal with the corpse. 
 In the early hours of that dreadful morning the two 
 men dug a shallow grave under the manure heaps, and 
 buried Craven there, where he had been killed, using 
 the manure to scatter about and obliterate all foot- 
 marks and traces, and arranging with Amos Johnstone 
 to take the cart out himself that evening, and leave 
 them the night free. The little man was, of course, in 
 complete ignorance of the tragedy. 
 
 The other man, who carried out all the dealings 
 with Amos, told him that his son was in fresh trouble, 
 and arranged for the cart to be available the next 
 night to take them up to town, whence they intended 
 to get away from the country. Teresa knew where 
 some of the valuables were stowed, and her business 
 the afternoon that Desmond came upon her, was to 
 get these packed in readiness for the journey. She 
 was well aware that this mate of Craven's would have 
 no hesitation in doing her out of her share if he got 
 the chance, or in taking his revenge on her if she played 
 him false, and she was beginning to feel desperate.
 
 THE SCAR 269 
 
 The sight of Desmond, peeping in at the garden door, 
 scared her afresh, so that she slipped and fell. He 
 had a curious likeness in build and colour to Craven, 
 who, moreover, often used a leathern apron. The 
 green baize apron gave the slight likeness a stronger 
 accentuation. 
 
 Johnstone must have seen the uncanny likeness, 
 just as Teresa did, to the man he had killed and buried. 
 Craven had been struck on the head; the blood run- 
 ning down Desmond's face, his attitude with Teresa in 
 his arms, helped the illusion. 
 
 Sheer fright must have killed him. 
 
 Much of the story the worst part the criminal 
 part, the tale of Teresa's tricks and intrigues and 
 shameless liaisons, of the clashing tempers and alter- 
 nating fits of passion and hatred, the thieving and ly- 
 ing, the bribing of poor old Amos with promises of 
 help for his scapegrace son, was withheld; but enough 
 was got into Desmond's head to turn him dizzy with 
 horror. Here he was, mixed up in this most awful 
 business; how he was going to get out of it without 
 an appalling expose, he could not think. And his head 
 was aching; and the girl was clinging to him and 
 kissing him; and he could not remember clearly how 
 far she had lured him in her wanton love-making he 
 shrank from attempting to remember; and outside the 
 door his only way of escape was a murderous en- 
 emy, perhaps still waiting to complete his work! 
 
 Johnstone's death necessarily imperilled the gang's 
 escape; and Teresa's mind ran on the anger of the
 
 270 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 third man, Craven's mate, whose plans would be up- 
 set. She dreaded what he might do in his anger, if 
 thwarted. 
 
 By the time he arrived, furious and foul-mouthed, 
 but stricken into silence by the sight of dead John- 
 stone and the story of the assault on Desmond at the 
 cellar door, Desmond's senses had wandered away, and 
 he was only half conscious of his surroundings. 
 
 The position Teresa and this man were now faced 
 with was that someone else knew of the cellar entrance, 
 and knew that Desmond was within it. 
 
 Who it was that had watched and waited there and 
 made the murderous attack was a profound mystery 
 and a great danger. Amos Johnstone, miserably an- 
 xious about his son, was willing to do anything they 
 wanted; the safest thing was to get away. So, col- 
 lecting the valuables, and half-carrying Desmond, they 
 made their way by the other exit into the sheds, and 
 with the assistance of Amos Johnstone, got Desmond 
 safely stowed in the waggon. 
 
 Standing over the frightened girl, the bully gave his 
 orders. Desmond was to be Craven for the time be- 
 ing; that would still the tongues of any of the other 
 associates who might get to hear that the party was 
 one short. With brutal oaths, that echoed dimly in 
 Desmond's fuddled head, he forced her to help him 
 strip the corpse and put on its clothes. Desmond's 
 green baize apron was rolled up and tossed down be- 
 side it. 
 
 Desmond was covered with an old coat of Craven's,
 
 THE SCAR 271 
 
 hiding his blood-stained shirt; and a cap pulled down 
 over his bandaged head. Amos Johnstone, who 
 thought the staggering gentleman was Craven, and 
 attributed his condition to drink, and who never for 
 one moment associated him with Desmond, received 
 with gratification Teresa's assurance that Willie would 
 come and say good-bye to him in a day or two, and that 
 she and Craven would look after him in Australia and 
 see that he was all right, undertaking also to do their 
 very best to keep him out of reach of the law. And so 
 they left Lower Domain, without a thing to cast sus- 
 picion on them. 
 
 When Desmond recovered his wandering senses, he 
 was lying in a frowsy bunk, two days out at sea. 
 Teresa and the ruffian who gave them orders, were with 
 him. Later on she was alone with him. 
 
 It was a day or two before his mind cleared com- 
 pletely, and the extent of his misfortunes came home 
 to him. By that time, it was taken for granted that 
 Teresa was his woman; he could not free himself 
 
 His physical weakness was far less than the state 
 of his mind would have indicated. It was his brain 
 that seemed in a fashion numbed. What with the 
 blow and the high temperature, and the shock, both 
 mental and physical, he could not straighten out his 
 thoughts. When he did, they nearly drove him mad. 
 
 The big ruffian exercised a sort of supervision. The 
 girl, for all her audacity, was afraid of him, as she had 
 been of the man with whom she had so fatally en- 
 tangled herself, and at whose death she secretly re-
 
 272 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 joiced. Yet she had loved him, in a way. His per- 
 son attracted her; and it was the same attraction that 
 proved Desmond's undoing. 
 
 She took refuge with him from the other man. At 
 night, lying in his arms, exercising all her allurements, 
 she fascinated him with her charm, and sickened him 
 with her precocious depravity. The sneering ruffian 
 would come in on them, at any moment; with a brutal 
 laugh, or a more brutal sneer or a silent cold scrutiny 
 worse than either. He was supposed to share the cab- 
 in with them. 
 
 The nightmare voyage seemed to last into eternity. 
 It always had been, always would be; nothing else 
 had ever been, all else was a figment of the most fan- 
 tastic imagination. That alone was reality. 
 
 The big ruffian was always suspicious of him. 
 
 When they landed, and Desmond wanted to take 
 the next ship back, the position was brutally explained 
 to him. If he went back, he could give them away. 
 The big man wasn't "taking any chances." Either 
 he stayed where he was and "looked after" Teresa, or 
 he would be accused of the murder of Willie John- 
 stone. 
 
 The months he spent with the depraved girl, the 
 horror with which he looked on the children he begot, 
 the aching, gnawing longing for what he had lost, his 
 escape, the tracking down, and the false charge of 
 murder of the blackmailing brute she sent after him, 
 brought and almost proven against him; the verdict of 
 manslaughter, the penal sentence, the subsequent years 
 of pursuit, persecution, privation, toil, the growing
 
 THE SCAR 273 
 
 knowledge that he had lost all chance of going home 
 with any conceivable explanation, the shame at his 
 record it all came back in waves of heat and cold, 
 of anger and desperation. The sight of the announce- 
 ment of Teresa's death he remembered that, too; and 
 how he had made for home like a hunted beast, with 
 the audacity of despair. 
 
 In all that life of horror, after he worked free of 
 the confused impressions of the voyage, what kept 
 him going was the beacon-light of home. Shining 
 through gloom indescribable, it lighted him to effort 
 after effort at securing his freedom. The death by 
 violence of the ruffian who helped Teresa keep her 
 strangle-hold on his life, reduced the witnesses against 
 him to one; and memory of his home, the home he 
 had lost, the wife, the babies, stood out in clearer and 
 yet clearer relief clean, pure things, to recover which 
 he vainly and pantingly struggled. 
 
 And his return, to a family of strangers with whom 
 he had little in common, who shrank from his coarsened 
 fibre, whose fastidious perceptions sensed the convict 
 and the outcast; the wife who wore a widow's cap, 
 and who had borne a child he had never known; the 
 grown-up sons incensed at their mother's position, the 
 censure of the neighbours and old friends that home- 
 coming had been bitterer far than exile. 
 
 The new and sterner forms of manliness which he 
 had perforce learned among the criminal riff-raff and 
 the hardy pioneers with whom his lot had cast him, 
 and with whom he had grit enough to "make good" 
 and prove himself a man indeed, enabled him to keep
 
 274 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 his feelings to himself, to drink the cup to the dregs 
 without a wry face, and to keep his hideous secrets. 
 Never by word or phrase, since coming home, had he 
 betrayed himself, or let fall a clue to his wanderings. 
 
 The return of Teresa, triumphant in her last intrigue, 
 the knowledge that the boy and girl so securely en- 
 sconced at The Domain and on the most intimate terms 
 with his wife's children, were those illegitimate chil- 
 dren from the thought of whose very existence he 
 shrank, hit him so hard it was a miracle that he was 
 able to keep his balance. Yet still he kept his lips 
 closed, his face unmoved. No man, surely, ever lived 
 through such an ordeal. 
 
 The threat Teresa still held over him, the silence 
 she half -promised as the price of renewing his rela- 
 tions with her, the terrifying assurance that he was 
 the only man she had really loved, and that she would 
 rather see him hanged than living happily with his 
 wife, were mere details in the general horror. 
 
 In open court, before his three sons, his daughter, 
 his sister and her husband, his old friend, the story 
 had been told to the last bitter word. What Teresa's 
 statement suppressed, Desmond's revealed. And the 
 dramatic climax was the disclosure of the mystery to 
 which no clue had been found till then the story of 
 the blow on the head that had felled Desmond when 
 emerging from the secret cellar door. 
 
 The document handed to his solicitor by Lady Kath- 
 erine, signed, witnessed, and sealed up by the old 
 Squire, contained the explanation. 
 
 A word dropped by Hugh, who in his workroom in
 
 THE SCAR 275 
 
 the Old Tower heard more than Teresa allowed for, 
 made the old Squire realise that Teresa was still pros- 
 ecuting her low intrigue with the man who was sup- 
 posed to belong to the market-garden confraternity. 
 He caught a glimpse of a man in an apron and with 
 rolled up sleeves; craned his neck and saw him with 
 his arms round Teresa, taking her down the Old Tower 
 cellar steps. 
 
 In a rage, such as in his youthful days had made 
 men fear him, the Squire sought a weapon. In one 
 of the garden houses he found and snatched up the 
 loose stove bar. Stealthily following and lurking, he 
 crept to the cellar, but could hear and see nothing. 
 Twice he went up to the garden and came down again. 
 The second time, with a lantern to guide his search, he 
 met the man in the apron face to face, apparently 
 emerging from the floor. 
 
 The old Squire was a powerful as well as a passion- 
 ate man. He struck blindly and furiously. Heard 
 the groan and fall, and the rattle of the weapon that 
 dropped from his weakened hand as he realised what 
 he had done. Could make out nothing definite, in the 
 obscurity, lighted only by one candle; but was con- 
 scious that a door closed silently in his face. 
 
 No word did he say of what had happened, locking 
 it up in his own mind. A plausible story was pre- 
 sented to the neighbourhood about his granddaughter's 
 disappearance, which was attributed by him and Lady 
 {Catherine, rightly, to a disgraceful elopement, on the 
 subject of which they preserved unbroken silence. Ev- 
 ery help was rendered in the search for the missing Mr.
 
 276 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 Desmond, in completely disinterested sympathy, but 
 when the description of that gentleman, and the tale 
 of the green baize apron, came to his knowledge, the 
 Squire knew what it was he had done. 
 
 Divided between wrath that his own neighbour, a 
 married man with a family, should have been his grand- 
 daughter's guilty lover, and dread that he himself was 
 the murderer of the missing man, his days were days 
 of torment and unrest. Teresa's letters, mocking and 
 insolent, gave no clue to the Desmond mystery; and 
 as time went on, the conclusion was irresistible that 
 the blow had caused death. 
 
 No investigation ever enabled him to discover the 
 secret of the cellar door. He searched continually and 
 with immense precaution, unwilling to share with any- 
 one the half -knowledge he possessed; to no effect. 
 Three years after the event, he told his wife what it 
 was that was preying on his mind. The constant sight 
 of the bereaved Desmond family overcame his resolu- 
 tion to keep silence. 
 
 Lady Katherine urged him to place the facts on 
 record; but was even more resolute than he to keep 
 the secret, protect their name, and save him from open 
 trial. If Desmond were killed, nothing could give him 
 back to Mrs. Desmond. If he had gone off with Ter- 
 esa, by some underground way, better that Mrs. Des- 
 mond should not know. 
 
 They had covered up Teresa's elopement, and stifled 
 the scandal by methods the haughty old couple hardly 
 cared to discuss even between themselves. They were
 
 THE SCAR 277 
 
 unused to intrigue and hated lies only one degree less 
 than the shame of open scandal. 
 
 And it remained at that, but an ever-growing weight 
 of conscience burdened the old lady's soul and made 
 her scrupulously considerate and protective towards 
 Mrs. Desmond. 
 
 It was this blow, with the corresponding scar, the 
 finding of the iron stove-bar, and the testimony of 
 Amos Johnstone that he had helped to get a stagger- 
 ing, half-conscious man, whom he took to be Craven, 
 into his waggon that fateful night, the night of Mr. 
 Desmond's disappearance that gave the lie to Ter- 
 esa's statement. Her tale was not wholly and solely 
 dictated by malice, bad though it was. It was, in part, 
 self-preservation. Judging others by her own stand- 
 ard, and realising that her brother and Mr. Talbot 
 were disposed to assume her probable guilt under al- 
 most any accusation, she was not sure that Desmond 
 would not seize the opportunity of paying her back 
 for old scores by laying the burden of the murder or 
 murders on her shoulders. Under such circumstances, 
 the threat held over him so long became an effective 
 and necessary weapon of defence as well as attack. 
 
 In her evidence, all mention of the man who was 
 their partner and their task-master was suppressed. 
 Desmond's story, which included such a person, was, 
 however, sufficiently corroborated by Amos Johnstone 
 to be accepted. Amos knew very little about the 
 man, and had only seen him once before; his memory 
 was hazy and he mixed him up continually with the
 
 278 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 dead Craven. In conjunction with the finding of re- 
 mains which in all probability could be no other than 
 Craven's, and added to the dazed little man's con- 
 tinual reminders to the Court that it was the discovery 
 that those remains were not Mr. Desmond's that first 
 filled him with suspicion and made him beg to have 
 things "cleared up," Lady Katherine's evidence se- 
 cured Desmond's complete vindication. 
 The public taste for sensation was indeed gratified.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 KYTHE TAKES THE REINS 
 
 MRS. DESMOND lay dying. Her breath came in 
 short gasps, her fair skin was darkened and coarsened, 
 her lips purple and swollen. All day she moaned and 
 tossed in discomfort, taking little heed of her surround- 
 ings, rousing herself to a gesture or word of recog- 
 nition, or a faint, shadowy attempt at a smile, only at 
 the sound of Kythe's voice. 
 
 The bed, tilted at the foot to relieve the failing heart, 
 gave a comfortless look to the room. Her sons and 
 daughters, strangling with their grief, felt a vague, 
 helpless anger against doctors and nurse, who stood 
 between them, and whose ministrations had reduced 
 her to this. 
 
 "If they had let her alone, she would have lived long- 
 er. It would not have been like this." 
 
 So they raved, ignorant of illness, waving aside the 
 chance the one chance of life chat the operation 
 provided. 
 
 Their anger rose highest against their father. Great 
 as was their indignation with the medical men and the 
 subservient nurse, their real resentment centred round 
 their father; a silent, growing force of resentment that 
 
 279
 
 2 8o WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 found no outlet in words, but, sullen and concentrated, 
 penetrated to the recesses of the unhappy man's soul 
 and scorched it. 
 
 All day, he sat at the head of her bed. All day she 
 lay, moaning, gasping, tossing restlessly, calling in- 
 articulately, requiring constant readjustment of the bed 
 and her body, in the intolerable discomfort. At in- 
 tervals he laid his head on the pillow and she turned 
 her face against his. No word passed between them. 
 
 No one knew what had passed. None could say 
 whether all had been made clear, or whether in her 
 great love, no forgiveness had been needed. The 
 sands slipped away fast; the lethargy induced by mor- 
 phia, and the exhaustion of ebbing life, made all fur- 
 ther confidence impossible. At the last she pushed 
 him away, and died strangling, struggling for air, cry- 
 ing out in hoarse protest or pain, refusing to acknowl- 
 edge his presence or his touch, her last glance for 
 Kythe. A huddled, grey-faced wreck, he left the 
 death-chamber, without a trace of his strong self-con- 
 trol. 
 
 Kythe came to him, in his room where he sat at 
 his desk with his head on his arms. He looked at her 
 in hard anger, but she was not daunted. 
 
 "You are to drink this," she said unflinchingly; and 
 stood over him while he did so. 
 
 Her face was disfigured with tears and bore a strange 
 likeness to the other disfigured face that had tossed 
 all day on the uncomforting pillows. He wished, 
 drearily, that she did not hate him, and forgot his own 
 dislike of her in the wish.
 
 KYTHE TAKES THE REINS 281 
 
 She was so like Honoria more like than any of 
 them. Honoria loved her so dearly because his 
 thoughts wandered, as he tried to trace the because, 
 back to his disappearance, his misfortune, his anguish, 
 his martyrdom it all began over again. 
 
 "Father!" Kythe was saying, with an insistent hand 
 on his shoulder. "You must lie down here. I have 
 got the sofa ready for you. Lie down. Take these 
 and finish your soup." 
 
 He took the dose meekly, and lay down. She undid 
 his boots, made him take off his coat and braces; and 
 covered him with a big rug. 
 
 When he woke, she was beside him with a cup of tea. 
 
 All the dreadful days that followed, he was con- 
 scious of her watchful care. His brother and Lennox, 
 and the Rector and Hermione, looked after everything. 
 He was not allowed to see his wife again; the face was 
 too greatly changed. 
 
 He stood at the graveside, dazed and wretched, until 
 the end of the ceremony. When he tried to lock him- 
 self in his study, after getting rid of Harry and Charley 
 what good fellows they were! he found the key was 
 missing. 
 
 At Tenterley's, that night, the village Parliament dis- 
 cussed the story late and long. While divided in opin- 
 ion on some of the points, there was a consensus of 
 gratification that Teresa was likely to be proceeded 
 against for perjury and get some part of what she de- 
 served. 
 
 "A good job, too," said the bird-seed man.
 
 282 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "Ah," said Constable Thomas, in rich agreement. 
 
 "Pore old Johnstone," observed a young man who 
 was assistant at the linen-draper's; "he didn't really 
 expeck what he got, I don't believe. I believe that 
 what he thought was that if he pushed 'em hard 
 enough, they'd find his boy, alive and not dead." 
 
 "He's all of a maze still," remarked Tenterley, with 
 his usual quiet sympathy for sufferers. "Can't seem 
 to be able to grasp it, that his pore boy was lying dead 
 all that time; and folks gooing on about his being a 
 bad lad and crool to his father and all that. He gets 
 that upset, thinking back on all that talk, you wouldn't 
 believe." 
 
 "It's to be hoped that Madam will get what she de- 
 sarve," said the bell-man. "When you think she gooed 
 off and left the young fella dead and never gave no 
 word to the old man, and rigged up all the time in the 
 clothes off his dead body, and knowing all the time as 
 how he'd killed the other well; it fair takes your 
 breath away and she only a slip of a girl!" 
 
 "She was properly frightened, though, by that chap 
 as made her do it," ventured the postman, between 
 volumes of smoke puffed from the very foulest clay 
 pipe ever allowed to defile the air. 
 
 "Goo on," said Tenterley, scornfully. "Her fright- 
 ened! Not her. All tark, about being frightened. 
 Put him up to it, most like." 
 
 "Females is a terror," opined Constable Thomas, 
 "when they's made that way. There's things a man 
 ud never do, they'll do without turning a hair." 
 
 This sentiment was received with favour.
 
 KYTHE TAKES THE REINS 283 
 
 "And if it comes to that," said the new man, who 
 was employed at Sutton's the plumber, "there's not 
 much to be said for the old lady, either." 
 
 No one but a new-comer could have said this. They 
 had all kept their tongues off Lady Katherine. 
 
 "She did a pretty hard-necked thing, you know," he 
 went on, unconscious of offence. "Knoo as how the 
 old gentleman had as good as killed someone, and 
 thought it must be Mr. Desmond; and never to say a 
 word all those years why! It's pretty disgraceful, 
 I think! After he was dead and all, there was no 
 excuse!" 
 
 There was no response to this. They shifted their 
 feet uneasily, and sucked at their pipes, or refilled or 
 relighted them. No one wished to join in blaming Lady 
 Katherine. 
 
 "He's had bad treatment, he has, that pore gentle- 
 man, first and last. Not a living soul to help him clear 
 himself or free himself; everything in a sort of conspir- 
 acy to tie him up it sounds like that sort of a bad 
 dream you can't wake up from. And now his wife, pore 
 lady, that must have had a sore heart, first and last; 
 gone before she known he was cleared; it's a cruel 
 bad business, pore things. All their lives gorn. 
 Wasted away by that wicked, good-for-nothing bag- 
 gage who's going to talk about a 'Good God,' when 
 things like that caniiappen, so unfair and so onlucky!" 
 
 "A good lady, Mrs. Desmond," murmured Tenterley. 
 "A good, kind lady, as was a lady and behaved as 
 such." 
 
 "Ah ! " said a socialistically-disposed person who was
 
 284 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 in the scavenging department of the local Council. 
 "She was a nice lady, and her life has been spylt. And 
 what I want to know is " here he directed his re- 
 marks rather pointedly at Constable Thomas, who leant 
 forward in his favourite attitude, arms on his knees, 
 head turned a little sideways and enquiringly "what 
 I want to know is, isn't the other lady going to be dealt 
 with? I don't mean this precious Mrs. Gervase, 
 which she isn't 'missis' at all: she's 'miss'; but milady 
 over there. That's what I want to know." 
 
 "Why? Whatever have she done to be dealt 
 with?" asked the bird-seed man, aggressively, while 
 Tenterley and Constable Thomas exchanged a glance 
 of deep understanding. 
 
 "What has she done? She's kept silent when she 
 ought to have spoke. I'm not saying that she ought 
 to have given the old gentleman away; not at all. 
 Wives aren't called on to give evidence against their 
 husbands. But after he was dead? Come now, after 
 he was dead, and the other lady wondering all the 
 time what become of her husband; oughtn't milady 
 to have spoken then? I hold she ought; and if it had 
 been your missis, Tenterley, instead of a 'Lady,' she'd 
 have been pulled up for being an accessory or some- 
 thing like that. What I say is, there's one law for 
 the rich and one for the poor, and none of you can 
 deny it." 
 
 This speech was warmly echoed by the plumber's 
 man and the draper's assistant, and they asked Con- 
 stable Thomas what was going to be done about it. 
 
 Constable Thomas shook a wary head.
 
 KYTHE TAKES THE REINS 285 
 
 "You better ask Lord Gotto," he grinned. "It's 
 him as knoos all about the Law." 
 
 That started them off again. 
 
 "Old Gotto," said the bird-seed man, quoting his 
 niece, the housemaid, "was talking as if he had done all 
 the discovering. He has forgotten how he had gone 
 on about its being young Mr. Marx that was the corpse 
 and Mr. Desmond that was the murderer; and he was 
 shouting all day long at everyone, 'What did I tell 
 you? Didn't I say so from the first? That woman 
 ought to get fifteen years,' and he and Mr. Talbot had 
 quite a dust-up over it." 
 
 "It's a bad day for the aristocracy when people like 
 Lord Gotto can goo and call theirself lord," opined 
 Tenterley. "He would have it, the silly old gas-bag, 
 that Mr. Desmond, he had murdered young Mr. Marx; 
 and when he finds that pore young Johnstone, he mur- 
 dered a proper blackguard that had no more to do 
 with Mr. Marx than with the man in the moon, and 
 that Mr. Desmond he's been saddled with it unjustly 
 all these years, then he goos and shouts 'I said so all 
 along.' Doesn't it make a man sick?" 
 
 "Ah," came the sage chorus, in varying tones of 
 wisdom and agreement. 
 
 "They do say," began the bird-seed man in a lowered 
 voice, "that Major Gervase, he's terrible taken up with 
 rittle Miss Desmond, and that all this, and his sister 
 having those two children to Mr. Desmond, it has 
 put them off and no one will allow them to be married. 
 Did you hear aught about it?" to Tenterley. 
 
 Tenterley nodded.
 
 286 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "A bad business," he sighed. 
 
 "Will they stay here, do you think?" 
 
 No one could say. 
 
 "And the two families being such good friends, and 
 all," continued the chatty plumber. "If you was to 
 read it in one of these novelettes, you wouldn't be- 
 lieve it. I wonder what Mr. Desmond felt like, when 
 he come home and find, first his natural-born children 
 all running in and out of his home with his other chil- 
 dren; and then the woman that he gone off with, come 
 back and meeting him in Church and being friendly 
 with his wife I wouldn't have been in his shoes! My 
 word, I wouldn't!" 
 
 The silence was impressive. 
 
 "Could they get married?" asked the socialistic scav- 
 enger. "I don't see why not. They aren't really re- 
 lated. Major Gervase's sister lived with Mr. Des- 
 mond; it don't make no difference to Major Gervase 
 and Mrs. Desmond's daughter " 
 
 "Ah," said Constable Thomas, getting up and 
 straightening himself. "People like that they 
 couldn't face it. They'd never allow it. Lady Kath- 
 erine it would turn her blue; and bring the old gentle- 
 man out of his grave." 
 
 "A lot of it is the old gentleman's and Lady.Kath- 
 erine's fault; and I don't see why the Major and his 
 little lady have got to suffer for it. It would be more 
 sensible, and more Christian, and more human, if they 
 were to make up their minds to let bygones be bygones, 
 and to put it all behind them. Major Gervase is a 
 fine gentleman and as good as gold, and little Miss
 
 KYTHE TAKES THE REINS 287 
 
 Desmond, I never hear anything but good of her. 
 The servants up at The Meadows, they say the way 
 she nursed her mother, and the way she looks after 
 her father it's more like the mother of a family than 
 a little school girl." 
 
 These questions of social ethics for the gentry being 
 manifestly not for them to decide, the conversation 
 glided to the more congenial one of what term of im- 
 prisonment Teresa was likely to get. And a further 
 suggestion from the postman, who was a stern oppo- 
 nent of popery, that it was her papish upbringing that 
 was at the bottom of it all, provoked a tremendous dis- 
 cussion, affording vast opportunity for the socialistic 
 and scavenging gentleman, who was against all re- 
 ligions; the postman being nevertheless able to show 
 that Hugh and Teresa Gervase, who were of their 
 mother's Church, had both turned out badly, whereas 
 the Major, who always held by the Church of England, 
 was the pick of the bunch. 
 
 "The Pope," declared the postman, warming up to 
 his favourite topic, "he's at the bottom of more than 
 half the mischief in the world." 
 
 "Religions is," asserted the socialistic scavenger. 
 "Pope, or priest, or parson, or preacher; they are all 
 alike. When we get rid of the lot, it will be a blessed 
 day for the old world." 
 
 In an overwhelming catastrophe, and scandal, such 
 as had taken the Desmond family in its swirl, it is a 
 truly bewildering thing for the chief actors or victims 
 to find how they can go on with the usual small cere- 
 monies and duties of ordinary life, how they can talk
 
 288 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 ordinary talk, discuss ordinary matters, and meet each 
 other, and other people, in ordinary fashion, in spite of 
 the unordinary events that have invaded their routine. 
 It never fails to surprise the actors in such tragedies, 
 when they find themselves unfolding their table-nap- 
 kins and eating the usual meal of the usual courses; 
 or calling out in the morning to know if the bath-room 
 is vacant, or worrying because there are traces of snails 
 in the greenhouse. They are seized from time to time 
 with a sense of the littleness of what seemed to them 
 so monstrous, the fleeting nature of the emotions that 
 appeared as if they must wipe out all the rest of life. 
 They feel that they are heartless, shallow, even callous. 
 And sometimes they feel that the "life" of which they 
 often talk with so little understanding, is a vast, cold, 
 unfeeling machine on whose wheels they are hurried 
 along relentlessly ; that to mourn their dead adequately, 
 to pause for a view that will give a sane perspective, to 
 tarry for a space in contemplation before being rushed 
 over the threshold of some new experience, is alike im- 
 possible and forbidden. 
 
 The Desmonds, severally and collectively, with more 
 or less of acuteness and perception, felt these things 
 in the days following their father's trial and their 
 mother's death and funeral. It seemed impossible to 
 settle to anything; yet things had to be done and ar- 
 ranged for, just as before the disaster; and routine 
 rolled its car over the shattered emotions, flattening 
 them out with its commonplace rumble and jolt. 
 
 At first they talked in undertones, and alluded 
 to what had occurred in guarded phrases, with little
 
 KYTHE TAKES THE REINS 289 
 
 bursts of tears, and chokings, and strangled outbreaks 
 of anger and regret. By degrees they came down to 
 a hopeless quiet and resignation; things were done be- 
 cause they could not be helped; things were spoken of 
 because they had to arrive at decisions. Amos John- 
 stone had to be given details of his son's death; Mrs. 
 Desmond's clothes had to be disposed of; rooms had to 
 be re-arranged; bills had to be paid, the tombstone 
 chosen, mourning ordered, letters written. In the ac- 
 cumulating host of petty needs and duties, tragedy 
 thinned and subsided into commonplace. 
 
 The sense of the inevitableness of sorrow, and its 
 insignificance, hung heavily about the younger mem- 
 bers. It was amazing that such things should happen 
 to them, should invade their home; yet no one else 
 seemed amazed. Such things happened in sensational 
 novels; and here they were on their own hearth, and 
 the world had not stopped moving. Nay; it was mov- 
 ing on at exactly the same rate in the same way; the 
 neighbours made no difference in their habits; the 
 tradesmen called as usual. It passed away as if it 
 did not matter, and things went on as before. 
 
 It did not matter to others. Very soon it would not 
 matter much to them! Did anything matter? It 
 was a terrifying thought, and gave them dreadful, 
 jerky moments at night, so that they drove it away and 
 would not let it come too close. 
 
 The thing that in anticipation is incredible and mon- 
 strous, is, when it comes, bearable in a degree that 
 only the philosopher can understand. Lady Katherine 
 felt this, as well as the Desmonds. The horror she
 
 290 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 had held at arm's length, and had risked truth and 
 honour and peace of mind to avert, was not so horrible 
 when it came. It was more irritating than overwhelm- 
 ing, more humiliating than painful. Lady Katherine, 
 released from the strain, the anguish, and the fear of 
 Heaven knew what in the way of consequences, was 
 almost peevish in the reaction, and was inclined to 
 think she had made too much of the trouble altogether. 
 Of Teresa she washed her hands; and was disposed to 
 ride the high horse with her grandson and to minimise 
 the wrong done to the Desmonds. Gervase, who, to 
 use his own expression, was "ratty" too, took this ill, 
 and resented it hotly for the Desmonds. 
 
 The loss of their mother was the one thing from 
 which the young people could not recover; and the con- 
 centrated ill-will of which their father was the object, 
 made family life at The Meadows strained and un- 
 comfortable. 
 
 Mr. Desmond slipped into a life apart, cared for 
 only by Kythe. They drifted into the habit of sitting 
 together in the study, silent and uncommunicative, in 
 a desolate fellowship of sorrow which they could dis- 
 cuss with no one. He never kissed her, nor established 
 any close relationship with her, nor asked for her con- 
 fidence. She told him nothing and gave him nothing 
 but her company. What comfort each found in the 
 other, neither could have said. 
 
 May and Hero took melancholy possession of Mrs. 
 Desmond's room, and the playroom was abandoned to 
 the brothers. It was no longer the happy hunting- 
 ground of Lance and Guin; nor did any of the Des-
 
 KYTHE TAKES THE REINS 291 
 
 monds go over to The Domain or the luridly attractive 
 Tower room, where, however, the young Gervases 
 would not stay after dark. 
 
 Lady Katherine whisked them off to the seaside, 
 with the Chinese nurse and her own personal attend- 
 ants, before they had time to recover their equilibrium. 
 No one saw Teresa or knew where she actually was; 
 and although her children wondered, they were not 
 encouraged to ask questions. Nor did they really care. 
 
 In a sudden spasm of decision, Aunt Hermione 
 jerked the family out of its melancholy groove. No 
 one else had initiative for action, so she took matters 
 into her own hands. She and the Rector would go to a 
 little French bathing place they knew of; and May and 
 Luttrell would come with them. Hubert and Hero 
 would go with Uncle Harry, who was to spend the sum- 
 mer with one of his daughters. The decision was re- 
 ceived with approval; and Lennox and his wife felt 
 free to go to visit Dot's mother at Brighton. 
 
 No one suggested that Mr. Desmond should join 
 either party; but when May said, 
 
 "You are coming with us, Kythe. You want a 
 change dreadfully, darling. You have got so thin, 
 and all your colour gone " 
 
 Kythe replied with a quiet firmness that took them 
 all by surprise: 
 
 "No, I am not going to France. I am taking Father 
 away; he wants a change too. We are going to the 
 Norfolk Broads. He will like the boating better than 
 bathing." 
 
 Mr. Desmond looked up in his quick, watchful way;
 
 292 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 then gave his shoulders a little resigned, indifferent 
 shrug. 
 
 "I got Mrs. Lennox-Luttrell to take rooms for 
 us," continued Kythe. "We leave on Monday."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 TRUE LOVE 
 
 GERVASE took Lady Katherine down to the retreat 
 by the sea which she had selected, and stayed there, 
 with her for a few days. Neither of them cared much 
 to talk of what had happened, nor to hazard any sug- 
 gestions as to what fate would be likely to overtake 
 Teresa. If she had to answer to a charge of perjury 
 and blackmail, and be sentenced to a term of imprison- 
 ment, it meant more odious notoriety, more shame, 
 more humiliation. It was no use thinking of it; it 
 would be bad enough when it came. 
 
 Gervase did not see the Desmonds before he left. 
 The relations between the families was so awkward 
 and equivocal that he no longer knew whether he was 
 looked on as friend or foe; and beyond a letter to May 
 expressing his deep sympathy and distress at their loss, 
 and a formal call on Mrs. Raymond, at which Hero 
 was present and he was therefore unable to exchange 
 any confidential remarks with his hostess, he had no 
 communication with them. Kythe he did not see at 
 all. 
 
 He intended to get hold of the Rector and find out 
 from him how the land lay; but Lady Katherine made 
 
 293
 
 294 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 such demands on his time and his services that he 
 found no opportunity to do so. 
 
 Lance and Guin found congenial company at the 
 seaside after their kind. They noticed, with their 
 unchildish precocity, that Uncle Arthur was changed, 
 and not such good fun as he used to be. 
 
 They had long talks about whether his queer state 
 had anything to do with Kythe. Guin was frankly 
 incredulous of the tale that he wanted to marry Kythe. 
 
 "She is only a school-girl," she repeated, scorn- 
 fully. "Same as me. He is old enough to be our 
 father." 
 
 "That doesn't make much difference," objected 
 Lance, sagely. "They do these things, you know, no 
 matter how old they are. Asses, people are, when 
 they are in love." 
 
 "Well, but Lance, she is our half-sister. He can't, 
 you know." 
 
 "I'm not quite sure he can't," replied Lance, with 
 perplexed, crinkled brow and reflective eyes. "He 
 isn't any real relation of hers. And perhaps it is be- 
 cause he thinks he can't, or he oughtn't to, that he is 
 so different. Perhaps he is sorry about it." 
 
 Guin gave this her reluctant consideration. 
 
 Lady Katherine noticed the change too. She held 
 the stern old-fashioned view that it was better to be 
 unhappy than to fail in pride and dignity, and she 
 would as soon have compromised on cheating at cards 
 as on this question of propriety. He must "get over 
 it." There were other girls than this girl. It would 
 be almost better he should never marry at all.
 
 TRUE LOVE 295 
 
 "I think I shall go back to-morrow," he said, one 
 evening. "Do you think you can manage?" 
 
 "Have you let Mellish know?" asked Lady Kath- 
 erine. 
 
 "No. I am not going to The Domain." 
 "Where, then?" in surprise. "To the Leighs?" 
 "I think I shall go and stay with Hugh for a bit." 
 Lady Katherine said nothing, but thought a great 
 deal. There was a bad strain in the family; and under 
 stress it was likely to come out. Why should Arthur 
 want to go to Redlands and the Rattlers, rather than to 
 the Leighs? 
 
 She lay awake until late; and heard him go to bed. 
 She could not rid herself of the idea, not the first time 
 it had assailed her, that he walked unsteadily, and it 
 took all her self-control next day to prevent herself 
 looking to see how much whiskey he had consumed. 
 
 He was to leave by an afternoon train; and before 
 lunch, she took an opportunity of having a talk with 
 him. 
 
 She broached, of her own accord, the subject on 
 which she had kept silence. She told of the long 
 months in which the bid Squire was wearing himself 
 to death with the secret he locked up in his own heart, 
 and how at last she had got it from him; how it 
 preyed on him that he had killed a man, and that he 
 alone knew where the man was who had "disappeared," 
 and what had happened to him; how he searched the 
 cellar, in desperate anxiety, to find the entrance to the 
 underground room or passage from which Desmond 
 appeared so suddenly and into which he fell back; how
 
 296 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 hopeless it was to think of helping him or saving him 
 if perchance he had not been killed after day on day 
 had passed; how determined she herself had been, 
 when she came to know the story, that he should not 
 expose himself or his name to such publicity or sus- 
 picion as the truth would entail and to the possible 
 punishment that it might bring; how the sight of Mrs. 
 Desmond and her grief weighed on his conscience, and 
 how the guilty secret told on them both. 
 
 "I did all I could to atone," she said, sadly. "I 
 stood by the Desmonds; and I took charge of Teresa's 
 children and gave them their chance. I have done 
 wrong; but I had to think of my husband and our 
 name. I would do the same again." 
 
 Then, 
 
 "The name and place will come to you, Arthur. 
 Great sacrifices have been made for them; you will 
 keep them and hand them on in honour?" 
 
 "There has been a good deal too much sacrifice," 
 said Gervase, almost sullenly. "I don't say you were 
 wrong, Gran, to shield my grandfather. You could 
 not very well do anything else then. But I don't see 
 why it should go any further." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that I am paying very dear for the name 
 and the place. There is all this row, and the disgrace 
 of our relationship with Teresa, on the one hand; we 
 have not been spared that. And on the other hand, 
 you want to strip me of my happiness and my chance 
 of living the way I want to do."
 
 TRUE LOVE 297 
 
 With some alarm, she saw he had been drinking 
 again. 
 
 "All I want is the wife I want. Anyone can have 
 the rest. I want Kythe, Gran. I was a fool to tell 
 her it was not possible. It is possible. There is no 
 real reason against it, only these old-world notions of 
 what is fit and becoming and so on. What is all that, 
 compared with my happiness and hers? Why, in the 
 Lord's name, should we be sacrificed to your notions? 
 People don't care a bit about all that old-fashioned 
 dignity and stuff, nowadays. We can get on without 
 it. I can't get on without Kythe. And as for honour; 
 there is just as much honour in telling the truth and 
 facing the music as in keeping secrets." 
 
 Lady Katherine spoke slowly. Her face was very 
 white and her lips shook. He had hit her hard. 
 
 "Have you thought of what may happen if you 
 marry her? Now that Mr. Desmond has lost his wife, 
 do you not see the possibility of Teresa getting him, 
 after all? Suppose she does not go to prison, Arthur? 
 Suppose she gets her claws into him she is still fas- 
 cinating and tricks him or persuades him into mar- 
 rying her, for the sake of the children, or something 
 like that?" 
 
 He kept a sullen silence. 
 
 "With Kythe Desmond so fond of Lance and Guin 
 her half-brother v and sister and Teresa, their 
 mother, married to their father, in constant association 
 with them, and you? You could not keep her out of 
 your house, out of your affairs. Could you face that,
 
 298 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 knowing what you know of her, and her capacity for 
 vindictiveness, for mischief, for intrigue?" 
 
 Gervase wriggled uneasily. He knew he had neither 
 courage nor capacity to fight Teresa. 
 
 "If you do it, Arthur, you will have to leave The 
 Domain, and take the children, for the rest of my life. 
 I will not sanction or countenance any such unnatural 
 and unseeming arrangement, nor have anything at all 
 to do with anyone connected with it." 
 
 That was their good-bye. She walked into the 
 house, refusing his arm, and did not come down to 
 lunch. He left without seeing her again. 
 
 If it had not been for the whiskey with which he 
 had been consoling, and inflaming, his grief, he could 
 never have spoken to her in such a fashion. And as 
 the effects of his drinks wore off, he grew bitterly 
 ashamed of himself. Lady Katherine, in the exposure 
 that had taken place, was shown to be one of the 
 offenders, not one of the victims; one in the conspiracy 
 of silence; and no matter how one sympathised with 
 her fierce defence of her husband's name and reputa- 
 tion, and the family dignity, no matter how one ad- 
 mired her stem capacity for holding her tongue, the 
 fact remained that she had done wrong; and people 
 recognised it and meted out to her a certain condemna- 
 tion. She could not fail to know it and feel it. And 
 he had emphasised it; "rubbed it in," as he said to 
 himself, with reddening face and inward contrition; 
 and, she who had been so good to him, was a lonely 
 old woman, brooding on past woes and troubles, broken 
 in health, with her hopes all centred on one thing
 
 TRUE LOVE 299 
 
 his, Arthur Gervase's future dealings with the family 
 name and home. 
 
 He felt a complete brute. 
 
 Also he was conscious that he had been, not drunk, 
 but on the borders of sobriety; and that in strict 
 sobriety he did not hold the lax views he had expressed. 
 He belonged to the respectable, conventional school; 
 he approved of social canons and restrictions; he knew 
 that such a situation as he would create, by marrying 
 Kythe under the conditions that had grown up among 
 them, would offend his taste and his convictions all his 
 life long. The added terror of possible close relations 
 with Teresa Teresa reinforced by that fellow Des- 
 mond for a husband made him shrink all over. 
 
 He disliked Desmond exceedingly. He disliked him 
 when he thought him a cool, dangerous ruffian; he 
 disliked him still though he knew him to be an injured 
 victim. He was coarse; without the same excuse for 
 coarseness as such people as the Rattlers had, for 
 instance, who had never had any refinement to lose. 
 He had let himself coarsen. In an environment where 
 every man's hand had to keep his head, he had "made 
 good" as a man; but he had let slip that which made 
 him a gentleman. 
 
 Gervase remembered Kythe's wild loathing of her 
 father. It was strange to hear of her now in constant 
 attendance on Desmond a common sorrow, of course, 
 often heals such feuds, and it was as much jealousy 
 of Mrs. Desmond as anything else that made the Des- 
 monds resent their father's monopolising presence. 
 Kythe
 
 300 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 How he longed for her now. How scornfully he 
 thought of the half -patronising way in which he esti- 
 mated her love for him. He wanted her overwhelm- 
 ingly, and thought of her, showering her sweet care 
 on the ex-convict Desmond, with a hunger that was 
 like a physical pain. 
 
 Of course, now that Desmond had such a pitiful 
 tale of injury and persecution and unprovoked mis- 
 fortune to pitch, they would think of him quite dif- 
 ferently. Instead of a cold-blooded scoundrel, he 
 would be the innocent martyr, the defrauded, the dis- 
 possessed. They would try to make up to him for 
 his misfortunes, would shower sympathy, love, on him. 
 And he, Gervase, who had never concealed his dislike 
 it would tell against him with them; with Kythe. 
 They would think of him as the brother of Teresa 
 
 So he tormented himself. So he went over the 
 track. And as much as he longed for Kythe and her 
 sweetness, so much and more he hated the idea of 
 marriage with her and all that it would mean. 
 
 When he got to Redlands, he was in a thoroughly 
 wretched and unstrung condition, at odds with fate 
 and all the world; and Hugh noted with misgiving 
 aroused anew, that he took far too much whiskey. 
 
 Hugh was not a bad fellow, although weak enough 
 to have let himself be drawn into certain shady trans- 
 actions. He was quite happy with "the Rattler 
 crowd"; they suited him. His wife was quieting down 
 these days, and both were ambitious for the little 
 daughter, and anxious to give her every chance in life. 
 Mrs. Hugh had always liked her brother-in-law. He
 
 TRUE LOVE 301 
 
 had never given himself airs about her, she said; and 
 she was worried as well as Hugh. Husband and wife 
 had long consultations about Arthur's state of mind, 
 and the Desmond girl, and Teresa. They sent him 
 over as often as they could to the Manor Farm; but 
 Tom Leigh, had they but known it, was as worried as 
 they were. 
 
 Gervase stayed a few days with Tom Leigh, and 
 heard from him how the Desmonds had gone abroad 
 in batches, and how the little girl had taken charge of 
 her father and was with him up the Norfolk Broads. 
 
 "She is the pluckiest of them all," said Tom Leigh, 
 who knew nothing about the love affair. "Her 
 mother over again." 
 
 Gervase came back to his brother's and brooded 
 and drank, in gloomy alternations of defiance of the 
 conventions that he believed in, and acceptance of a 
 decree against which he was in revolt. 
 
 Had he but known, he was never out of Kythe's 
 thoughts. She boated and picnicked with her father, 
 always on the same unconfidential terms; and while 
 the soft curves came back to her cheeks and the rich 
 colour to her skin, her absent, dreamy eyes, so like 
 her mother's, saw the lover who had jilted her in every 
 changing aspect of the landscape. Everywhere his 
 face and figure were framed; there was no escape from 
 her overmastering pre-occupation. 
 
 He had jilted her; she would flush and stiffen with 
 anger at the recollection. He was a coward, afraid 
 to stand up to social disapproval. He was a cheat, an 
 impostor, who had stolen what he had no right to
 
 302 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 have, because he wasn't man enough to keep it. He 
 was Arthur, her dear love who had kissed her in those 
 rapturous dusks, in the soft dim, dewy evenings, when 
 no one knew and the longing to see him again, to 
 beseech, to argue, to persuade, alternated with the 
 anger that wanted to see him again to upbraid, sneer, 
 denounce. 
 
 She grew into womanhood in those tense weeks, with 
 an expression old beyond her years, reserved, self- 
 possessed and self -controlled as a woman of ripe ex- 
 perience. Her father watched with feelings that never 
 found their way into words; and noted with each 
 passing day the growing likeness to her mother. 
 
 In the autumn they returned home, and the house- 
 hold resumed its accustomed way. 
 
 Kythe urged her father to take up some employ- 
 ment; and he bought the lease of some building land 
 to lay out in cottages with gardens, allotments, and 
 sports grounds for town workers, in connection with 
 a slum settlement. Designing the houses and gardens 
 by degrees absorbed his interest; and Kythe gave him 
 ideas for the interiors of the houses from the house- 
 keeper's point of view. 
 
 Tales reached her ears that Gervase was drinking. 
 She heard that he made Redlands his headquarters and 
 that Lady Katherine was gravely offended with him. 
 Lance was taken from school and put into the "shops" 
 to learn engineering; Guin was sent to a finishing 
 school in Paris. The parting between them was bitter; 
 but Lady Katherine was inexorable. Teresa was 
 sentenced to two years' imprisonment, and it was
 
 TRUE LOVE 303 
 
 thought best that the children should leave the place, 
 at least for a time. Gervase did not approve, Kythe 
 heard; and his relations with his grandmother became 
 more strained. 
 
 Gervase heard of Kythe's return; and after a strug- 
 gle with himself, took to haunting the lane again. 
 Once or twice he saw her in the distance; once he met 
 her face to face near the garden door, with her father. 
 The two men lifted their hats and passed in silence. 
 Kythe bowed slightly. She did not so much as colour, 
 let alone look back at him. But she was achingly con- 
 scious of his flushed face and the aroma of spirits. 
 
 Gervase began to think in a new direction. The 
 whirl of angry pride in which Kythe had parted from 
 him had never assumed much significance in his esti- 
 mate. She was angry, that was all. She was covering 
 her defeat. It never occurred to him that he could 
 not whistle her back, if he wanted to. Something, 
 however, of the unmoved resolution in her face as 
 he passed them, her look of complete absorption in her 
 own schemes, whatever they were, affected him with a 
 feeling of terror. It was like a hand laid on his heart 
 to stop its beating. 
 
 The beating was the more violent. In a panic, he 
 imagined he had lost her, completely; and by his own 
 deed, not by the decrees he was half-minded to defy. 
 
 She had not looked back, had shown no confusion, 
 had not changed colour. She had looked him fairly in 
 the face when she bowed. No shirking or shrinking. 
 Good God, what had he done? 
 
 She had said, "That is what is called jilting, isn't
 
 304 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 it?" She had said, "If you cannot face the first trouble 
 that comes, you are not fit for me to want." And 
 she was so young, it would be fairly easy for her to be 
 carried away by the new sensations, and in a revulsion 
 of feeling to transfer all her love and her loyalty to 
 the ill-used father. Besides, what she said was true. 
 
 He had jilted her. He had broken down before the 
 first trouble. Why in the name of anything should 
 she trust him again, or care for him any more? 
 
 A great desolation overtook him, and he went to bed 
 very drunk indeed. 
 
 Next day he was more ashamed of himself than ever. 
 
 "She is quite right," he thought, ruefully. "I am 
 no end of a rotter. We are all rotten. What hope is 
 there for people like us!" 
 
 He and Hugh were out early. It was Sunday, a 
 bright, clean, sparkling day, with no wind. All the 
 world seemed gay and happy. 
 
 "I say, you know," began Hugh. "I'm not much 
 of a one to read sermons. Teresa was right when she 
 slapped that at me. But you know, old man, no mat- 
 ter what the trouble is and I know you are in it 
 pretty deep drink won't help. Makes it worse. 
 Makes people sick. A drunkard is a beastly thing. 
 Even I have never gone that way." 
 
 "Who says I have?" 
 
 "I do. Unless you pull up good and quick. We 
 can't afford to play tricks, Arthur. We haven't got 
 the moral stuffing. We've got to run strict and 
 straight, or we'll go off the track. Don't let there be
 
 TRUE LOVE 305 
 
 two of us. We have all been proud of you the wife 
 is breaking her heart about it." 
 
 Never a word said Arthur, and Hugh said no more 
 either. But his dyed and painted wife nearly cried 
 with joy when Arthur asked her if she would get little 
 Katherine ready and let her come to church with him. 
 There were actually tears in her eyes as she watched 
 him stride away, holding the child's hand as she 
 skipped and trotted beside him. 
 
 She sat with him, little Katherine, rosy and demure, 
 in the Gervase enclosure, swinging her little feet and 
 straining for the hassock to stand on; he finding her 
 places in the big books which she could not read, but 
 which she conned with impressive attention. May 
 and Luttrell Desmond sat with Aunt Hermione under 
 the pulpit; Hero and Hubert, Lennox and his wife, 
 Mr. Desmond and Kythe, in the family pew. Kythe 
 and her father sat at the end, sharing a hymn-book. 
 It was evident that, having made up their minds to 
 put a brave face on things and to carry on their daily 
 life as far as possible without flinching, it was well with 
 them, and they had found a measure of peace. 
 
 Many eyes were turned towards Major Gervase and 
 his little niece. He lifted her on to his knee during 
 the sermon, and she went to sleep. 
 
 Closely as he watched, he could not see Kythe look 
 once in his direction. Yet had he known something 
 in the return to his normal ways, in the signs of a new 
 resolve to shoulder his burdens as she was shouldering 
 hers, to do his duty by his own people, however little
 
 306 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 credit they might be to him, to stand by Hugh and 
 his wife, and the little maiden christened after the 
 grandmother who had been mother and guardian-angel 
 to them; this seemed to bring him nearer to her, and 
 to shed one ray of hope on the desolate horizon of her 
 love. 
 
 Lady Katherine came in, slow and infirm, but 
 stately, for the Sacrament service; and Gervase held 
 the door open for her, for the first time for many a 
 Sunday, and put the hassock in its place, as he used to 
 do. She looked at the flushed, awakened child, trying 
 with a deep sense of propriety to sit straight and be- 
 have nicely. The sleepy, blinking eyes were soft and 
 bright. 
 
 She touched the warm cheeks with her hand. 
 
 "Is this little Katherine?" she said, low and gentle. 
 
 "Yes, Gran. Do you mind?" 
 
 "I am very thankful if she is to be brought up in 
 the Church." 
 
 It was a treaty of peace. In it were included the 
 family at Redlands. 
 
 He stayed out the service, which little Katherine 
 slept through peacefully; and saw his grandmother 
 back to The Domain. 
 
 "When are you coming home?" she asked, at the 
 front door. 
 
 "May I bring Kythe?" he asked, after a pause; 
 adding, "if she will come!" 
 
 A smile, more sarcastic than amused, broke out on 
 the old lady's face. 
 
 "I am glad you have the grace not to count your
 
 TRUE LOVE 307 
 
 chickens," she observed. "And am I to have the 
 Rattlers and all your other choice acquaintances too?" 
 
 "Only Katherine's mother," he answered, with a 
 heart full of thankfulness. "They called this little 
 thing after you to give her a chance." 
 
 "Don't stay away too long," said Lady Katherine. 
 
 He went back to Redlands with the little girl on his 
 shoulder, happier than he had been for many a day. 
 Little Katherine had great chatter to pour out to her 
 mother, and the mid-day meal, before the usual Sun- 
 day incursion of Rattlers and their intimates, was 
 pleasant and peaceful. Hugh breathed more freely 
 when he saw the Tantalus, from which Arthur had 
 helped himself once, pass its second round untouched; 
 and his wife cried freely, to the serious detriment of 
 her farcical "make-up," when she heard how Lady 
 Katherine had passed the olive-branch along. 
 
 Next Sunday night Gervase paced the lane again. 
 He had spent the day in the open air; his soul was 
 his own again, his head clean and clear. He had an 
 unreasoning, instinctive belief that Kythe would come 
 to the garden door; and when he heard the lifting 
 latch, he was alert and prepared. In the deep shadow, 
 he waited unseen until she stepped outside. 
 
 She found him between her and the door before she 
 quite realised he was near. 
 
 "Are you going to forgive me?" 
 
 "Why should I?" 
 
 Her voice was not so steady as she could have 
 wished. 
 
 "Everyone else is forgiven. Mayn't I be?"
 
 3 o8 WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 "What excuse had you, that you should be for- 
 given?" 
 
 "None. So all the more I need forgiveness. Peo- 
 ple with excuses don't." 
 
 "It is easy to joke." 
 
 "It isn't. It is the only way not to despair. 
 Kythe!" 
 
 He held her hands and tried to draw her into his 
 arms, but she resisted him. 
 
 "What is it you want? Another opportunity to tell 
 me you can't possibly marry me?" 
 
 She spoke with the garnered bitterness of months 
 of tension. 
 
 All his irresolution went to the winds. 
 
 "No. You know it isn't. I want an opportunity 
 to tell you what you know very well. I can't do with- 
 out you Kythe! Kythe?" 
 
 He turned her face up and kissed her lips, drunk 
 with joy and triumph. When she struggled he held 
 her fast. She could not help returning his kisses; her 
 pride was fast breaking down. 
 
 "Oh!" she said, passionately, almost in a sob. "It 
 isn't fair. It isn't fair, ft is horrible that I should 
 want anything so much as to overlook what you did. 
 I shall never forgive it." 
 
 "Never?" with his face against hers, his kisses hot 
 and insistent. 
 
 "No. Not even if I marry you. I shall always have 
 it in my heart." 
 
 "And I shall always always try to make you for- 
 get."
 
 TRUE LOVE 309 
 
 "You were a brute. AH men are." 
 "But you love me?" 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "You must come in and tell Father yourself," she 
 whispered, presently. "And if you are not really and 
 very nice to him, / shall jilt you." 
 
 "I'll fall on my face before him, rather than that." 
 
 She brought him into the study where Mr. Desmond 
 sat at the window, smoking. 
 
 His weary gaze came back from the garden at the 
 sound of his daughter's voice; and hardened as he saw 
 Gervase. 
 
 Neither of them was very coherent; and he rose, 
 looking at them with cynical amusement. 
 
 It stung Gervase. 
 
 "I asked you once before, Desmond, if you would 
 let me marry your daughter. I am asking again 
 now; and in addition, I am asking your forgiveness 
 for anything I may have done to make your very great 
 
 trouble heavier. Kythe " he turned to the girl, 
 
 whose eyes were fixed on her father, "you can say it 
 better than I." 
 
 Desmond held out a hand to his daughter. He had 
 never touched her of his own accord before. 
 
 "Do you want him?" he asked. "Is he good enough 
 for you? What will you give me if I give him to you 
 will you give me that kiss you have never given me 
 yet?" 
 
 Kythe coloured as she had never done for Gervase
 
 3 io WHAT BECAME OF MR. DESMOND 
 
 when Desmond put his arm round her and looked down 
 quizzically at her drooped eyelids. 
 
 "I would have given it to you long ago," she said, 
 half -laughing, half -tremulous, "if you had ever asked 
 for it!" 
 
 Desmond kissed her, greedily and noisily, the way 
 they all disliked so fiercely. 
 
 "I can give her you now," he said to Gervase; "now 
 that I have had something for myself at last!" 
 
 THE END
 
 i inn mil mil mil lllll Illlll., 
 A 000 035 882 o