The Cloven Foot | Project Gutenberg (2024)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73931 ***

[Pg 7]

CHAPTER I.

THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE.

The air was thick with falling snow, and the country side looked aformless mass of chilly whiteness, as the south-western mail traincarried John Treverton on a lonely midnight journey. There were notmany people in the train on that bleak night, and Mr. Treverton had asecond-class compartment to himself.

He had tried to sleep, but had failed ignominiously in the endeavour,waking with a start, after five minutes’ doze, and remaining broadawake for an hour at a time pondering upon the perplexities of hislife, and hating himself for the follies that had made it what it was.It had been a very hard life of late, for the world had gone ill withJohn Treverton. He had begun his career with a small fortune and acommission in a crack regiment, and, after wasting his patrimony andselling his commission, he was now a gentleman at large, living as besthe might, no one but himself knew how.

He was going to a quiet village in Devonshire, a far-away nook underthe shadow of Dartmoor, in obedience to a telegram that told him a richkinsman was dying, and summoned him to the death-bed. The day had beenwhen he hoped to inherit this kinsman’s property; not because the oldman had ever cared for him, but because he, John, was the only relativeJasper Treverton had in the world; but that hope had vanished when thelonely old bachelor adopted an orphan girl to whom he was reported tohave attached himself strongly. The ci-devant Captain had neverseen this young person, and it is not to be supposed that he cherishedvery kindly feelings towards her. He had made up his mind that she wasa deep and designing creature, who would,[Pg 8] of course, play her cards insuch a manner as to induce old Jasper Treverton to leave her everything.

‘He never bore me or mine much goodwill,’ John Treverton said tohimself, ‘but he might have left his money to me for want of anyoneelse to leave it to, if it hadn’t been for this girl.’

During almost the whole of that dreary night journey he was meditatingon this subject, half inclined to be angry with himself for havingtaken such useless trouble for the sake of a man who was not likely toleave him sixpence.

He was not an utterly bad fellow, this John Treverton, though hisbetter and purer feelings had been a good deal blunted by roughcontact with the world. He had a frank, winning manner, and a handsomeface, a face which had won him the love of more than one woman, withlittle profit to himself. He was a man of no strong principle, andwith a self-indulgent nature that had led him into wrong-doing veryoften during the last ten years of his life. He had an easy temper,a habit of looking at the pleasanter side of things so long as therewas any pleasantness in them, and a chronic avoidance of all seriousthought—qualities which do not serve to make up a strong character.But the charm of his manner was none the less because of this latentweakness of character, and he was better liked than many better men.

The train stopped at a little rustic station, forty miles westward ofExeter, about an hour after midnight—a dreary building with an openplatform, across which the wind blew and the snow drifted as JohnTreverton alighted, the one solitary passenger to be deposited at thisout-of-the-way place. He knew that the house to which he had to go wassome miles from the station, and he applied himself at once to thesleepy station-master to ascertain if there were any possibility ofprocuring a conveyance at that time of night.

‘There’s a gig waiting for a gentleman from London,’ the man answered,stifling a yawn. ‘I suppose you are the party, sir.’

‘A gig from Treverton Manor?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thanks, yes; I am the person that is expected. Civil, at any rate,’John Treverton added to himself, as he walked off to the gig, wrappedto the eyes in his great coat, and with a railway rug across hisshoulder.

He found a gig, with a rough-looking individual of the gardener specieswaiting for him in the snow.

‘Here I am, my man,’ he cried cheerily. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

‘No, sir. Miss Malcolm said as how you’d come by this train.’

‘Miss Malcolm sent you for me, then?

‘Yes, sir.’

[Pg 9]

‘And how is Mr. Treverton to-night?’

‘Mortal bad, sir. The doctors say as th’ old gentleman hasn’t manyhours to live. And Miss Malcolm, she says to me, “Jacob, you’re todrive home as fast as th’ horse can go, for papa is very anxious to seeMr. John before he dies.” She allus calls the old gentleman papa, yousee, sir, he having adopted of her ten years ago, and brought her up ashis own daughter like ever since.’

They had jolted over the uneven stones of a narrow street, the highstreet of a small settlement which evidently called itself a town,for here, at a point where two narrow lanes branched off from thecentral thoroughfare, there stood a dilapidated old building of thetown-hall species, and a vaulted market-place with iron railings andclosely-locked gates shutting in emptiness. John Treverton perceiveddimly through the winter darkness an old stone church, and at leastthree Methodist chapels. Then, all in a moment, the town was gone, andthe gig was rattling along a Devonshire lane, between high banks andstill higher hedges, above which rose a world of hill and moor, thatmelted far off into the midnight sky.

‘And your master is very fond of this young lady, Miss Malcolm?’ JohnTreverton inquired presently, when the horse, after rattling alongfor a mile and a half at a tremendous pace, was slowly climbing ahill which seemed to lead nowhere in particular, for one could hardlyimagine any definite end or aim in a lane that went undulating like asnake amidst a chaos of hills.

‘Oncommon, sir. You see, she’s about the only thing he has ever caredfor.’

‘Is she as much liked by other people?’

‘Well, yes, sir, in a general way Miss Malcolm is pretty well liked,but there is some as think her proud—think her a little set up as youmay say, by Mr. Treverton’s making so much of her. She’s not one tomake friends very easy; the young ladies in the village, Squire Carew’sdaughters, and such like, haven’t taken to her as much as they mighthave done. I’ve heard my wife—as has been parlour-maid at the Manorfor the last twenty years—say as much many a time. But Miss Malcolmis a pleasant-spoken young lady, for all that, to those she likes, andmy Susan has had no fault to find with her. You see all of us has ourpeculiarities, sir, and it ain’t to be supposed as Miss Malcolm wouldbe without hers,’ the man concluded in an argumentative tone.

‘Humph!’ muttered John Treverton. ‘A stuck-up young lady, I daresay—and a deep one into the bargain. Did you ever hear who shewas—what her position was, and so on—when my cousin Jasper adoptedher?’ he asked aloud.

‘No, sir. Mr. Treverton has kept that oncommon close. He’d been awayfrom the Manor a twelvemonth when he brought[Pg 10] her home without a wordof warning to any one in the house, and told his old housekeeper as howhe’d adopted this little girl—who was an orphan—the daughter of anold friend of his, and that’s all he ever said about her from that timeto this. Miss Malcolm was about seven or eight year old at that time,as pretty a little girl as you could see—and she has grown up to be abeautiful young woman.’

Beautiful. Oh, this artful young person was beautiful, was she? JohnTreverton determined that her good looks should have no influence uponhis opinions.

The man was quite willing to talk, but his companion asked no morequestions. He felt, indeed, that he had already asked more than he waswarranted in asking, and felt a little ashamed of himself for havingdone so. The rest of the drive, therefore, passed for the most part insilence. The journey had seemed long to John Treverton, partly becauseof his own impatience, partly on account of the numerous ups and downsof that everlasting lane, but it was little more than half-an-hourafter leaving the station when they entered a village street wherethere was not a glimmer of light at this hour, except one solitary lampshining feebly before the door of the general shop and post-office.This was the village of Hazlehurst, near which Hazlehurst Manor-housewas situated. They drove to the end of this quiet street and along ahigh road bordered by tall elms which looked black against the nightsky, till they came to a pair of great iron gates.

The man handed the reins to his companion, and then dismounted andopened these gates. John Treverton drove slowly into a winding carriagedrive that led up to the house, a great red-brick mansion with manylong, narrow windows, and a massive carved stone shell over the door,which was approached on each side by a flight of broad stone steps.

There was light enough from the stars for John Treverton to see allthis as he drove slowly up to the hall door. His coming had evidentlybeen awaited anxiously, as the door was opened before he had alightedfrom the gig, and an old man-servant peered out into the night. Heopened the door wide when he saw John Treverton. The gardener—orgroom, whichever he might happen to be—led the gig slowly away toa gate at the side of the house, opening into a stable yard. JohnTreverton went into the hall, which looked very bright and cheerfulafter his dreary drive—a great, square hall hung with family portraitsand old armour, and with crimson sheep-skins and tawny hides of savagebeasts lying about on the black and white marble pavement. There was aroomy old fireplace on one side of this hall, with a great fire burningin it, a fire which was welcome as meat and drink to a traveller thiscold night. There were ponderous carved oak chairs with dark-red velvetcushions, looking more[Pg 11] comfortable and better adapted for the reposeof the human frame than such chairs are wont to be, and at the end ofthe hall there was a great antique buffet adorned with curious bowlsand bottle-shaped jars in Oriental china.

John Treverton had time to see these things as he sat before the firewith his long legs stretched out upon the hearth, while the old servantwent to announce his arrival to Miss Malcolm.

‘A pleasant old place,’ he said to himself. ‘And to think of my neverhaving seen it before, thanks to my father’s folly in having quarrelledwith old Jasper Treverton, and never having taken the trouble toheal the breach, as he might have done, I dare say, with some slightexercise of diplomacy. I wonder whether the old fellow is very rich.Such a place as this might be kept up on a couple of thousand a year,but I have a notion that Jasper Treverton has six times as much asthat.’

The old butler came downstairs in about five minutes to say that MissMalcolm would be pleased to see Mr. Treverton, if he liked. His masterhad fallen asleep, and was sleeping more peacefully than he had donefor some time.

John Treverton followed the man up a broad staircase with massive oakbannisters. Here, as in the hall, there were family portraits on thewalls, and armour and old china in every available corner. At the topof this staircase was a gallery, lighted by a lantern in the roof,and with numerous doors opening out of it. The butler opened one ofthese doors and ushered John Treverton into a bright-looking, lamp-litsitting-room, with panelled walls. A heavy green damask curtain hungbefore a door opening into an adjoining room. The mantelpiece was high,and exquisitely carved with flowers and cupids, and was ornamentedby a row of eggshell cups and saucers, and the quaintest of Orientalteapots. The room had a comfortable, homelike look, John Trevertonthought—a look that struck him all the more perhaps because he had nosettled home of his own, nor had ever known one since his boyhood.

A lady was sitting by the fire, dressed in a dark-blue gown, whichcontrasted wonderfully with the auburn tints of her hair, and thetransparent pallor of her complexion. As she rose and turned her facetowards John Treverton, he saw that she was indeed a very beautifulyoung woman, and there was something in her beauty which took him alittle by surprise, in spite of what he had heard from his companion inthe gig.

‘Thank God you have come in time, Mr. Treverton,’ she saidearnestly—an earnestness which John Treverton was inclined to considerhypocritical. What interest could she have in his arrival? What feelingcould there be between them but jealousy?

‘I suppose she feels so secure about the old man’s will that[Pg 12] she canafford to be civil,’ he thought as he seated himself by the fireside,after two or three polite commonplaces about his journey. ‘There is nohope of my cousin’s recovery, I suppose?’ he hazarded presently.

‘Not the faintest,’ Laura Malcolm answered, very sadly. ‘The Londonphysician was here for the last time to-day. He has been down everyweek for the last two months. He said to-day that there would be nooccasion for him to come any more; he did not think papa—I have alwayscalled your cousin by that name—could live through the night. He hasbeen less restless and troubled since then, and he is now sleeping veryquietly. He may linger a little longer than the physician seemed tothink likely; but beyond that I have no hope whatever.’

This was said with a quiet, restrained manner that was more indicativeof sorrow than any demonstrative lamentation could have been. There wassomething almost like despair in the girl’s look and tone—a drearyhopelessness—as if there were nothing left for her in life when thefriend and protector of her girlhood should be taken from her. JohnTreverton watched her closely as she sat looking at the fire, with herdark eyes shrouded by their long lashes. Yes, she was very beautiful.That was a fact about which there was no possibility of doubt. Thoselarge hazel eyes alone would have given a charm to the plainest face,and in this face there was no fault to be redeemed.

‘You seem to be much attached to my cousin, Miss Malcolm,’ Mr.Treverton said presently.

‘I love him dearly,’ she answered, looking up at him with those deep,dark eyes, which had a melancholy expression to-night. ‘I have had noone else to care for since I was quite a child; and he has been verygood to me. I should be something worse than ungrateful if I did notlove him as I do.’

‘And yet your life must have been a trying one, as the sole companionof an old man of Jasper Treverton’s eccentric temper. I speak of him asI have heard him described by my father. You must have found existencewith him rather troublesome now and then, I should think.’

‘I very soon learnt to understand him, and to bear all the littlechanges in his humour. I knew that his heart was noble.’

‘Humph!’ thought John Treverton. ‘Women can do these things better thanmen. I couldn’t stand being shut up with a crusty old fellow for aweek.’

And after having made this reflection, he thought that no doubt MissMalcolm was of the usual type of sycophants and interlopers, able toendure anything in the present for the chance of a stupendous advantagein the future, able to wait for the fruition of her hopes with a dull,grovelling patience.

[Pg 13]

‘This appearance of grief is all put on, of course,’ he said tohimself. ‘I am not going to think any better of her because she hasfine eyes.’

They sat for a little time in silence; Laura Malcolm seemed quiteabsorbed by her own thoughts, and in no way disturbed by the presenceof John Treverton. It was a proud face which he looked at every now andthen so thoughtfully, not a lovable face by any means, in spite of itsbeauty. There was a coldness of expression, a self-contained air aboutMiss Malcolm which her new acquaintance was inclined to dislike. Hehad come to that house prepared to think unfavourably of her; had comethere, indeed, with a settled dislike to her.

‘I think it is to you I am indebted for the telegram that summoned mehere?’ he said by-and-by.

‘Oh, no, not to me directly. It was your cousin’s wish that you shouldbe sent for—a wish he only expressed on Monday, though I had askedhim many times if he would not like to see you, his only survivingrelative. Had I known your address, or where a letter would reach you,I think I should have ventured to ask you to come down without hispermission, but I had no knowledge of this.’

‘And it was only the day before yesterday that my cousin spoke of mefor the first time?’

‘Only the day before yesterday. On every previous occasion he gave me ashort, impatient answer, telling me not to worry him, and that he hadno wish to see anyone, but on Monday he mentioned your name, and toldme he wanted particularly to see you. He had no idea where you wereto be found, but he thought a telegram addressed to your father’s oldlawyer would reach you. I sent the message as he directed.’

‘The lawyer had some difficulty in hunting me out, but I lost no timeafter I got your message. I cannot, of course, pretend any attachmentto a man whom I never saw in my life, but I am pleased that JasperTreverton should have thought of me at the last, nevertheless. Iam here to testify my respect for him, in a perfectly independentcharacter, having not the faintest expectation of inheriting oneshilling of his wealth.’

‘I don’t know why you should not expect to inherit his estate, Mr.Treverton,’ Laura Malcolm answered, quietly. ‘To whom else should heleave it, if not to you?’

John Treverton thought this question a piece of gratuitous hypocrisy.

‘Why, to you, of course,’ he replied, ‘his adopted daughter, who haveearned his favour by years of patient submission to all his whims andfancies. Surely you must be quite aware of his intentions upon thispoint, Miss Malcolm, and this affected ignorance of the subject isintended to hoodwink me.’

[Pg 14]

‘I am sorry you should think so badly of me, Mr. Treverton. I do notknow how your cousin has disposed of his money, but I do know that noneof it has been left to me.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I have been assured of it by his own lips, not once but many times.When he first adopted me he made a vow that he would leave me no partof his wealth. He had been treated with falsehood and ingratitude bythose he had loved, and had found out their mercenary feelings abouthim. This had soured him a good deal, and he was determined—when hetook me under his care out of motives of the purest charity—that hewould have one person about him who should love him for his own sake,or not pretend to love him at all. He took an oath to this effect onthe night he first brought me home to this house, and fully explainedthe meaning of that oath to me, though I was quite a child at thattime. “I have had toadies and sycophants about me, Laura,” he said,“until I have come to distrust every smiling face. Your smiles shallbe true, my dear, for you shall have no motive for falsehood.” On myeighteenth birthday he placed in trust six thousand pounds for mybenefit, in order that his death should not leave me unprovided for,but he took occasion at the same time to remind me that this gift wasall I must ever expect at his hands.’

John Treverton heard this with a quickened breath, and a new life andeagerness in the expression of his face. The aspect of affairs wasquite altered by the fact of this oath sworn long ago by the eccentricold man. He must leave his money to some one. What if he should,indeed, leave it to him, John Treverton?

For some few minutes his heart beat high with a new hope, and then sankagain suddenly. Was it not much more likely that Jasper Treverton wouldfind some means of evading the letter of his vow, for the benefit of abeloved adopted daughter, than that he should bequeath his fortune to akinsman who was a stranger to him?

‘Don’t let me be a fool,’ John Treverton said to himself; ‘there’snot the faintest chance of any such luck for me, and I dare say thisgirl knows as much, though she is artful enough to pretend completeignorance of the old man’s designs.’

The butler came in presently to announce that supper was ready for Mr.Treverton in the dining-room below. He went downstairs in answer tothis summons, after begging Miss Malcolm to send for him the moment theinvalid awoke.

The dining-room was handsomely furnished with massive sideboard andchairs of carved oak, the long, narrow windows draped with dark-redvelvet. There was a fine old Venetian glass over the sideboard, and asmaller circular mirror above the old inlaid bureau that occupied thespace between the windows[Pg 15] opposite. There were a few good cabinetpictures of the Dutch school on the panelled walls, and a pair of fineblue-and-white Delft jars on the high carved oak chimney-piece. A woodfire burned cheerily in the wide grate, and the small round table onwhich the traveller’s supper had been laid was wheeled close to theedge of the Turkey hearthrug, and had a very comfortable appearancein the eyes of Mr. John Treverton as he seated himself in one of thecapacious oak chairs.

In his disturbed state of mind he had little inclination to eat,though the cook had prepared a cosy supper that might have tempted ananchorite; but he did justice to a bottle of excellent claret, and satfor some time, sipping his wine and looking about him thoughtfully,now at the curious old silver tankards and rose-water dishes on thesideboard, now at the Cuyps and Ostades on the dark oak walls. Towhom would all these things belong when Jasper Treverton was no more?Throughout the house there were indications of wealth that inspiredan almost savage longing in this man’s mind. What a changed life hiswould be if he should inherit only half of his cousin’s possessions!He thought, with a weary sigh, of the wretched hand-to-mouth existencethat he had led of late years, and then thought of the things that hewould do if he came in for any share of the old man’s money. He satmeditating thus until the servant came to tell him that Mr. Trevertonwas awake and had asked to see him. He followed the man back to thestudy, where he had found Miss Malcolm. The room was empty now, but thecurtain was drawn aside from the door of communication, and he passedthrough this into Jasper Treverton’s bedroom.

Laura Malcolm was seated at the bedside, but she rose as John entered,and slipped quietly away by another door, leaving him alone with hiscousin.

‘Sit down, John,’ the old man said in a feeble voice, pointing to theempty chair by the bedside.

‘It is rather late in the day for us two to meet,’ he went on, after abrief pause, ‘but perhaps it is better for us to see each other oncebefore I die. I won’t speak of your father’s quarrel with me. You knowall about that, I dare say. We were both in the wrong, very likely;but it has long been too late to undo that. I loved him once, Godknows!—Yes, there was a day when I loved Richard Treverton dearly.’

‘I have heard him say as much, sir,’ John answered in subdued tones. ‘Iregret that he should have quarrelled with you; I regret much more thathe should not have sought a reconciliation.’

‘Your father was always a proud man, John. Perhaps I liked him all thebetter for that. Most men in his position would have courted me for thesake of my money. He never did that.’

[Pg 16]

‘It was not in him to do it, sir. He had his faults, I have no doubt,but a sordid nature was not one of them.’

‘I know that,’ answered Jasper Treverton, ‘nor have you ever sought meout, John, or tried to worm yourself into my favour. Yet I suppose youknow that you are my sole surviving relative.’

‘Yes, sir, I am quite aware of that.’

‘And you have left me in peace, and have been content to take yourchance. Well, you will find yourself none the worse off for havingrespected yourself and not worried me.’

John Treverton’s face flushed, and the beating of his heart quickenedagain, as it had quickened when Laura Malcolm told him of his kinsman’svow.

‘My death will make you a rich man,’ returned Jasper, always speakingwith a painful effort, and in so low a voice that John was obligedto bend over his pillow in order to hear him, ‘on one condition—acondition which I do not think you will find it difficult to complywith.’

‘You are very good, sir,’ faltered the young man, almost too agitatedto speak. ‘Believe me, I had no expectation of this.’

‘I dare say not,’ replied the other. ‘I took a foolish oath some yearsago, and bound myself not to leave my fortune to the only creature Ireally love. To whom else should I leave it then, but to you—my nextof kin? I know nothing against you. I have lived too remote from theworld to hear its scandals, and I know not whether you have won goodor evil repute among your fellow men; but I do know that you are theson of a man I once loved, and that it will be in your power to carryout my wishes in the spirit, if not in the letter. The rest I trust toProvidence.’

After having said this the dying man lay back upon the pillows,and remained silent for some minutes, resting after the exertioninvolved in so long a speech. John Treverton waited for him to speakagain—waited with a tumultuous sense of gladness in his breast,looking round the room now and then. It was a spacious apartment, withhandsome antique furniture, and panelled walls hung with old pictures,like those in the dining-room below. Dark-green velvet curtains wereclosely drawn before the three lofty windows, and in the spaces betweenthem there were curious old cabinets of carved ebony, inlaid withsilver. John Treverton looked at all these things, which seemed to behis already, after what the dying man had said to him. How differentfrom the home he had left, the shabby-genteel London lodging, with itstawdry finery and decrepit chairs and tables!

‘What do you think of my adopted daughter, John Treverton?’ the old manasked presently, turning his dim eyes towards his cousin.

The younger man hesitated a little before replying. The[Pg 17] questionhad taken him by surprise. His thoughts had been far away from LauraMalcolm.

‘I think she is very handsome, sir,’ he said, ‘and I dare say she isamiable; but I really have had very little opportunity of forming anyopinion about the young lady.’

‘No, you have seen nothing of her as yet. You will like her better whenyou come to know her. I cannot doubt that. Her father and I were warmfriends, once upon a time. We were at Oxford together, and travelleda good deal in Spain and Italy together, and loved each other wellenough, I believe, till circ*mstances parted us. I need have no shamein owning the cause of our parting now. We loved the same woman, andStephen Malcolm won her. I thought—whether rightly or wrongly—that Ihad not been fairly treated in the matter, and Stephen and I parted,never to meet as friends again till Stephen was on his death-bed. Thelady jilted him after all, and he did not marry until some years later.When I heard of him next he was in reduced circ*mstances. I sought himout, found him in a pitiable condition and adopted his daughter—anonly child—doubly orphaned. I cannot tell you how dear she soon becameto me, but I had made an oath I would leave her nothing, and I have notbroken that oath, dearly as I love her.’

‘But you have made some provision for her future, sir?’

‘Yes, I have striven to provide for her future. God grant it may be ahappy one. And now call my servant, if you please, John. I have talkeda great deal too much as it is.’

‘Only one word before I call the man. Let me tell you, sir, that Iam grateful,’ said John Treverton, kneeling down beside the bed, andtaking the old man’s wasted hand in his.

‘Prove it when I am gone, John, by trying to carry out my wishes. Andnow good-night. You had better go to bed.’

‘Will you allow me to sit with you for the rest of the night, sir? Ihave not the least inclination to sleep.’

‘No, no, there would be no use in your sitting up. If I am well enoughto see you again in the morning I will do so. Till then, good-bye.’

The old man’s tone was decisive. John Treverton went out of the roomby a door that opened on the gallery. Here he found Jasper Treverton’svalet, a grave-looking, grey-haired man, dozing upon a window seat. Hetold this man that he was wanted in the sick room, and then went to thestudy.

Miss Malcolm was still there, sitting in a thoughtful attitude, lookingat the fire.

‘What do you think of him?’ she asked, looking up suddenly, as JohnTreverton entered the room.

‘He does not seem to me so ill as I expected to see him from youraccount. He has spoken to me with perfect clearness.’

[Pg 18]

‘I am very glad of that. He seemed a good deal better after that longsleep. I will ring for Trimmer to show you your room, Mr. Treverton.’

‘Are you not going to bed yourself, Miss Malcolm? It is nearly threeo’clock.’

‘No. I cannot sleep during this time of suspense. Besides, he may wantme at any moment. I shall lie down on that sofa, perhaps, a littlebefore morning.’

‘Have you been keeping watch like this many nights?’

‘For more than a week; but I am not tired. I think when the mind is soanxious the body has no capability of feeling fatigue.’

‘You will find the reaction very severe by-and-by, I fear,’ Mr.Treverton replied; and Trimmer, the old butler, having appeared by thistime with a candle, he wished Miss Malcolm good-night.

The room to which Trimmer led John Treverton was on the other sideof the house—a large room, with a comfortable fire blazing on thehearth, and reflecting itself in a border of old Dutch tiles. Late asit was, Mr. Treverton sat by the fire thinking for a long time beforehe went to bed, and even when he did lie down under the shadow of thedamask curtains that shrouded the gloomy-looking four-post bed, sleepkept aloof from him. His mind was busy with thoughts of triumph anddelight. Innumerable schemes for the future—selfish ones for the mostpart—crowded and jostled each other in his brain. It was a feverishnight altogether—a night which left him unrefreshed and haggard whenthe cold wintry light came creeping in between the window curtains, anda great clock in the stable yard struck eight.

A countryfied-looking young man, a subordinate of the butler’s, broughtthe visitor his shaving water, and, on being questioned, informed himthat Mr. Treverton the elder had passed a restless night, and was worsethat morning.

John Treverton dressed quickly, and went straight to the study nextthe invalid’s room. He found Laura Malcolm there, looking very wanand pale after her night’s watching. She confirmed the young man’sstatement. Jasper Treverton was much worse. His mind had wanderedtowards daybreak, and he now seemed to recognise no one. His old friendthe vicar had been with him, and had read the prayers for the sick, butthe dying man had been able to take no part in them. The end was verynear at hand, Laura feared.

Mr. Treverton stopped with Miss Malcolm a little while, and thenwandered down to the dining-room, where he found an excellent breakfastwaiting for him in solitary state. He fancied that the old butlertreated him with a peculiar deference, as if[Pg 19] aware that he was to bethe new master of Treverton Manor. After breakfast he went out intothe gardens, which were large, and laid out in an old-fashioned style;straight walks, formal grass-plats, and flower-beds of geometricaldesign. John Treverton walked here for some time, smoking his cigarand looking up thoughtfully at the great red-brick house with itsmany windows glittering in the chill January sunshine, and its air ofold-world repose.

‘It will be the beginning of a new life,’ he said to himself. ‘I feelmyself ten years younger since my interview with the old man lastnight. Let me see—I shall be thirty on my next birthday. Young enoughto begin life afresh—old enough to use wealth wisely.’

CHAPTER II.

JASPER TREVERTON’S WILL.

Jasper Treverton lingered nearly a week after the coming of hiskinsman—a week that seemed interminable to the expectant heir, whocould not help wishing the old man would make a speedy end of it. Whatuse was that last remnant of life to him lying helpless on his bed,restless, weary, and for the greater part of his time delirious? JohnTreverton saw him for a few minutes once or twice every day, and lookedat him with a sympathising and appropriate expression of countenance,and did really feel compassionately towards him; but his busy thoughtspressed forward to the time when he should have the handling of thatfeeble sufferer’s wealth, and should be free to begin that new life,bright glimpses whereof shone upon his roving fancy like visions ofparadise.

After six monotonous days, every one of which was exactly like theother for John Treverton, who smoked his solitary cigar in the wintrygarden, and ate his solitary meals in the great dining-room with hismind always filled by that one subject—the inheritance which seemed sonearly within his grasp—the night came upon which Jasper Treverton’sfeeble hold of life relaxed altogether, and he drifted away to theunknown ocean, with his hand in Laura Malcolm’s, and his face turnedtowards her, with a wan smile upon the faded lips, as he died. Afterthis followed three or four days of wearisome delay, in which the quietof the darkened rooms seemed intolerable to John Treverton, to whomdeath was an unfamiliar horror. He avoided the house in these daysas much as possible, and spent the greater part of his time in longrambles out into the open country, leaving all the arrangements ofthe funeral to Mr. Clare, the vicar, who had been Jasper[Pg 20] Treverton’sclosest friend, and a Mr. Sampson, an inhabitant of the village, whohad been the dead man’s solicitor.

The funeral came at last, a very quiet ceremonial, in accordance withJasper Treverton’s express desire, and the master of Treverton Manorwas laid in the vault where many of his ancestors slept the lastlong sleep. There was a drizzling rain and a low, lead-coloured sky,beneath which the old churchyard looked unspeakably dismal; but JohnTreverton’s thoughts were far away as he stood by the open grave, whilethe sublime words of the service fell unheard upon his ear. To-morrowhe would be back in London, most likely, with the consciousness ofwealth and power, inaugurating that new life which he thought of soeagerly.

He went back to the house, where it was a relief to find the blindsdrawn up and the dull gray winter light in the rooms. The will was tobe read in the drawing-room—a very handsome room, with white-and-goldpanelling, six long windows, and a fireplace at each end. Here Mr.Sampson, the lawyer, seated himself at a table to read the will, in thepresence of Mr. Clare, the vicar, Laura Malcolm, and the upper servantsof the Manor-house, who took their places in a little group near thedoor.

The will was very simply worded. It commenced with some bequests tothe old servants, a small annuity to Andrew Trimmer, the butler, andsums varying from fifty to two hundred pounds to the coachman andwomen servants. There was a complimentary legacy of a hundred guineasto Thomas Sampson, and a bequest of old plate to Theodore Clare, thevicar. After these things had been duly set forth the testator wenton to leave the remainder of his property, real and personal, to hiscousin, John Treverton, provided the said John Treverton should marryhis dearly-beloved adopted daughter, Laura Malcolm, within one year ofhis decease. The estate was to be held in trust during this interval byTheodore Clare and Thomas Sampson, together with all moneys therefromarising. In the event of this marriage not taking place within the saidtime, the whole of the estate was to pass into the hands of the saidTheodore Clare and the said Thomas Sampson, in trust for the erectionof a hospital in the adjacent market town of Beechampton.

Miss Malcolm looked up with a startled expression as this strangebequest was read. John Treverton’s face assumed a sudden pallor thatwas by no means flattering to the lady whose fate was involved in thesingular condition which attached to his inheritance. The situation wasan awkward one for both. Laura rose directly the reading of the willwas finished, and left the room without a word. The servants retiredimmediately after, and John Treverton was left alone with the vicar andthe lawyer.

‘Allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Treverton,’ said Thomas Sampson,folding up the will, and coming to the fireplace by[Pg 21] which JohnTreverton was seated; ‘you will find yourself a very rich man.’

‘A twelvemonth hence, Mr. Sampson,’ the other answered doubtfully,‘always provided that Miss Malcolm is willing to accept me for herhusband, which she may not be.’

‘She will scarcely fly in the face of her adopted father’s desire, Mr.Treverton.’

‘I don’t know about that. A woman seldom cares for a husband of anyone else’s choosing. I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth,or to seem ungrateful to my cousin Jasper, from whom I entertained noexpectations whatever a week or so ago: but I cannot help thinking hewould have done better by dividing his property between Miss Malcolmand myself, leaving us both free.’

He spoke in a slow, meditative way, and he was pale to the very lips.There was no appearance of triumph or gladness—only an anxious,disappointed expression, which made his handsome face look strangelyworn and haggard.

‘There are not many men who would think Laura Malcolm an encumbranceto any fortune, Mr. Treverton,’ said Mr. Clare. ‘I think you will behappier in the possession of such a wife than in the enjoyment of yourcousin’s wealth, large as it is.’

‘In the event of the lady’s accepting me as her husband,’ JohnTreverton again interposed doubtfully.

‘You have an interval of a twelvemonth in which to win her,’ repliedthe vicar, ‘and things will go hard with you if you fail. I think I cananswer for the fact that Miss Malcolm’s affections are disengaged. Ofcourse she, like yourself, is a little startled by the eccentricity ofthis condition. The position is much more embarrassing for her than foryou.’

John Treverton did not reply to this remark, but there was a very blanklook in his face as he stood by the fire listening to the vicar’s andthe lawyer’s praises of his departed kinsman.

‘Will Miss Malcolm continue to occupy this house?’ he asked presently.

‘I scarcely know what her wishes may be,’ replied Mr. Clare, ‘but Ithink it would be well if the house were placed at her disposal. Isuppose that we as trustees would have power to make her such an offer,Mr. Sampson, with Mr. Treverton’s concurrence.’

‘Of course.’

‘I concur most heartily in any arrangement that may be agreeable tothe young lady,’ John Treverton said, in rather a mechanical way. ‘Isuppose there is nothing further to detain me here. I can go back totown to-morrow.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to go over the estate before you return to London,Mr. Treverton?’ asked Thomas Sampson. ‘It would be just as well for youto see the extent of a property that is[Pg 22] pretty sure to be your own.If you don’t mind taking things in a plain way, I should be very muchpleased by your spending a week or so at my house. There’s no one knowsthe estate better than I do, and I can show you every rood of it.’

‘You are very kind, Mr. Sampson. I shall be glad to accept yourhospitality.’

‘That’s what I call friendly. When will you come over to us? Thisevening? We are all to dine together, I believe. Why shouldn’t you gohome with me after dinner? Your presence here can only embarrass MissMalcolm.’

Having accepted the lawyer’s invitation, John Treverton did not carehow soon his visit took place, so it was agreed that he should walkover to ‘The Laurels’ with Mr. Sampson that evening after dinner. Butbefore he went it would be necessary to take some kind of farewell ofLaura Malcolm, and the idea of this was now painfully embarrassing tohim. It was a thing that must be done, however, and it would be wellthat it should be done at a seasonable hour; so in the twilight, beforedinner, he went up to the study, which he knew was Miss Malcolm’sfavourite room, and found her there with an open book lying on her lapand a small tea-tray on the table by her side.

She looked up at him without any appearance of confusion, but with avery pale, sad face. He seated himself opposite her, and it was somemoments before he could find words for the simple announcement he hadto make. That calm, beautiful face, turned towards him with a grave,expectant look, embarrassed him more than he could have imaginedpossible.

‘I have accepted an invitation from Mr. Sampson to spend a few dayswith him before I go back to town, and I have come to bid you good-bye,Miss Malcolm,’ he said at last. ‘I fancied that at such a time as thisit would be pleasanter for you to feel yourself quite alone.’

‘You are very good. I do not suppose I shall stay here many days.’

‘I hope you will stay here altogether. Mr. Sampson and Mr. Clare, thetrustees, wish it very much. I do not think that I have much power inthe affair; but believe me, it is my earnest desire that you should notbe in a hurry to leave your old home.’

‘You are very good. I do not think I could stay here alone in this dearold house, where I have been so happy. I know some respectable peoplein the village who let lodgings. I think I would rather remove to theirhouse as soon as my trunks are packed. I have plenty to live upon, youknow, Mr. Treverton. The six thousand pounds your cousin gave me yieldsan income of over two hundred a year.’

‘You must consult your own wishes, Miss Malcolm. I[Pg 23] cannot presume tointerfere with your views, anxious as I am for your welfare.’

This was about as much as he would venture to say at this early stageof affairs. He felt his position indescribably awkward, and he wonderedat Laura Malcolm’s composure. What ought he to say or do? What couldhe say that would not seem dictated by the most sordid motive? Whatdisinterested feeling could there ever arise between those two, whowere bound together by their common interest in a great estate, who metas strangers to find themselves suddenly dependent upon each other’scaprice?

‘I may call upon you before I leave Hazlehurst, may I not, MissMalcolm?’ he asked presently, with a kind of desperation.

‘I shall be happy to see you whenever you call.’

‘You are very kind. I’ll not intrude on you any longer this evening,for I am sure you must want quiet and perfect rest. I must go downto dinner with Mr. Sampson and the vicar—rather a dreary kind ofentertainment I fear it will be. Good-bye.’

He offered her his hand for the first time since they had met. Hers wasvery cold, and trembled a little as she gave it to him. He detainedit rather longer than he was justified in doing, and looked at herfor the first time with something like tender pity in his eyes. Yes,she was very pretty. He would have liked her face better without thatexpression of coldness and pride, but he could not deny that she wasbeautiful, and he felt that any young man might be proud to win such awoman for his wife. He did not see his own way to winning her, however;and it seemed to him as if the fortune he had so built upon during allhis reveries lately, was now removed very far out of his reach.

The dinner was not such a dismal feast as he had imagined it would be.People are apt to accustom themselves very easily to an old friend’sremoval, and the vicar and the lawyer seemed tolerably cheerful abouttheir departed neighbour. They discussed his little eccentricities, hisvirtues and his foibles, in an agreeable spirit, and did ample justiceto his claret, of which, however, Mr. Clare said he had never beenquite so good a judge as he had believed himself to be. They sat fora couple of hours over their dessert, sipping some Burgundy of whichJasper Treverton had been especially proud, and John Treverton was theonly one of the three who seemed troubled by gloomy thoughts.

It was ten o’clock when Mr. Sampson proposed an adjournment to his ownabode. He had sent a little note home to his sister before dinner,telling her of Mr. Treverton’s intended visit, and had ordered afly from the inn, in which vehicle he and his[Pg 24] guest drove to ‘TheLaurels,’ a trim, bright-looking, modern house, with small rooms whichwere the very pink of neatness; so neat and new-looking, indeed, thatJohn Treverton fancied they could never have been lived in, and thatthe furniture must have been sent home from the upholsterer that veryday.

Thomas Sampson was a young man, and a bachelor. He had inherited anexcellent business from his father, and had done a good deal to improveit himself, having a considerable capacity for getting on in life, andan ardent love of money-making. He had one sister, who lived with him.She was tolerably good-looking, in a pale, insipid way, with eyes of acold light blue, and straight, silky hair of a nondescript brown.

This young lady, whose name was Eliza, welcomed John Trevertonwith much politeness. There were not many men in the neighbourhoodof Hazlehurst who could have borne comparison with that splendidmilitary-looking stranger, and Miss Sampson, who did not yet know theterms of Jasper Treverton’s will, supposed that this handsome youngman was now master of the Manor and all its dependencies. For his sakeshe had bestowed considerable pains on the adornment of the sparebedroom, which she had embellished with more fanciful pincushions,and ring-stands and Bohemian glass scent-bottles, than are consistentwith the masculine idea of comfort. For his gratification also she hadordered a reckless expenditure of coals in the keeping up of a blazingfire in the same smartly-furnished chamber, which looked unspeakablysmall and mean to the eyes of John Treverton after the spacious roomsat the Manor-house.

‘I know of a room that will look meaner still,’ he said to himself,‘for this at least is clean and neat.’

He went to bed, and slept better than he had done for many nights, buthis dreams were full of Laura Malcolm. He dreamt that they were beingmarried, and that as she stood beside him at the altar her face changedin some strange, ghastly way into another face, a face he knew only toowell.

CHAPTER III.

A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.

The next day was fine, and Mr. Sampson and his visitor set out in adogcart directly after breakfast on a tour of inspection. They gotover a good deal of ground between an eight o’clock breakfast and asix o’clock dinner, and John Treverton had the pleasure of surveyingmany of the broad acres that were in all probability to be his own; butthe farms which lay within a[Pg 25] drive of Hazlehurst did not constitute athird of Jasper Treverton’s possessions. Mr. Sampson told his companionthat the estates were worth about eleven thousand a year altogether,besides which there was an income of about three thousand more accruingfrom money in the funds. The old man had begun life with only sixthousand a year, but some of his land bordered closely on the town ofBeechampton, and had developed from agricultural land into buildingland in a manner that had increased its value seven-fold. He had livedquietly, and had added to his estate year after year by fresh purchasesand investments, until it reached its present amount. To hear of suchwealth was like some dream of fairyland to John Treverton. Mr. Sampsonspoke of it as if to all intents and purposes it were already inthe other’s possession. His sound legal mind could not conceive thepossibility of any sentimental objection on the part of either thegentleman or the lady to the carrying out of a condition which was tosecure the possession of that noble estate to both. Of course, in duetime Mr. Treverton would make Miss Malcolm a formal offer, and shewould accept him. Idiocy so abject on the part of either the gentlemanor the lady as a refusal to comply with so easy a condition wasscarcely within the limits of human folly.

Looking at the matter from this point of view, Mr. Sampson wassurprised to perceive a certain air of gloom and despondency about hiscompanion which seemed quite unnatural to a man in his position. JohnTreverton’s eye kindled with a gleam of triumph as he gazed across thebroad, bare fields which the lawyer showed him; but in the next minutehis face grew sombre again, and he listened to the description of theproperty with an absent air that was inexplicable to Thomas Sampson.The solicitor ventured to say as much by-and-by, when they were drivinghomeward through the winter dusk.

‘Well, you see, my dear Sampson, there’s many a slip between the cupand the lip,’ John Treverton answered, with that light, airy tone whichmost people found particularly agreeable. ‘I must confess that themanner in which this estate has been left is rather a disappointment tome. My cousin Jasper told me that his death would make me a rich man.Instead of this I find myself with a blank year of waiting before me,and with my chances of coming into possession of this fortune entirelydependent upon the whims and caprices of a young lady.’

‘You don’t suppose for a moment that Miss Malcolm will refuse you?’

John Treverton was so long before he answered this question that thelawyer presently repeated it in a louder tone, fancying that it had notbeen heard upon the first occasion.

‘Do I think she’ll refuse me?’ repeated Mr. Treverton, in[Pg 26] rather anabsent tone. ‘Well, I don’t know about that. Women are apt to haveromantic notions on the money question. She has enough to live upon,you see. She told me as much last night, and she may prefer to marrysome one else. The very terms of this will are calculated to set ahigh-spirited girl against me.’

‘But she would know that in refusing you she would deprive you ofthe estate, and frustrate the wishes of her friend and benefactor.She’d scarcely be so ungrateful as to do that. Depend upon it, she’llconsider it her duty to accept you—not a very unpleasant duty either,to marry a man with fourteen thousand a year. Upon my word, Mr.Treverton, you seem to have a very poor opinion of yourself, when youimagine the possibility of Laura Malcolm refusing you.’

John Treverton made no reply to this remark, and was silent during therest of the drive. His spirits improved, or seemed to improve a littleat dinner, however, and he did his best to make himself agreeable tohis host and hostess. Miss Sampson thought him the most agreeable manshe had ever met, especially when he consented to sit down to chesswith her after dinner, and from utter listlessness and absence of mindallowed her to win three games running.

‘What do you think of Miss Malcolm, Mr. Treverton?’ she asked,by-and-by, as she was pouring out the tea.

‘You mustn’t ask Mr. Treverton any questions on that subject, Eliza,’said her brother, with a laugh.

‘Why not?’

‘For a reason which I am not at liberty to discuss.’

‘Oh, indeed!’ said Miss Sampson, with a sudden tightening of her thinlips. ‘I had no idea—at least I thought—that Laura Malcolm was almosta stranger to Mr. Treverton.’

‘And you’re quite right in your supposition, Miss Sampson,’ answeredJohn Treverton, ‘nor is there any reason why the subject should betabooed. I think Miss Malcolm very handsome, and that her manner isremarkable for grace and dignity—and that is all I am able to thinkabout her at present, for we are, as you say, almost strangers to eachother. As far as I could judge she seemed to me to be warmly attachedto my cousin Jasper.’

Eliza Sampson shook her head rather contemptuously.

‘She had reason to be fond of him,’ she said. ‘Of course you are awarethat she was completely destitute when he brought her home, and herfamily were, I believe, a very disreputable set.’

‘I fancy you must be mistaken, Miss Sampson,’ John Treverton answered,with some warmth. ‘My cousin Jasper told me that Stephen Malcolm hadbeen his friend and fellow-student at the University. He may havedied poor, but I heard nothing which implied that he had fallen intodisreputable courses.’

‘Oh, really,’ said Miss Sampson; ‘of course you know best[Pg 27] and no doubtwhatever your cousin told you was correct. But to tell the truth MissMalcolm has never been a favourite of mine. There’s a reserve about herthat I’ve never been able to get over. I know the gentlemen admire hervery much, but I don’t think she’ll ever have many female friends. Andwhat is of so much consequence to a young woman as a female friend?’concluded the lady sententiously.

‘Oh, the gentlemen admire her very much, do they?’ repeated JohnTreverton. ‘I suppose, then, she has had several opportunities ofmarrying already?’

‘I don’t know about that, but I know of one man who is over head andears in love with her.’

‘Would it be any breach of confidence on your part to say who thegentleman is?’

‘Oh, dear, no. I found out the secret for myself, I assure you. MissMalcolm has never condescended to tell me anything about her affairs.It is Edward Clare, the vicar’s son. I have seen them a good dealtogether. He used to be always making some excuse for dropping in atthe Manor-house to talk to Mr. Treverton about old books, and papersfor the Archæological Society, and so on, and anybody could see that itwas for Miss Malcolm’s sake he spent so much of his time there.’

‘Do you think she cared about him?’

‘Goodness knows. There’s no getting at what she thinks about anyone.I did once ask her the question, but she turned it off in her cold,haughty way, saying that she liked Mr. Clare as a friend, and all thatkind of thing.’

Thomas Sampson had looked rather uneasy during this conversation.

‘You mustn’t listen to my sister’s foolish gossip, Treverton,’ he said;‘it’s hard enough to keep women from talking scandal anywhere, but insuch a place as this they seem to have nothing else to do.’

John Treverton had taken his part in this conversation with a keenerinterest than he was prepared to acknowledge himself capable of feelingupon the subject of Laura Malcolm. What was she to him, that he shouldfeel such a jealous anger against this unknown Edward Clare? Were notall his most deeply-rooted feelings in her disfavour? Was she notrendered unspeakably obnoxious to him by the terms of his kinsman’swill?

‘There’s something upon that man’s mind, Eliza,’ said Mr. Sampson, ashe stood upon the hearthrug, warming himself in a thoughtful mannerbefore the fire for a few minutes, after his guest had gone to bed.‘Mark my words, Eliza, there’s something on John Treverton’s mind.’

‘What makes you think so, Tom?’

[Pg 28]

‘Because he’s not a bit elated about the property that he has comeinto, or will come into in a year’s time. And it isn’t in human naturefor a man to come into fourteen thousand a year which he never expectedto inherit, and take it as coolly as this man takes it.’

‘What do you mean by a year’s time, Tom? Hasn’t he got the estate now?’

‘No, Eliza; that’s the rub.’ And Mr. Sampson went on to explain to hissister the terms of Jasper Treverton’s will, duly warning her that shewas not to communicate her knowledge of the subject to anyone, on painof his lasting displeasure.

Thomas Sampson was too busy next day to devote himself to his guest;so John Treverton went for a long ramble, with a map of the TrevertonManor estate in his pocket. He skirted many a broad field of arableand pasture land, and stood at the gates of farmhouse gardens, lookingat the snug homesteads, the great barns and haystacks, the lazy cattlestanding knee-deep in the litter of a straw-yard, and wondering whetherhe should ever be master of these things. He walked a long way, andcame home with a slow step and a thoughtful air in the twilight. Abouta mile from Hazlehurst he emerged from a narrow lane on to a common,across which there was a path leading to the village. As he came out ofthis lane he saw the figure of a lady in mourning a little way beforehim. Something in the carriage of the head struck him as familiar; hehurried after the lady, and found himself walking beside Laura Malcolm.

‘You are out rather late, Miss Malcolm,’ he said, not knowing very wellwhat to say.

‘It gets dark so quickly at this time of the year. I have been to seesome people at Thorley, about a mile and a half from here.’

‘You do a great deal of visiting among the poor, I suppose?’

‘Yes, I have been always accustomed to spend two or three days a weekamongst them. They have come to know me very well, and to understandme, and, much as people are apt to complain of the poor, I have foundthem both grateful and affectionate.’

John Treverton looked at her thoughtfully. She had a bright colour inher cheeks this evening, a rosy tint which lighted up her dark eyeswith a brilliancy he had never seen in them before. He walked by herside all the way back to Hazlehurst, talking first about the villagersshe had been visiting, and afterwards about her adopted father, whoseloss she seemed to feel deeply. Her manner this evening appearedperfectly frank and natural, and when John Treverton parted from her atthe gates of the Manor-house, it was with the conviction that she wasno less charming than she was beautiful.

[Pg 29]

And yet he gave a short, impatient sigh as he turned away from thegreat iron gates to walk to The Laurels, and it was only by an effortthat he kept up an appearance of cheerfulness through the longevening, in the society of the two Sampsons and a bluff, red-cheekedgentleman-farmer, who had been invited to dinner, and to take a hand ina friendly rubber afterwards.

John Treverton spent the following day in the dogcart with Mr. Sampson,inspecting more farms, and getting a clearer idea of the extent andnature of the Treverton property that lay within a drive of Hazlehurst.He told his host that he would be compelled to go back to town byan early train on the next morning. After dinner that evening Mr.Sampson had occasion to retire to his office for an hour’s work uponsome important piece of business, so John Treverton, not very highlyappreciating the privilege of a prolonged tête-à-tête with thefair Eliza, put on his hat and went out of doors to smoke a cigar inthe village street.

Some fancy, he scarcely knew what, led him towards the Manor-house;perhaps because the lane outside the high garden wall at the side ofthe house was a quiet place for the smoking of a meditative cigar. Inthis solitary lane he paced for some time, coming round to the irongates two or three times to look across the park-like grounds at thefront of the house, whose closely-shuttered windows showed no ray oflight.

‘I wonder if I could be a happy man,’ he asked himself, ‘as the masterof that house, with a beautiful wife and an ample fortune? There wasa time when I fancied I could only exist in the stir and bustle of aLondon life, but perhaps, after all, I should not make a bad countrygentleman if I were happy.’

On going back to the lane after one of these meditative pauses beforethe iron gates, John Treverton was surprised to find that he was nolonger alone there. A tall man, wrapped in a loose great-coat, and withthe lower part of his face hidden in the folds of a woollen scarf,was walking slowly to and fro before a narrow little wooden door inthe garden wall. In that uncertain light, and with so much of hisface hidden by the brim of his hat and the folds of his scarf, it wasimpossible to tell what this man was like, but John Treverton lookedat him with a very suspicious feeling as he passed him near the gardendoor, and walked on to the end of the lane. When he turned back he wassurprised to see that the door was open, and that the man was standingon the threshold, talking to some one within. He went quickly back inorder to see, if possible, who this some one was, and as he came closeto the garden door he heard a voice that he knew very well indeed—thevoice of Laura Malcolm.

‘There is no fear of our being interrupted,’ she said. ‘I would rathertalk to you in the garden.’

The man seemed to hesitate a little, muttered something about[Pg 30] ‘theservants,’ and then went into the garden, the door of which wasimmediately shut.

John Treverton was almost petrified by this circ*mstance. Who couldthis man be whom Miss Malcolm admitted to her presence in this stealthymanner? Who could he be except some secret lover, some suitor she knewto be unworthy of her, and whose visits she was fain to receive inthis ignoble fashion. The revelation was unspeakably shocking to JohnTreverton; but he could in no other manner account for the incidentwhich he had just witnessed. He lit another cigar, determined to waitin the lane till the man came out again. He walked up and down forabout twenty minutes, at the end of which time the garden door wasre-opened, and the stranger emerged and walked hastily away, Johnfollowing him at a respectable distance. He went to an inn not far fromthe Manor-house, where there was a gig waiting for him, with a mannodding sleepily over the reins. He jumped lightly into the vehicle,took the reins from the man’s hands and drove away at a smart pace,very much to the discomfiture of Mr. Treverton, who had not been ableto see his face, and who had no means of tracing him any further. Hedid, indeed, go into the little inn and call for soda-water and brandy,in order to have an excuse for asking who the gentleman was who hadjust driven away; but the innkeeper knew nothing more than that the gighad stopped before his door half-an-hour or so, and that the horse hadhad a mouthful of hay.

‘The man as stopped with the horse and gig came in for a glass ofbrandy to take out to the gentleman,’ he said, ‘but I didn’t see thegentleman’s face.’

John Treverton went back to The Laurels after this, very ill atease. He determined to see Miss Malcolm next morning before he leftHazlehurst, in order, if possible, to find out something about thismysterious reception of the unknown individual in the loose coat. Hemade his plans, therefore, for going to London by an afternoon train,and at one o’clock presented himself at the Manor-house.

Miss Malcolm was at home, and he was ushered once more into the study,where he had first seen her.

He told her of his intended departure, an announcement which wasnot calculated to surprise her very much, as he had told her thesame thing when they met on the common. They talked a little ofindifferent subjects; she with perfect ease of manner, he with evidentembarrassment; and then, after rather an awkward pause, he began:—

‘Oh, by the way, Miss Malcolm, there is a circ*mstance which I thinkit my duty to mention to you. It is perhaps of less importance than Iam inclined to attach to it, but in a lonely country house like thisone cannot be too careful. I was out[Pg 31] walking rather late last night,smoking my solitary cigar, and I happened to pass through the lane atthe side of these grounds.’

He paused a moment. Laura Malcolm gave a perceptible start, and hefancied that she was paler than she had been before he began to speakof this affair; but her eyes met his with a steady, inquiring look, andnever once faltered in their gaze as he went on:—

‘I saw a tall man, very much muffled up in an overcoat andneckerchief—with his face quite hidden, in fact—walking up anddown before the little door in the wall, and five minutes afterwardsI was surprised by seeing the door opened, and the man admitted tothe garden. The secret kind of way in which the thing was done wascalculated to alarm anyone interested in the inmates of this house. Iconcluded, of course, that it was one of the servants who admitted somefollower of her own in this clandestine manner.’

He could not meet Laura Malcolm’s eyes quite steadily as he said this,but the calm scrutiny of hers never changed. It was John Treverton whofaltered and looked down.

‘Some follower of her own,’ Miss Malcolm repeated. ‘You know, then,that the person who let this stranger into the garden was a woman?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, not a little startled by her self-possession. ‘Iheard a woman’s voice. I took the trouble to follow the man when hecame out again, and I discovered that he was a stranger to this place,a fact which, of course, makes the affair so much the more suspicious.I know that robberies are generally managed by collusion with someservant, and I know that the property in this house is of a kind toattract the attention of professional burglars. I considered it,therefore, my duty to inform you of what I had seen.’

‘You are very good, but I can fortunately set your mind quite at restwith regard to the plate and other valuables in this house. The man yousaw last night is not a burglar, and it was I who admitted him to thegarden.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes. He is a relation of mine, who wished to see me without makinghis appearance here the subject of gossip among the Hazlehurst people.He wrote to me, telling me that he was about to travel through thispart of the country, and asking me to give him a private interview. Itsuited his humour best to come to this place after dark, and to leaveit unobserved, as he thought.’

‘I trust you will not think me intrusive for having spoken of thissubject, Miss Malcolm?’

‘Not at all. It was natural you should be interested in the welfare ofthe house.’

[Pg 32]

‘And in yours. I hope that you will believe that was nearer my thoughtsthan any sordid fears as to the safety of the old plate and pictures.And now that I am leaving Hazlehurst, Miss Malcolm, may I venture toask your plans for the future?’

‘They are scarcely worth the name of plans. I intend moving from thishouse to the lodgings I spoke of the other day; that is all.’

‘Don’t you think you will find living alone very dull? Would it not bebetter for you to go into a school, or some place where you could havesociety?’

‘I have thought of that, but I don’t fancy I should quite like themonotonous routine of a school. I am prepared to find my life a littledull, but I am very fond of this place, and I am not without friendshere.’

‘I can quite imagine that. You ought to have many friends inHazlehurst.’

‘But I have not many friends. I have not the knack of formingfriendships. There are only two or three people in the world whoseregard I feel sure of, or who seem to understand me.’

‘I hope your heart is not quite inaccessible to new claims. There isa subject which I dare not speak of just yet, which it might be cruelto urge upon you at a time when I know your mind is full of grief forthe dead; but when the fitting time does come I trust I may not find mycase quite hopeless.’

He spoke with a hesitation which seemed strange in so experienced a manof the world. Laura Malcolm looked up at him with the same steady gazewith which her eyes had met his when he spoke of the incident of theprevious night.

‘When the fitting time comes you will find me ready to act in obedienceto the wishes of my benefactor,’ she answered quietly. ‘I do notconsider that the terms of his will are calculated to secure happinessfor either of us; but I loved him too dearly—I respect his memory toosincerely to place myself in opposition to his plans.’

‘Why should not our happiness be secured by that will, Laura?’ JohnTreverton asked, with sudden tenderness. ‘Is there no hope that I mayever win your love?’

She shook her head sadly.

‘Love very seldom grows out of a position such as ours, Mr. Treverton.’

‘We may prove a happy exception to the general rule. But I said I wouldnot talk of this subject to-day. I only wish you to believe that I amnot altogether mercenary—that I would rather forego this fortune thanforce a hateful alliance upon you.’

Miss Malcolm made no reply to this speech, and after a few minutes’talk upon indifferent subjects, John Treverton wished her good-bye.

[Pg 33]

‘She would accept me,’ he said to himself as he left the house. ‘Herwords seemed to imply as much; the rest remains with me. The ice hasbeen broken, at any rate. But who can that man be, and why did hevisit her in such a secret, ignominious manner? If we were differentlycirc*mstanced, if I loved her, I should insist upon a fullerexplanation.’

He went back to The Laurels, to bid his friends the Sampsons good-bye.The lawyer was ready to drive him over to the station, and made himpromise to run down to Hazlehurst again as soon as he was able, and tomake The Laurels his headquarters on that and all other occasions.

‘You’ll have plenty of love-making to do between this and the end ofthe year,’ Mr. Sampson said, facetiously.

He was in very good spirits, having that morning made an advance ofmoney to Mr. Treverton on extremely profitable terms, and he felt apersonal interest in that gentleman’s courtship and marriage.

John Treverton went back to town in almost as thoughtful a mood as thatin which he had made the journey to Hazlehurst. Plan his course as hemight, there was a dangerous coast ahead of him, which he doubted hisability to navigate. Very far away gleamed the lights of the harbour,but between that harbour and the frail bark that carried his fortuneshow many shoals and rocks there were whose perils he must encounterbefore he could lie safe at anchor?

CHAPTER IV.

LA CHICOT.

About this time there appeared among the multifarious placard whichadorned the dead walls and hoardings and railway arches and wastespaces of London one mystical dissyllable, which was to be seeneverywhere.

Chicot. In gigantic yellow capitals on a black ground. The dullest eyemust needs see it, the slowest mind must needs be stirred with vaguewonder. Chicot! What did it mean? Was it a name or a thing? A common ora proper noun? Something to eat or something to wear? A quack medicinefor humanity, or an ointment to cure the cracked heels of horses? Wasit a new vehicle, a patent cab destined to supersede the world-renownedHansom, or a new machine for cutting up turnips and mangold-wurzel? Wasit the name of a new periodical? Chicot! There was something takingin the sound. Two short, crisp syllables, tripping lightly off thetongue. Chicot! The street arabs shouted the word as a savage cry,neither knowing nor caring[Pg 34] what it meant. But before those six-sheetposters had lost their pristine freshness most of the fast young menabout London, the medical students and articled clerks, the dappergentlemen at the War Office, the homelier youths from Somerset House,the shining-hatted City swells who came westward as the sun slopedto his rest, knew all about Chicot. Chicot was Mademoiselle Chicot,premiere danseuse at the Royal Prince Frederick Theatre and Music-hall,and she was, according to the highest authorities on the Stock Exchangeand in the War Office, quite the handsomest woman in London. Herdancing was distinguished for its audacity rather than for high art.She was no follower of the Taglioni school of saltation. The grace,the refinement, the chaste beauties of that bygone age were unknown toher. She would have ‘mocked herself of you’ if you had talked to herabout the poetry of motion. But for flying bounds across the stage—forwild pirouettings on tiptoe—for the free use of the loveliest arms increation—for a bold backward curve of a full white throat more perfectthan ever sculptor gave his marble bacchanal, La Chicot was unrivalled.

She was thoroughly French. Of that there was no doubt. She was noscion of the English houses of Brown, Jones, or Robinson, born andbred in a London back slum, and christened plain Sarah or Mary, to besophisticated later into Celestine or Mariette. Zaïre Chicot was aweed grown on Gallic soil. All that there was of the most Parisian LaChicot called herself; but her accent and many of her turns of phrasebelied her, and to the enlightened ear of her compatriots betrayed herprovincial origin. The loyal and pious province of Brittany claimedthe honour of La Chicot’s birth. Her innocent childhood had beenspent among the fig-trees and saintly shrines of Auray. Not till hernineteenth year had she seen the long, dazzling boulevards stretchinginto unfathomable distance before her eyes; the multitudinous lamps;the fairy-like kiosks—all infinitely grander and more beautifulthan the square of Duguesclin at Dinan illuminated with ten thousandlampions on a festival night. Here in Paris life seemed an endlessfestival.

Paris is a mighty schoolmaster, a grand enlightener of the provincialintellect. Paris taught La Chicot that she was beautiful. Paris taughtLa Chicot that it was pleasanter to whirl and bound among serried ranksof other Chicots in the fairy spectacle of ‘The Sleeping Beauty,’or the ‘Hart with the Golden Collar,’ clad in scantiest drapery,but sparkling with gold and spangles, with hair flowing wild as aMænad’s, and satin boots at two napoleons the pair, than to toil amonglaundresses on the quay. La Chicot had come to Paris to get her living,and she got it very pleasantly for herself as a member of the corpsde ballet, a cypher in the sum total of those splendid fairyspectacles, but a cypher[Pg 35] whose superb eyes and luxuriant hair, whosestatuesque figure and youthful freshness did not fail to attract thenotice of individuals.

She was soon known as the belle of the ballet, and speedily madeherself obnoxious to the principal dancers, who resented her superiorcharms as an insolence, and took every occasion to snub her. But whileher own sex was unkind, the sterner sex showed itself gentle to labelle Chicot. The ballet-master taught her steps which he taught tonone other of the sisterhood under his tuition; he made opportunitiesfor giving her a solo dance now and then; he pushed her to thefront; and at his advice she migrated from the large house where shewas nobody, to a smaller house in the students’ quarter, a popularlittle theatre on the left bank of the Seine, amidst a labyrinth ofnarrow streets and tall houses between the School of Medicine and theSorbonne, where she soon became everybody. C’était le plus gentilde mes rats, cried the ballet-master regretfully, when La Chicothad been tempted away. Cette petite ira loin, said the manager,vexed with himself for having let his handsomest coryphée slip throughhis fingers; elle a du chien.

At the Students’ Theatre it was that La Chicot met with her fate, orin other words, it was here that her husband first saw her. He was anEnglishman, leading a rather wild life in this students’ quarter ofParis, living from hand to mouth, very poor, very clever, very badlyqualified to get his own living. He was gifted with those versatiletalents which rarely come to a focus or achieve any important result.He painted, he etched, he sang, he played on three or four instrumentswith taste and fancy, but little technical skill; he wrote for thecomic papers, but the comic papers generally rejected or neglectedhis contributions. If he had invented a lucifer match, or originatedan improvement in the sewing-machine, he might have carved his way tofortune; but these drawing-room accomplishments of his hardly served tokeep him from starving. Not a very eligible suitor, one would imagine,for a young lady from the provinces who wished to make a great figurein life; but he was handsome, well-bred, with that unmistakable air ofgentle birth which neither poverty nor Bohemianism can destroy, and inthe opinion of La Chicot the most fascinating man she had ever seen.In a word, he admired the lovely ballet-dancer, and the ballet-danceradored him. It was an infatuation on both sides—his first greatpassion and hers. Both were strong in their faith in their own talentsand the future; both believed that they had only to live in order tobecome rich and famous. La Chicot was not of a calculating temper.She was fond of money, but only of money to spend in the immediatepresent; money for fine dresses, good dinners, wine that foamed andsparkled, and plenty of promenading in hired carriages in the[Pg 36] Boisde Boulogne. Money for the future, for sickness, for old age, for theinnumerable necessities of life, she never thought of. Without havingever read Horace, or perhaps ever having heard of his existence, shewas profoundly Horatian in her philosophy. To snatch the pleasure ofthe day, and let to-morrow take care of itself, was the beginning andend of her wisdom. She loved the young Englishman, and she married him,knowing that he had not a napoleon beyond the coin that was to payfor their wedding dinner, utterly reckless as to the consequences oftheir marriage, and as ignorant and unreasoning in her happiness as achild. To have a handsome man—a gentleman by birth and education—forher lover and slave,—to have the one man who had ensnared her fancytied to her apron-string for ever,—this was La Chicot’s notion ofhappiness. She was a strong-minded young woman, who to this point hadmade her way in life unaided by relatives or friends, uncared for,uncounselled, untaught, a mere straw upon the tide of life, but notwithout a fixed idea of her own as to where she wanted to drift. Shedesired no guardianship from a husband. She did not expect him towork for her, or support her; she was quite resigned to the idea thatshe was to be the breadwinner. This child of the people set a curiousvalue upon the name gentleman. The fact that her husband belonged toa superior race made up, in her mind, for a great many shortcomings.That he should be variable, reckless, a creature of fits and starts,beginning a picture with zeal in the morning, to throw it aside withdisgust in the evening, seemed only natural. That was race. Could youput a hunter to the same kind of work which the patient packhorseperforms without a symptom of revolt? La Chicot hugged the notion ofher husband’s superiority to that drudging herd from which she hadsprung. His very vices were in her mind virtues.

They were married, and as La Chicot was a person of some importance inher own small world, while the young Englishman had done nothing todistinguish himself, the husband came somehow to be known by the nameof the wife, and was spoken of everywhere as Monsieur Chicot.

It was an odd kind of life which these two led in theirmeagrely-furnished rooms on the third floor of a dingy house in adingy street of the students’ quarter; an odd, improvident, dissipatedlife, in which night was turned into day, and money spent like water,and nothing desired or obtained out of existence except pleasure, thegross, sensual pleasures of dining and drinking; the wilder pleasureof play, and moonlight drives in the Bois; the Sabbath delights offree-and-easy rambles in rural neighbourhoods, beside the silverySeine, on the long summer days, when a luxurious idler could rise atnoon without feeling the effort too hard a trial; winding up alwayswith a dinner at[Pg 37] some rustic house of entertainment, where there wasa vine-curtained arbor that one could dine in, and where one couldsee the dinner being cooked in a kitchen with a wide window openingon yard and garden, and hear the balls clicking in the low-ceiledbilliard-room. There were winter Sundays, when it seemed scarcely worthone’s while to get up at all, till the scanty measure of daylight hadrun out, and the gas was aflame on the boulevards, and it was time tothink of where one should dine. So the Chicots spent the first twoyears of their married life, and it may be supposed that an existenceof this kind quite absorbed Madame Chicot’s salary, and that there wasno surplus to be put by for a rainy day. Had La Chicot inhabited aworld in which rain and foul weather were unknown, she could not havetroubled herself less about the possibilities of the future. She earnedher money gaily, and spent it royally; domineered over her husband onthe strength of her superb beauty; basked in the sunshine of temporaryprosperity; drank more champagne than was good for her constitution orher womanhood; grew a shade coarser every year; never opened a book orcultivated her mind in the smallest degree; scorned all the refinementsof life; looked upon picturesque scenes and rustic landscapes as afitting background for the riot and drunkenness of a Bohemian picnic,and as good for nothing else; never crossed the threshold of a church,or held out her hand in an act of charity; lived for herself and herown pleasure; and had no more conscience than the butterflies, and lesssense of duty than the birds.

If Jack Chicot had any compunction about the manner in which he andhis wife were living, and the way they spent their money, he did notgive any expression to his qualms of conscience. It may be that he wasrestrained by a false sense of delicacy, and that he considered hiswife had a right to do what she liked with her own. His own earningswere small, and intermittent—a water-colour sketch sold to thedealers, a dramatic criticism accepted by the director of a popularjournal. Money that came so irregularly went as it came.

‘Jack comes to have sold a picture!’ cried the wife; ‘that greatimpostor of mine has taken it into his head to work. Let us go and dineat the “Red Mill.” Jack shall make the cost.’

And then it was but to whistle for a couple of light open carriages,which, in this city of pleasure, stand in every street, tempting theidler to excursionize; to call together the half-dozen chosen friendsof the moment, and away to the favourite restaurant to order a privateroom and a little dinner, bien soigné, and one’s particularbrand of champagne, and then, hey for a drive in the merry green wood,while the marmitons are perspiring over their casseroles,and anon back to a noisy feast, eaten[Pg 38] in the open air, perhaps, underthe afternoon sunshine, for La Chicot has to be at her theatre beforeseven, since at eight all Bohemian Paris will be waiting, eager andopen-mouthed, to see the dancer with wild eyes and floating hair comebounding on to the stage. La Chicot was growing more and more likea Thracian Mænad as time went on. Her dancing was more audacious,her gestures more electrical. There was a kind of inspiration inthose wild movements, but it was the inspiration of a Bacchante, notthe calm grace of dryad or sea-nymph. You could fancy her whirlinground Pentheus, mixed with the savage throng of her sister Mænads,thirsting for vengeance and murder; a creature to be beheld from afarwith wondering admiration, but a being to be shunned by all lovers ofpeaceful lives and tranquil paths. Those who knew her best used tospeak pretty freely about her in the second year of her wedded life,and her third season at the Théâtre des Etudiants.

‘La Chicot begins to drink like a fish,’ said Antoine, of theorchestra, to Gilbert, who played the comic fathers. ‘I wonder whethershe beats her husband when she has had too much champagne?’

‘They lead but a cat-and-dog sort of life, I believe,’ answered thecomedian; ‘one day all sunshine, the next stormy weather. Renaud, thepainter, who has a room on the same story, tells me that it sometimeshails cups and saucers and empty champagne-bottles when the weather isstormy in the Chicot domicile. But those two are desperately fond ofeach other all the same.’

‘I should not appreciate such fondness,’ said the fiddler; ‘when Imarry it will not be for beauty. I would not have as handsome a wifeas La Chicot if I could have her for the asking. A woman of that stampis created to be the torment of her husband’s life. I find that thisJack is not the fellow he used to be before he married. C’est un garçonbémolisé par le mariage.’

When the Chicots had been man and wife for about three years—a longapprenticeship of bliss or woe—the lady’s power of attracting anaudience to the little theatre in the students’ quarter began visiblyto wane. The parterre grew thin, the students yawned or talked toeach other in loud whispers while the dancer was executing her mostbrilliant steps. Even her beauty had ceased to charm. The habitués ofthe theatre knew that beauty by heart.

‘C’est cliché comme une tartine de journal,’ said one. ‘C’est connucomme le dôme des Invalides,’ said another. ‘Cela fatigue; on commenceà se désillusionner sur La Chicot.’

La Chicot saw the decline of her star, and that lively temper of hers,which had been growing more and more impulsive during the last threeyears, took reverse of fortune in no good spirit. She used to comehome from the theatre in a diabolical humour,[Pg 39] after having danced toempty benches and a languid audience, and Jack Chicot had to pay thecost. She would quarrel with him about a straw, a nothing, on theseoccasions. She abused the students who stayed away from the theatre inroundest and strongest phraseology. She was still more angry with thosewho came and did not applaud. She upbraided Jack for his helplessness.Was there ever such a husband? He could not advance her interests inthe smallest degree. Had she married any one else—one of those littlegentlemen who wrote for the papers, for instance—she would have beenengaged at one of the boulevard theatres before now. She would be therage among the best people in Paris. She would be earning thousands.But her husband had no influence with managers or newspapers, notenough to get a puff paragraph inserted in the lowest of the littlejournals. It was desolating.

This upbraiding was not without its effect upon Jack Chicot. He wasa good-tempered fellow by nature, prone to take life easily. In alltheir quarrels it was his wife who took the leading part. When thecups and saucers and empty bottles went flying, she was the Jove whohurled those thunderbolts. Jack was too brave to strike a woman, tooproud to lower himself to the level of his wife’s degradation. Hesuffered and was silent. He had found out his mistake long ago. Thedelusion had been brief, the repentance was long. He knew that he hadbound himself to a low-born, low-bred fury. He knew that his onlychance of escaping suicide was to shut his eyes to his surroundings,and to take what pleasure he could out of a disreputable existence.His wife’s reproaches stung him into activity. He wrote half-a-dozenletters to old friends in London—men more or less connected with thepress or the theatres—asking them to get La Chicot an engagement. Inthese letters he wrote of her only as a clever woman in whose careerhe was interested; he shrank curiously from acknowledging her as hiswife. He took care to enclose cuttings from the Parisian journalsin which the dancer’s beauty and chic, talent and originality, werelauded. The result of this trouble on his part was a visit from Mr.Smolendo, the enterprising proprietor of the Prince Frederick Theatre,who had come to Paris in search of novelty, and the engagement ofMademoiselle Chicot for that place of entertainment. Mr. Smolendo hadbeen going in strongly for ballet of late. His scenery, his machinery,his lime-light and dresses were amongst the best to be seen in London.Everybody went to the Prince Frederick. It had begun its career as amusic-hall, and had only lately been licensed as a theatre. There wasa flavour of Bohemianism about the house, but it only gave a zest tothe entertainment. All the most notorious Parisian successes in the wayof spectacular drama, all the fairy extravaganzas and demon balletsand comic operettas,[Pg 40] were reproduced by Mr. Smolendo at the PrinceFrederick. He knew where to find the prettiest actresses, the bestdancers, the freshest voices. His chorus and his ballet were the mostperfect in London. In a word, Mr. Smolendo had discovered the secret ofdramatic success. He had found out that perfection always pays.

La Chicot’s beauty was startling and incontestible. There could notbe two opinions about that. Her dancing was eccentric and clever. Mr.Smolendo had seen much better dancing from more carefully-traineddancers, but what La Chicot wanted in training she made up for withdash and audacity.

‘She won’t last many seasons. She’s like one of those high-steppinghorses that knock themselves to pieces in a year or two,’ Mr. Smolendosaid to himself; ‘but she’ll take the town by storm, and she’ll drawbetter for her first three seasons than any star I’ve had since I beganmanagement.’

La Chicot was delighted at being engaged by a London manager, whooffered her a better salary than she was getting at the students’theatre. She did not like the idea of London, which she imagined a citygiven over to fog and lung disease, but she was very glad to leave thescene where she felt that her laurels were fast withering. She gave herhusband no thanks for his intervention, and went on railing at him fornot having got her an engagement on the boulevard.

‘It is to bury myself to go to your dismal London,’ she exclaimed; ‘butanything is better than to dance to an assembly of idiots and cretins.’

‘London is not half a bad place,’ answered Jack Chicot, with hislistless air, as of a man long wearied of life, and needing a stimulantas strong as aquafortis to rouse him to animation. ‘It is a big crowdin which one may lose one’s identity. Nobody knows one, one knowsnobody. A man’s sense of shame gets comfortably deadened in London. Hecan walk the streets without feeling that fingers are being pointed athim. It is all the same to the herd whether he has just come out of apenitentiary or a palace. Nobody cares.’

The Chicots crossed the Channel, and took lodgings in a street in theneighbourhood of Leicester Square, near which, as everyone knows, thePrince Frederick is situated. It was a dingy street, offering scantyattractions to the stranger, but it was a street which from the days ofGarrick and Woffington had been favoured by actors and actresses, andMr. Smolendo recommended the Chicots to seek a lodging there. He gavethem the names of three or four householders who let lodgings to ‘theprofession,’ and among these Madame Chicot made her choice.

The apartments which pleased her best were two fair-sized rooms on afirst floor, furnished with a tawdry pretentiousness which would havebeen odious to a refined eye, and which was[Pg 41] particularly offensiveto Jack’s artistic taste. The cheap velvet on the chairs, the gaudytapestry curtains, the tarnished ormolu clock and candelabra, delightedLa Chicot. It was almost Parisian, she told her husband.

The drawing-room and bedroom communicated with folding-doors. Therewas a little third room—a mere hole—with a window looking northward,which would do for Jack to paint in. That convenience reconciled Jackto the shabby finery of the sitting-room, the doubtful purity of thebedroom, the woe-begone air of the street, with its half-dozen dingyshops sprinkled among the private houses, like an eruption.

‘How it is ugly, your London!’ exclaimed La Chicot. ‘Is it that all thecity resembles this, by example?’

‘No,’ answered Jack, with his cynical air. ‘There are brighter-lookingstreets, where the respectable people live.’

‘What do you call respectable people?’

‘The people who pay income-tax on two or three thousand a year.’

Jack inquired as to the other lodgers. It was as well to find out whatkind of neighbours they were to have.

‘I am not particular,’ said Jack, in French, to his wife, ‘but I shouldnot like to find myself living cheek by jowl with a burglar.’

‘Or a spy,’ suggested Zaïre.

‘We have no spies in London. That is a profession which has never founda footing on this side of the Channel.’

The landlady was a lean-looking widow, with a false front of gingerycurls, and a cap that quivered all over with artificial flowers oncorkscrew wires. Her long nose was tinted at the extremity, and hereyes had a luminous yet glassy look, suggestive of ardent spirits.

‘I have only one lady in the parlours,’ she explained, ‘and a veryclever lady she is too, and quite the lady—Mrs. Rawber, who playsleading business at the Shakespeare. You must have heard of her. She’sa great woman.’

Mr. Chicot apologized for his ignorance. He had been living so long inParis that he knew nothing of Mrs. Rawber.

‘Ah,’ sighed the landlady, ‘you don’t know how much you’ve lost. HerLady Macbeth is as fine as Mrs. Siddons’s.’

‘Did you ever see Mrs. Siddons?’

‘No, but I’ve heard my mother talk about her. She couldn’t have beengreater in the part than Mrs. Rawber. You should go and see her somenight. She’d make your flesh creep.’

‘And a respectable old party, I suppose,’ suggested Jack Chicot.

‘As regular as clockwork. Church every Sunday morning and evening. Nohot suppers. Crust of bread and cheese and[Pg 42] glass of ale left readyon her table against she comes home—lets herself in with her key—nositting up for her. Chop and imperial pint of Guinness at two o’clock,when there ain’t no rehearsal; something plain and simple that can bekept hot on the oven top, when the rehearsal’s late. She’s a modellodger. No perquisites, but pay as regular as the Saturday comes round,and always the lady.’

‘Ah,’ said Jack, ‘that’s satisfactory. How about upstairs? I supposeyou’ve another pattern of commonplace respectability on your secondfloor?’

The landlady gave a faint cough, as if she were troubled with a suddencatching of the breath, and her eyes wandered absently to the window,where she seemed to ask counsel from the grey October sky.

‘Who are your upstairs lodgers?’ asked Jack Chicot, repeating hisinquiry with a shade of impatience.

‘Lodgers? No, sir. There’s only one gentleman on my second floor. Ihave never laid myself out for families. Children are such mischievousyoung monkeys, and always tramping up and down stairs, or endangeringtheir lives leaning out of winder, or leaving the street door open.And the damage they do the furniture! Well, nobody can understand thatexcept them as have passed through the ordeal. No, sir, for the lastsix years I haven’t had a child across my threshold.’

‘I wasn’t inquiring about children,’ said Mr. Chicot; ‘I was askingabout your upstairs lodger.’

‘He’s a single gentleman, sir.’

‘Young?’

‘No, sir; middle-aged.’

‘An actor?’

‘No, sir. He has nothing to do with the theatres.’

‘What is he?’

‘Well, sir, he is a gentleman—everyone can see that—but a gentlemanas has run through his property. I should gather from his ways that hemust have had a great deal of property, and that he’s run through mostof it. He is not quite so regular in his payments as I could wish—buthe does pay,—and he’s very little trouble, for he’s often away for aweek at a time, the rent running on all the same, of course.’

‘That would hardly matter to him if he doesn’t pay it,’ said Chicot.

‘Oh, but he does pay, sir. He’s dilatory, but I get my money. A poorwidow like me couldn’t afford to lose by the best of lodgers.’

‘What is the gentleman’s name?’

‘Mr. Desrolles.’

‘That sounds like a foreign name.’

[Pg 43]

‘It may, sir, but the gentleman’s English. I haven’t in a general waylaid myself out for foreigners,’ said the landlady, with a glance at LaChicot, ‘though this is rather a foreign neighbourhood.’

The lodgings were taken, and Jack Chicot and his wife began a newphase of existence in London. The life lacked much that had made theirlife in Paris tolerable—the careless gaiety, the brighter skies,the Bohemian pleasures of the French city—and Jack Chicot felt asif a dense black curtain had been drawn across his youth and allits delusions, leaving him outside in a cold, commonplace world, aworn-out, disappointed man, old before his time.

He missed the gay, happy-go-lucky comrades who had helped him to forgethis troubles. He missed the drives in the leafy wood, the excursionsto suburban dining-houses, the riotous suppers after midnight, all themerry dissipations of his Parisian life. London pleasures were dull andheavy. London suppers meant no more than eating and drinking too manyoysters and too much wine.

Mr. Smolendo’s expectations were fully realised. La Chicot made a hitat the Prince Frederick. Those flaming posters under every railwayarch and on every hoarding in London were not in vain. The theatre wascrowded nightly, and La Chicot was applauded to the echo. She breathedanew the intoxicating breath of success, and she grew daily moreinsolent and more reckless, spent more money, drank more champagne,and was more eager for pleasure, flattery, and fine dress. The husbandlooked on with a gloomy face. They were no longer the adoring youngcouple who had walked away arm-in-arm from the Mairie, smiling andhappy, to share their wedding dinner with the chosen companions of themoment. The wife was now only affectionate by fits and starts, thehusband had a settled air of despondency which nothing but wine couldbanish, and which, like the seven other spirits, returned with greaterpower after a temporary banishment. The wife loved the husband justwell enough to be desperately jealous of his least civility to anotherwoman. The husband had long ceased to be jealous, except of his ownhonour.

Among the frequenters of the Prince Frederick there was one who atthis time was to be seen there almost nightly. He was a man of aboutfive-and-twenty, tall, broad-shouldered, with strongly-marked featuresand the eye of a hawk; a man whose clothes were well worn, and whosewhole appearance was slovenly, yet who looked like a gentleman;evidently uncared for, possibly destitute, but however low he mighthave sunk, a gentleman still.

He was a medical student, and one of the hardest workers[Pg 44] at St.Thomas’s—a man who had chosen his profession because he loved it, andwhose love increased with his labour. Those who knew most about himsaid that he was a man destined to make his mark upon the age in whichhe lived. But he was not a man to achieve rapid success, to distinguishhimself by a happy accident. He went slowly to work, sounded the bottomof every well, took up every subject as resolutely as if it were theone subject he had chosen for his especial study, flung himself intoevery scientific question with the feverish ardour of a lover, yetworked with the steadiness and self-denial of a Greek athlete. For allthe vulgar pleasures of life, for wine or play, for horse-racing, orriot of any kind, this young surgeon cared not a jot. He was so littlea haunter of theatres, that those of his fellow-students who recognisedhim night after night at the Prince Frederick were surprised at hisfrequent presence in such a place.

‘What has come to Gerard?’ cried Joe Latimer, of Guy’s, to Harry Brown,of St. Thomas’s. ‘I thought he despised ballet-dancing. Yet this is thethird time I have seen him looking on at this rot, with his attentionas fixed as if he were watching Paget using the knife?’

‘Can’t you guess what it all means?’ exclaimed Brown. ‘Gerard is inlove.’

‘In love!’

‘Yes, over head and ears in love with La Chicot—never saw sucha well-marked case—all the symptoms beautifully developed—sitsin the front row of the pit and gazes the whole time she is onthe stage—never takes his eyes off her—raves about her to ourfellows—the loveliest woman that ever lived since the unknown youngperson who served as a model for the Venus that was dug up in a cave inthe island of Milo. Fancy having known that young woman, and put yourarm round her waist! Somebody did, I dare say. Yes, George Gerard isgone—annihilated. It’s too pathetic.’

‘And Mademoiselle Chicot is a married woman, I hear?’ said Latimer.

‘Very much married. The husband is always in attendance upon her. Waitsfor her at the stage door every night, or stands at the wing while shedances. La Chicot is a most correct person, though she hardly looks it.Ah! here comes Gerard. Well, old fellow, has the disease reached itscrisis?’

‘What disease?’ asked Gerard, curtly.

‘The fever called love.’

‘Do you suppose I’m in love with the new dancer, because I drop in herepretty often to look at her?’

‘I don’t see any other motive for your presence here. You’re not aplay-going man.’

[Pg 45]

‘I come to see La Chicot simply because she is quite the most beautifulwoman in face and form that I ever remember seeing. I come as a paintermight to look at the perfection of human loveliness, or as an anatomistto contemplate the completeness of God’s work, a creature turned out ofthe divine workshop without a flaw.’

‘Did you ever hear such a fellow?’ cried Latimer. ‘He comes to look ata ballet-dancer, and talks about it as if it were a kind of religion.’

‘The worship of the beautiful is the religion of art,’ answered Gerard,gravely. ‘I respect La Chicot as much as I admire her. I have not anunworthy thought about her.’

Latimer touched his forehead lightly with two fingers, and looked athis friend Brown.

‘Gone!’ said Latimer.

‘Very far gone!’ replied Brown.

‘Come and try the Dutch oysters, Gerard, and let us make a night ofit,’ said Latimer persuasively.

‘Thanks, no. I must go home to my den and read.’

And so they parted, the idlers to their pleasure, the ploddingstudent—the man who loved work for its own sake—to his books.

CHAPTER V.

A DISAPPOINTED LOVER.

Laura Malcolm remained at the Manor-house. Mr. Clare, the vicar, hadpersuaded her to relinquish her idea of going into lodgings in thevillage. It would be a pity to abandon the good old house, he argued. Ahouse left to the care of servants must always suffer some decay; andthis house was full of art treasures, objects of interest and of pricewhich hitherto had been in Laura’s charge. Why should she not stay inthe home of her girlhood till it was decided whether she was to rulethere as mistress, or to abandon it for ever?

‘Your remaining here will not compromise your freedom of choice,’ saidMr. Clare kindly, ‘if you find before the end of the year that youcannot make up your mind to accept John Treverton as a husband.’

‘He may not ask me,’ interjected Laura, with a curious smile.

‘Oh yes, he will. He will come to you in good time to offer you hisheart and hand, you may be sure, my dear. It cannot be a difficultthing for any young man to fall in love with such a girl as you, andit seems to me that this John Treverton is very worthy of any woman’sregard. I see no reason why your marriage[Pg 46] should not be a love matchon both sides, in spite of my old friend’s eccentric will.’

‘I’m afraid that can never be,’ answered Laura, with a sigh. ‘Mr.Treverton will never be able to think of me as he might of any otherwoman. I must always seem to him an obstacle to his freedom and hishappiness. He is constrained to assume an affection for me, or tosurrender a splendid fortune. If he is mercenary he will not hesitate.He will take the fortune and me, and I shall despise him for hisreadiness to accept a wife chosen for him by another. No, dear Mr.Clare, there is no possibility of happiness for John Treverton and me.’

‘My dear child, if you are convinced that you cannot be happy in thismarriage, you are free on your part to refuse him,’ said the vicar.

Laura’s pale cheek crimsoned.

‘That would be to doom him to poverty, and to frustrate his cousin’swish,’ she answered, falteringly. ‘I should hate myself if I could beso selfish as to do that.’

‘Then, my dear girl, you must resign yourself to the alternative:and if John Treverton and you are not as passionately in love as theyoung people who defy their parents and run away to Gretna Green tobe married—or did when I was a young man—you may at least enjoy asober kind of happiness, and get on as well together as the princes andprincesses whose marriages are arranged by cabinet councils and foreignpowers.’

‘Do you know anything about Mr. Treverton?’ asked Laura, thoughtfully.

‘Very little. He is an only son—an only child, I believe. His fatherand mother died while he was a boy, and he became a ward in Chancery.He had a nice little property when he came of age, and ran throughit nicely, after the manner of idle young men without friends toadvise and guide them. He began his career in the army, but sold outafter he had spent his money. I have no idea what he has been doingsince—living by his wits, I’m afraid.’

So it was settled that Laura was to remain at the Manor-house, withso many of the old servants as would suffice to keep things in goodorder—the servants to be paid and fed at the expense of the estate,Laura to maintain herself out of her own modest income. She was a younglady of particularly independent temper, and upon this point she wasresolute.

‘The money is nobody’s money at present,’ she said. ‘I will not touch apenny of it.’

Sad as were the associations of the house, dreary as was the blank leftin the familiar rooms by the absence of one revered figure, dismal aswas the silence which that voice could never break again, Laura wasbetter pleased to stay in her old home[Pg 47] than she would have been toleave it. Even the mute, lifeless things among which she had lived solong had some part of her love, some hold upon her heart. She wouldhave felt herself a waif and stray in a stranger’s house. Here she feltalways at home. If the rooms were haunted by the shadow of the dead,the ghost was a friendly one, and looked upon her with loving eyes. Shehad never thwarted, or neglected, or wronged her adopted father. Therewas no remorse mingled with her grief. She thought of him with deepestsadness, but without pain.

The vicar was anxious that Miss Malcolm should have a companion. Therewere plenty of homeless young women—women of spotless reputation andgenteel connections—who would no doubt have been delighted to beher unsalaried companion, for the sake of a pleasant home. But Lauradeclared that she wanted no companion.

‘You must think me very empty-minded if you suppose I cannot enduremy life without a young woman of the same age to sit opposite me andanswer to all my idle fancies like an echo, or to walk out with me andhelp me admire the landscape, or to advise me what I should order fordinner,’ she said. ‘No, dear Mr. Clare, I want no companion, exceptCelia now and then. You will let her come and see me very often, won’tyou?’

‘As often as you like, or as often as she can be spared from her parishwork,’ answered the vicar.

‘Ah, you are all such hard workers at the Vicarage,’ exclaimed Laura.

‘Some of us work hard enough, I believe,’ answered Mr. Clare, with asigh. ‘I wish my son could make up his mind to work a little harder.’

‘That will come in good time.’

‘I hope so, but I am almost tired of waiting for that good time.’

‘He is clever and artistic,’ said Laura.

‘His cleverness allowed him to leave the University without a degree,and his artistic faculties will never help him to a living,’ answeredthe vicar, bitterly.

This only son of the vicar’s was a thorn in his side. Edward Clare waseverybody’s favourite, and nobody’s enemy but his own. That was whatthe village said of him. He was good-looking, clever, agreeable, but hehad no ballast. He was a feather to be blown by every puff of wind. Hehad never been able to discover the work which he had been sent intothe world to do, but he had speedily found out the work for which hewas not adapted. At the University he discovered that the curriculum ofan English classical education was not fitted to the peculiar cast ofhis mind. How much better he could have done at Heidelberg or Bonn! Butwhen he made this discovery he[Pg 48] had wasted three years at Oxford, andhad cost his father something very close to a thousand pounds.

The vicar wanted his only son to go into the Church, and Edward hadbeen educated with that view, but after failing to get his degree,Edward found out that he had a conscientious repugnance to the Church.His opinions were too broad.

‘A man who admires Ernest Renan as warmly as I do has no right to be aparson,’ said Edward, with agreeable frankness; so poor Mr. Clare hadto submit to the disappointment of his most cherished hopes, becausehis son admired Renan.

After having made up his mind upon this point Edward stayed at home,read a good deal in a desultory way, wrote a little, sketched a littlein fine weather, fished, shot, and dawdled away life in the pleasantestmanner, finding his days never so sweet as when they were spent at theManor-house.

Jasper Treverton had warmly esteemed the vicar, and he had liked theson for the father’s sake. Edward had always been welcome at theManor-house while the old man lived, and as Edward’s sister was LauraMalcolm’s chosen friend, it was natural that the Oxonian should be veryoften in Laura’s society.

But now his visits to the good old house where he had felt himself socompletely at home, the library in which he had read, the garden inwhose formal walks he had delighted to smoke, were suddenly restricted.Miss Malcolm had given him to understand, through his sister, that sheconsidered herself no longer at liberty to receive him. Her friendshipfor him was in no wise lessened, but it would not do for him to drop inat all hours, or to spend half his afternoons in the library, as in thedays that were gone.

‘I don’t see why there should be such restrictions among old friends,’said Edward, with an injured air. ‘Laura and I are like sister andbrother.’

‘Very likely, Ned, but then, you see, everybody knows you and Laura arenot brother and sister, and I think there are a good many people inHazlehurst who think that you feel something a good deal stronger thanbrotherly regard for her. If she and I were drowning, I know which ofus you would try to save.’

‘You can swim,’ growled Edward, remembering Talleyrand’s famousanswer. ‘Well, I suppose I must submit to fate. Miss Malcolm no doubtconsiders herself engaged to the mysterious heir, who does not seemin any hurry to begin his courtship. If old Treverton had bequeathedsuch a chance to me I should have seized upon my opportunity without aninstant’s hesitation.’

‘I admire the delicacy which prompts Mr. Treverton to keep in thebackground just at first,’ said Celia.

[Pg 49]

‘How do you know that it is delicacy which restrains him,’ exclaimedEdward. ‘How do you know that it is not some entanglement—somedegrading connection, perhaps—or at any rate a previous engagement ofsome kind which ties his hands, and hinders his advancement with Laura?No man, unless so constrained, would be besotted enough to neglect suchan opportunity, or to hazard his chances of success. If he offendsLaura, she is just the kind of girl to refuse him, fortune and all.’

‘I don’t think she would do that, except upon very serious grounds,’said Celia. ‘Laura has a strong sense of duty, and she believes it herduty to her adopted father to assist in carrying out his wishes. Ibelieve she would sacrifice her own inclination to that duty.’

‘That’s going far,’ said Edward, discontentedly. ‘I begin to think thatshe has fallen in love with this fellow, meteoric as was his appearancehere.’

‘He stayed nearly a fortnight,’ remarked Celia, ‘and Laura saw himseveral times. I don’t mean to say that she is in love with him. Shehas too much common sense to fall in love in that rapid way—but I amsure she does not dislike him.’

‘Oh, when love begins common sense ends. I dare say she is in love withhim. Hasn’t she told you as much now, Celia? Girls like to talk aboutsuch things.’

‘What do you know about girls?’

‘Oh, nothing. I’ve got a sister who is one of the breed; a model alwaysat hand to draw from. Come, now, Celia, be sisterly for once in yourlife. What has Laura told you about John Treverton?’

‘Nothing. She is particularly reserved upon the subject. I know that itis a painful one for her, and I rarely approach it.’

‘Well, he is a lucky dog. I never hated a fellow so much. I have aninstinctive idea that he is a scoundrel.’

‘Are not instinctive ideas convictions that jump with our owninclinations?’ speculated Celia, philosophically. ‘I am heartily sorryfor you, Ned dear, for I know you are fond of Laura, and it does seemhard to have her willed away from you like this. But seriously now,would you be pleased to marry her with no better portion than her ownlittle income?’

‘Six thousand in Consols,’ said Edward, meditatively. ‘That would notgo very far with a young man and woman of refined tastes. We mightlove each other ever so dearly, and be ever so happy together, butI’m afraid we should starve, Celia, and that our children’s onlyinheritance would be their legal claim on their own parish. I thoughtthat wicked old man would leave her handsomely provided for.’

‘You had no right to think that, knowing that he had pledged himself toleave her nothing.’

[Pg 50]

‘Oh, there would always have been a way of evading that. I call hiswill absolutely shameful—to force a high-spirited girl to take ahusband of his choosing—a fellow whom he had never seen when he madethe stipulation.’

‘He took care to see young Mr. Treverton before he died. I dare say ifhe had not been favourably impressed he would have altered his will atthe last moment.’

This conversation took place nearly four months after JasperTreverton’s death. The hedgerows were growing green; the birds hadeaten the last of the crocuses; the violets were all in bloom inthe shrubbery borders, the grass grew fast enough to require weeklyshearing, and the Manor-house garden was a pleasant place to walk in,full of budding trees and opening blossoms, and the songs of birds,telling each other rapturously that spring had come in earnest, andthat winter days and a stony-hearted, frost-bound earth were things ofthe past.

Edward Clare believed himself the most ill-used of young men. He wasgood-looking—nay, according to the general judgment of his particularcircle, remarkably handsome; he was cleverer and more accomplished thanmost young men of his age and standing. If he had done nothing as yetto distinguish himself it was not for lack of talent, he told himselfcomplacently. It was only because he had never yet put his shoulder tothe wheel. He did not consider that duty strongly called upon every manto do his uttermost part in the labour of moving that mighty wheel. Aclever young man, like himself, might stand on one side and watch otherfellows toiling at the job, knowing that he could do it ever so muchbetter if he only cared to try.

Four years ago, when he first went to Oxford, he had made up his mindthat he was to be Laura Malcolm’s husband. Of course Jasper Trevertonwould leave her a handsome fortune, most likely his entire estate.There must be a dozen ways of evading that ridiculous oath. The old manmight make over his property to Laura by deed of gift. He might leaveit to trustees for her use and benefit. In some manner or other shewould be his heiress. Edward felt very sure of that, seeing as he didJasper’s deep love of his adopted daughter. So when he found himselffalling in love with Laura’s sweet face and winning ways, the youngOxonian made no struggle against Cupid, the mighty conqueror. To fallin love with Laura was the high road to fortune, infinitely better thanChurch or Bar. But he was in no hurry to declare himself—he was not animpulsive young man; slow and cautious rather. To make Laura an offerand be rejected would mean banishment from her society. He thought sheliked him, but he wanted to be very sure as to the strength of herfeelings before he declared himself her lover. His position as herfriend was too advantageous to be lightly hazarded.

LA CHICOT HAS HER OWN WAY.

Slowly, reluctantly, Winter crawled away to his hidden lair, and maderoom for a chilly, uncomfortable spring. It had been the longest,dullest winter that Jack Chicot had ever lived through. He did notwonder that the Continental idea associated London fog and suicidein a natural sequence. Never had he felt himself so inclined toself-destruction as in the foggy December afternoons, the bleak Januarytwilights, when he paced the dull grey streets under the dull grey sky,smoking his solitary cigar, and thinking what a dismal ruin he had madeof himself and his life; he who had entered upon the bustling sceneof manhood ten years ago, with such bright hopes, such an honourableambition, such an arrogant confidence in the future as the bringer ofall good things.

Now where was he? What was he? The husband of La Chicot, a being inhimself so worthless, so aimless and obscure that no one ever tookthe trouble to inquire his real name. His wife’s name—the name madenotorious by a ballet-dancer, the goddess of medical students andlawyers’ clerks—was good enough for him. In himself and by himself hewas nothing. He was only the husband of La Chicot, a woman who dranklike a fish and swore like a trooper.

It was a sorry pass for a man to have come to in whom the sense ofshame was not utterly dead. Perhaps it was something to be rememberedin Jack Chicot’s favour that at this time of his life, when despairhad fastened its claw upon his aching heart, when love and liking hadgiven place to a mute and secret abhorrence, he was not cruel or harshto his wife. He never said hard or bitter things to her: so long as hehad any lingering belief in her capability of amendment he remonstratedwith her on the folly of her ways, always temperately, often with muchkindness: and when he saw that reform was hopeless he held his peaceand did not upbraid her.

She had never done him that kind of wrong which honour forbids ahusband to forgive. So far she had been true to him, and loved him,in her maudlin way, flying at him like a fury when she was betwixtsobriety and intoxication, calling him her angel, or her cat, or hercabbage, with imbecile tenderness, when she was comfortably tipsy. Hewho had quarrelled with her a good deal before he began to hate her,could now endure her utmost violence and keep calm. He dared not givethe reins to passion. It might carry him—he knew not whither. He feltlike a man standing on the edge of a black gulf, blindfolded, yetknowing that the pit was there. One false step might be fatal. He had[Pg 52]been luckier in this gloomy London than in his much-regretted Paris,so far as the exercise of his own small talents went. He had obtaineda regular engagement as draughtsman on one of the comic journals, andhis caricatures, pencilled on a wood block while his heart ached withmisery and his head burned with fever, amused the idle youth of Londonwith reminiscences of Cham and Gavarni. By the use of his pencil hecontrived to earn something like two pounds a week, more than enoughfor his own wants; so La Chicot could spend every sixpence of hersalary on herself, an arrangement which suited her temper admirably.She had a bottle of champagne in her dressing-room every night, andfinished it before she went on for her great pas. So long as sheabstained from brandy this meant sobriety. She was a woman of limitedideas, and as in San Francisco champagne is ‘wine’ par excellence,no meaner liquor being deemed worthy of the noble name, so, with LaChicot, champagne was the only wine worth drinking. When she felt thatit* sustaining power was insufficient she fortified it with brandy, andthen La Chicot was a creature to be shunned.

Winter lingered late that year. Though the green banks of everycountry lane and every hollow of the leafless woodland were starredwith primroses and spangled with dog-violets, wintry winds were stillwracking the forest trees, and whistling shrill among the Londonchimney-pots.

March had come in like a lion, and continued to roar and bluster inleonine fashion to the very verge of April. A dry, dusty, bitter March,dealing largely in death and shipwreck. A villainous March, bettercalculated to inspire thoughts of suicide than even the fogs andcreeping mists of November.

But even this miserable March came to an end at last. The Londonseason had begun. La Chicot was attracting not only medical studentsand lawyers’ clerks, the Stock Exchange and the War Office, but thefine flower of the aristocracy—the topmost strawberries in thebasket—the Brobdingnagian Guardsmen, whose gloves were numbered nineand a half at the little hosier’s in Piccadilly, the dainty foplingswho wore a lady’s six and three-quarters with four buttons, and whowere beings of so frail and effeminate a type that a whisper throughthe telephone might blow them to the utmost ends of the earth. Theseopposite species, the athletics and the æsthetics, the hammer throwers,bicycle riders, boating men, hunting men, and pugilists, and the chinacollectors, art lunatics, and tame-cat section of society, met andmingled in the stalls at the Prince Frederick, and resembled each otherin nothing except their appreciation of La Chicot.

Mr. Smolendo produced a new ballet early in April, a ballet which wasas ridiculous and generally imbecile in plot and purpose as most ofits kind, but which for scenery, dresses, and effects[Pg 53] was supposedto surpass anything that had ever been accomplished at his theatre.Everything in this ballet tended to the glorification of La Chicot. Shewas the central figure, the cynosure: every crest was lowered to giveprominence to hers, principal dancers were her handmaidens, a hundredballet-girls prostrated themselves before her throne, a hundred andfifty auxiliaries, specially engaged for this great spectacle, lickedthe dust beneath her feet. The final tableau, which was to cost Mr.Smolendo more money than he could calculate, was an apotheosis of LaChicot, a beautiful, bold, half-tipsy peasant, going to heaven on atelescopic arrangement of iron. It was a wonderful sight. The athleticscalled it ‘no end of jolly.’ The æsthetics described it as ‘unspeakablytouching.’

This final tableau was supposed to represent the coral caves of theIndian Ocean. La Chicot was a mermaid who lured mariners to their doombeneath the wave. She lived in a jewelled cavern, a hall sparkling andshining with sapphires and emeralds and lapis-lazuli, all flooded withrainbow light, where she and her sister mermaidens, golden, glittering,and scaly, danced perpetually. Then came the end, and she floatedupward through an ocean of blue gauze, in a moving frame of rosiestcoral.

The ironwork upon which she mounted was a somewhat complicated pieceof machinery, a telescope in three parts, requiring nice adjustmenton the part of the stage carpenter. It was perfectly safe if properlyworked; but a hitch, the slightest carelessness in the working, wouldbe perilous, and might be fatal.

‘I don’t like that business by any means,’ said Jack Chicot, when hesaw his wife ascending to the sky borders, in the dust and gloom ofrehearsal, clad in her practising petticoats, and with a lace-borderedhandkerchief tied under her chin, like a coquettish nightcap. ‘It looksdangerous. Can’t you dispense with it, Smolendo?’

‘Impossible; it’s the great feature of the scene. Perfectly safe, Iassure you. Roberts is the best carpenter in London.’

Mr. Smolendo’s people were always the best. He had a knack of gettingfirst-rate talent in every line, from his prima donna to his gasman.

‘He seems clever, but rather a queer-tempered man, I hear.’

‘Talent is always queer-tempered,’ answered Smolendo, lightly.‘Amiability is the redeeming virtue of fools.’

Mr. Chicot was not convinced. He took his wife aside presently in agrove of dingy wings and side pieces, and entreated her to refuse thatascent in the coral bower.

‘Pas si bête,’ she answered, curtly. ‘I know what suits me. Ishall look lovely in that coral frame with my hair down. You needn’tbe frightened, my friend. Pas de danger. Or, if I should bekilled—come, I don’t think that would break[Pg 54] your heart. It’s a longtime since you’ve left off caring for me as much as that.’

She snapped her fingers under his nose, with one of those littleaudacious movements of hers which were infinitely fascinating—tostrangers. Jack Chicot shuddered visibly. Yes, it was horribly true.Her death would be his release from bondage. Her death? Would he knowhimself, believe in his own identity, if she were gone, and he was freeto walk the world again, his own master, with hopes and ambitions ofhis own, bearing his own name, not ashamed to look mankind in the face,no longer known as the husband of La Chicot?

He persuaded her earnestly to have nothing to do with the ironwork thathad been made to bear her to the theatrical skies. Why should she runsuch a risk? Any ballet-girl would do as well, he argued.

‘Yes, and the ballet-girl would show off her good looks, and get allthe applause. I am not such a fool as to give her the chance. Don’twaste your breath in talking about it, Jack. I mean to do it.’

‘Of course,’ he said bitterly. ‘When did you ever renounce a caprice toplease me?’

‘Perhaps never. I am a creature of caprices. It was a caprice that mademe marry you, a caprice that made you marry me, and now we are bothhonestly tired. That’s a pity, isn’t it?’

‘I try to do my duty to you, my dear,’ he answered gravely, with a sigh.

La Chicot had her own way, naturally, being one of those women who,once having taken their bent, are no more to be diverted than amountain torrent which the rains have swollen. The new ballet was asuccess; the final tableau was a triumph for La Chicot. She lookedlovely, in an attitude more perfect than anything that was ever donein marble—her round white arms lifted above her head, flinging backthe loose branches of coral, her black hair covering her like a mantle.That long rich hair was one of her chief beauties—something to beremembered where all was beautiful.

The machinery worked splendidly. Jack was at the wings the first night,anxious and watchful. A fragment of conversation which he heard justbehind him while the coral bower was rising, did not tend to reassurehim.

‘It’s all very well to-night,’ said one of the scene-shifters to hismate, ‘they’re both sober; but when she’s drunk, and he’s drunk, Godhelp her.’

Jack went to Mr. Smolendo directly the curtain was down.

‘Well,’ cried the manager, radiant, ‘a screaming success. There’s moneyin it. I shall run this three hundred nights.’

[Pg 55]

‘I don’t like that ascent of my wife’s. I hear that the man who worksthe machinery is a drunkard.’

‘My dear fellow, these men all drink,’ answered Smolendo, cheerfully.‘But Roberts is a treasure. He’s always sober in business.’

Again Jack tried the effect of remonstrance with his wife, just asvainly as before.

‘If you weren’t a fool you would make Smolendo give me an extra fivepounds a week on account of the danger, instead of worrying me aboutit,’ she said.

‘I am not going to make the safety of your life a question of money,’he answered; and after this there was no more said between them on thesubject of the coral bower, but that speech of the scene-shifter’shaunted Jack Chicot.

‘When she is drunk.’ The memory of that speech was bitter. Though hiswife’s habits had long been patent to him, it was not the less gallingto think that everyone—the lowest servant in the theatre even—knewher vices.

Towards the end of April, Chicot and his wife had a serious quarrel.It arose out of a packet which had been left at the stage door for thedancer—a packet containing a gold bracelet, in a morocco case, bearingthe name of one of the most fashionable and expensive jewellers at theWest End. There was nothing to show whence the offering came; but on anarrow strip of paper, nestling under the massive gold band, there wasscrawled in a mean little, foreign-looking hand:—

‘Homage to genius.’

La Chicot carried the gift home in triumph and exhibited it to herhusband, clasped upon her round white arm, a solid belt of gold, flat,wide, and thick, like a fetter, severely simple, an ornament for thearm of a Greek dancing-girl.

‘You will send it back, of course,’ said Jack, frowning at the thing.

‘But, my friend, where should I send it?’

‘To the jeweller. He must know his customer.’

‘I am not so stupid. There can be no harm in accepting an anonymousgift. I shall keep it, of course.’

‘I did not think you had fallen so low.’

Upon this La Chicot retorted insolently, and there were very hard wordsspoken on both sides. The lady kept the bracelet, and the gentlemanwent next day to the jeweller who had supplied it, and tried todiscover the name of the purchaser.

The jeweller was studiously polite, but he had no memory. Jack Chicotminutely described the bracelet, but the jeweller assured him that hesold a dozen such in a week.

‘I think you must be mistaken,’ said Chicot; ‘this is a bracelet[Pg 56] ofvery uncommon form. I never saw one like it,’ and then he repeated hisdescription.

The jeweller shook his head with a gentle smile.

‘The style is new,’ he said, ‘but I assure you we have sold severalexactly corresponding to your description. It would be quite impossibleto recall——’

‘I see,’ said Chicot; ‘you would not like to disoblige a good customer.I dare say you know what the bracelet was meant for. Such shops asyours could hardly thrive unless they were indulgent to the vices oftheir patrons.’

And after launching that shaft Mr. Chicot left the shop.

He returned to his lodgings to pack a small portmanteau, and then wentoff to take his own pleasure. What need had such a wife as his of ahusband’s care? She would not accept his advice, or be ruled by him.She had chosen her road in life, and would follow it to the fatal end.Of what avail was his weak arm to bar the path? To this daughter ofthe people, with her deadened conscience and indomitable will, thatinterposing arm was no more than a straw in her way.

‘Henceforth I have done with her,’ he said to himself. ‘The law coulddesire no stronger divorce between us than this which she has made. Andif she does me wrong the law shall part us. I will have no mercy.’

While he was packing his portmanteau an idea flashed into his mind. Itwas a horrible notion, and his cheek paled at the first aspect of it,but he took it to his heart nevertheless.

He was going away, for an indefinite time, perhaps. He would set awatch upon his wife. Her audacity, her insolence, had aroused thedarkest suspicions. A woman who thus openly defied him must be capableof anything.

‘Whom can I trust?’ he asked himself, pausing in his preparations, onhis knees before the open portmanteau. ‘The landlady, Mrs. Evitt? No,she is sly enough, but she has too long a tongue. A glass of grog wouldloosen that tongue of hers at any time, and she would betray me to mywife. It must be a man. Desrolles. Yes, the very man. He has all thequalities of the trade.’

Chicot locked his portmanteau, strapped it, and carried it out on tothe landing. Then he ran up to the second floor, and knocked at thedoor of the front room.

‘Come in,’ said a languid voice, and Jack Chicot went in.

The room smelt of brandy and stale cigars. It was shabbier and tawdrierthan the sitting-room on the first floor—a sordid copy of that sordidoriginal. There was the same attempt at finery, tarnished ormolu, gaudychintz curtains and chair-covers, where roses and lilies were almosteffaced by dirt. The cheap tapestry carpet was threadbare, a desertof arid canvas, with here[Pg 57] and there an oasis of faded colour, whichhinted at the former richness of the soil. The windows were cloudedwith London grime and London smoke, and lent an additional gloom to thechilly sky and the dingy street upon which they looked. The crackedand bulging ceiling was brown with the smoke of ages. Dirt was thepervading impression which the room left upon the stranger’s mind.

On a rickety old sofa lay the present proprietor of the apartment,dozing gently at noontide, with the Daily Telegraph slippingfrom his loosened grasp. The remains of a bachelor breakfast, ahalf-empty eggshell, a fragment of toast, and a cracked coffee-cup,indicated that he had but lately taken his morning meal.

He lifted himself lazily from the crumpled pillow, and confronted hisvisitor with a prolonged and audible yawn.

‘Dear boy!’ he exclaimed, ‘what an untimely hour! What has happenedthat you are astir so early?’

He was not a common-looking man. He was tall, broad, and deep ofchest, with lean, muscular arms, an aquiline nose, large and somewhatprominent eyes, bloodshot and tarnished by long years of evilexperience, thin iron-gray hair, worn unduly long to conceal itsscantiness, a complexion of a dull leaden hue, stained with patchesof bistre—the complexion of a man to whom fresh air was an unusualluxury—thin lips, a high, narrow forehead. He wore a threadbare frockcoat, closely buttoned, a frayed black satin stock, gray trousers,tightly strapped over well-worn boots, boots that had begun theircareer as dress boots.

Despite the shabbiness of his attire the man looked every inch agentleman. That he was a gentleman who had fallen about as low asgentle breeding can fall, outside the Old Bailey, there was no doubt.Vice had set its mark upon him so deeply that the brand of crime itselfcould scarcely have done more to separate him from respectability.A man must have been very young indeed, and utterly unlearned inthe experience of life, who would have trusted Mr. Desrolles in anyvirtuous enterprise. But Jack Chicot showed himself by no meanswanting in penetration when he pitched upon Mr. Desrolles as a likelyinstrument for doing dirty work. He was the material of which theFrench mouchard is made.

‘I’ve been worried, Desrolles,’ answered Jack, dropping wearily into achair.

‘My dear fellow, the normal condition of life is worry,’ repliedDesrolles, languidly. ‘The wisest of Jews knew all about it. Man wasborn to trouble as the sparks fly upward. The most that philosophy cansuggest is to take trouble easily, as I do. All the Juggernaut cars oflife have gone over me, but I am not crushed.’

[Pg 58]

The tone was at once friendly and familiar. Jack Chicot and thesecond-floor lodger had become acquainted very soon after the Chicots’advent in Cibber Street. They met each other on the stairs, firstsmiled, then nodded, then loitered to discuss and generally toanathematise the weather, then went a little further, and talked aboutthe events of the day—the shocking murder recorded in the morningpaper—the fire down Millwall way—the chances of war, or disturbancesin the political atmosphere. By-and-by Jack Chicot asked Desrolles intohis room, and they played a hand or two at écarté—first-rate playersboth—for three-penny points. Soon the écarté became an institution,and they played two or three times a week, while La Chicot was standingon the tips of her satin-shod toes, and enchanting the gilded youth ofthe capital. Jack found his acquaintance a man of infinite resourcesand wide experience. He had begun life in a good social position,had—according to his own account—distinguished himself as a soldierunder such men as Gough and Hardinge; and had descended slowly, stepby step, to be the thing he was. That gradual descent had carried himthrough scenes so strange and varied that his experiences of all thatis oddest and worst in life would have made a book as big as ‘LesMisérables.’ And the creature knew how to talk. He never told the samestory twice. Jack sometimes fancied this must be because he inventedhis stories upon the spot, and forgot them immediately afterwards.The man was no pretender to virtues which he did not possess, butrather advertised his vices. The only redeeming qualities he affectedwere a recklessness in money matters, which he appeared to considergenerosity, and a rough-and-ready notion of honour, such as is supposedto obtain among thieves. Jack tolerated, despised, and allowed himselfto be amused by the man. If he had been a king he would have likedsuch a fellow to lounge beside his throne, dressed in motley, flingingRabelaisian witticisms in the smug faces of the courtiers.

‘What’s the particular trouble to-day, Jack?’ asked Desrolles,selecting a meerschaum from the litter on the mantelpiece, and lazilyfilling the blackened bowl. ‘Financial, I conclude.’

‘No. I am anxious about my wife.’

‘The natural penalty for marrying the handsomest woman in Paris. What’sthe mischief you’re afraid of?’

‘She has received a present from an anonymous admirer; and because itis anonymous, she imagines she is justified in receiving it.’

‘Where’s the harm?’

‘You ought to see it. The anonymous gift is the thin end of the wedge.The giver will see my wife dancing with his bracelet on her arm, andwill believe her as venal as the girl who sold Rome for the same kindof gewgaw. He will follow up his first[Pg 59] offering with a second, andthen will come letters, anonymous at first, perhaps, like the bracelet,but when by insidious flattery he has smoothed the way to dishonour, hewill declare himself—and then——’

‘Unless your wife is a better woman than you believe her, there will bedanger. Is that what you mean?’ asked Desrolles calmly, slowly puffingat his meerschaum.

‘No,’ said Chicot, reddening indignantly. He had not fallen low enoughto hear his wife maligned, though he hated her. ‘No. If my wife were awoman to be led away by temptation of that kind, she and I would haveparted long ago. But I don’t want to leave her exposed to the pursuitof a scoundrel. She and I have quarrelled about this trumpery bracelet,and I am going to leave her for a few days, till we are both in abetter temper. I don’t want to leave her unprotected, with some silkyrascal lying in wait for her between her lodgings and the theatre. Iwant some one, a man I can trust——’

‘To keep an eye upon her while you’re away,’ said Desrolles. ‘My dearfellow, consider it done. Madame Chicot and I are excellent friends.I admire her; and I think she likes me. I will be her slave and herguardian in your absence; a father, with more than a father’s devotion.’

‘She must not know,’ exclaimed Jack.

‘Of course not. Women are children of a larger growth, and must betreated as such. The pills we give them must be coated with sugar, thepowders concealed in raspberry jam. I will make myself so agreeable toMadame Chicot that she will be delighted to accept my escort to andfrom the theatre; but I will keep her anonymous admirer at a distanceas thoroughly as the fiercest dragon that ever kept watch over beauty.’

‘A thousand thanks, Desrolles. You won’t find me ungrateful. Good-bye.’

‘Are you going across the Channel?’

Mr. Chicot did not say where he was going, and Desrolles was toodiscreet to push the question. He was a man who boasted sometimes, whendrink had made him maudlin, that, whatever had become of his morals, hehad never lost his manners.

Jack Chicot left a brief pencilled note for his wife:—

‘Dear Zaïre,—Since we get on so badly together, a few days’separation will be good for both of us. I am off to the country for abreath of fresh air. I sicken in the odour of gas and stale brandy.Take care of yourself for your own sake, if not for mine.—Yours, ‘J.C.’

‘A LITTLE WHILE SUCH LIPS AS THINE TO KISS.’

It was midwinter when Jasper Treverton died. Spring had come in allher glory—her balmy airs and sultry noontides, stolen from summer;her variety and wealth of wood and meadow blossoms; her snowy orchardbloom, tinted with carnation; her sweetness and freshness of beauty—aseason to be welcomed and enjoyed like no other season in the changingyear; a little glimpse of Paradise on earth between the destroyinggales of March and the fatal thunderstorms of July. Spring had filledall the lanes and glades round Hazlehurst with perfume and colour whenJohn Treverton reappeared in the village, as unexpectedly as if he haddropped from the skies.

Eliza Sampson was destroying the aphids on a favourite rose tree,handling them daintily with the tips of her gloved fingers, as ifshe loved them, when Mr. Treverton appeared at the little iron gate,carrying his own portmanteau. He, the heir of all the ages, and ofwhat signified much more in Miss Sampson’s estimation, an estate worthfourteen thousand a year.

‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘Mr. Treverton, how could you? We would have sent theboy to the station.’

‘How could I do what?’ he asked, laughing at her horrified look.

‘Carry your own portmanteau. Tom will be so vexed.’

‘Tom need know nothing about it, if it will vex him. The portmanteau islight enough, and I have only brought it from the “George,” where the’bus dropped me. You see I have taken your brother at his word, MissSampson, and have come to quarter myself upon you for a few days.’

‘Tom will be delighted,’ said Eliza.

She was meditating how the dinner she had arranged for Tom and herselfcould be made to do for the heir of Hazlehurst Manor. It was one ofthose dinners in which the economical housekeeper delights, a dinnerthat clears up every scrap in the larder, and leaves not so much as aknuckle-bone for the predatory ‘follower,’ male or female, the cook’shungry niece, or the housemaid’s young man. A little soup, squeezed,as by hydraulic pressure, out of cleanly picked bones and odd remnantsof gristle; a dish of hashed mutton, a very small hash, fenced roundwith a machicolated parapet of toasted bread; a beefsteak pudding witha kidney in it, boiled in a basin the size of a[Pg 61] breakfast-cup. Thislatter savoury mess was intended to gratify Tom, who was prejudicedagainst hashed mutton, and always pretended that it disagreed with him.For entremets sucrés there were a dish of stewed rhubarb anda mould of boiled rice, wholesome, simple, and inexpensive. It was alittle dinner which did honour to Miss Sampson’s head and heart; butshe felt that it was not good enough for the future lord of Hazlehurst,a gentleman out of whom her brother hoped to make plenty of moneyby-and-by.

‘I’ll go and see about your room while you have a chat with Tom in theoffice,’ she said, tripping lightly away, and leaving John Treverton onthe lawn in front of the drawing-room windows, a closely-shorn piece ofgrass about fifty feet by twenty-five.

‘Pray don’t give yourself any trouble,’ he called after her; ‘I’m usedto roughing it.’

Eliza was in the kitchen before he had finished his sentence. She wasdeep in consultation with the cook, who would have resented theunannounced arrival of any ordinary guest, but whofelt that Mr. Treverton was a person for whom people must be expectedto put themselves about. He had given liberal vails, too, after hislast visit, and that was much in his favour.

‘We must have some fish, Mary,’ said Eliza, ‘and poultry. It’sdreadfully dear at this time of year, and Trimpson does impose so, butwe must have it.’

Trimpson was the only fishmonger and poulterer of Hazlehurst, a traderwhose stock sometimes consisted of a pound and a half of salmon, and asingle fowl, long-necked and skinny, hanging in solitary glory abovethe slate slab, where the salmon steak lay frizzling in the afternoonsun, which shone full upon Trimpson’s shop.

‘Well, miss, if I was you, I’d have a pair of soles and a duck tofollow, with the beefsteak pudding for a bottom dish,’ suggested cook;‘but, lawks, what’s the good of talking? we must have what we can get.But I saw two ducks in Trimpson’s window this morning when I went upstreet.’

‘Put on your bonnet, Mary, and run and see what you can do,’ saidEliza. And then, while Mary ran off, without stopping to put on herbonnet, Miss Sampson and the housemaid went upstairs together and tookout lavender-scented linen, and decorated the spare room with allthose pin-trays, china candlesticks, and pomatum pots, which went intoretirement when there was no company.

‘Of course he has come to make her an offer,’ mused Eliza, as shelingered to give a finishing touch to the room, after the housemaid hadgone downstairs.

‘He has waited a proper time after the old gentleman’s death,[Pg 62] and nowhe has come down to ask her to marry him, and I dare say they will bemarried before the summer is over. It will be rather awkward for her tothrow off such deep mourning all at once, but that’s her own fault forgoing into crape, just as if Mr. Treverton had really been her father!I put it down to pride.’

Miss Sampson had a knack of finding motives for all the acts of heracquaintance, and those motives were rarely of the best.

John Treverton’s chat with Mr. Sampson did not last more than tenminutes, friendly, and even affectionate, as was the lawyer’s reception.

‘I see you’re busy,’ said Treverton; ‘I’ll go and have a stroll in thevillage.’

‘No, upon my honour, I was just going to strike work. I’ll come withyou if you like.’

‘On no account; I know you haven’t half finished. Dinner at six, asusual, I suppose. I’ll be back in time for a talk before we sit down.’

And before Mr. Sampson could remonstrate, John Treverton was gone. Hewanted to see what Hazlehurst Manor was like in the clear spring light,framed in greenery, brightened with all the flowers that bloom in earlyMay, musical with thrush and blackbird, noisy with the return of theswallows. Never had he so longed to look upon anything as he longedto-day to see the home of his ancestors, the home which might be his.

He walked quickly along the village street. Such a quaint littlestreet, with never one house like another; here a building bulgingforward, with bow windows below and projecting dormers above; there ahouse retiring modestly behind a patch of garden; further on an inn setat right angles with the highway, its chief door approached by a flightof stone steps that time had worn crooked. Such a variety of chimneys,such complexities in the way of roofs and gables; but everywherecleanliness and spring flowers, and a purer air than John Trevertonhad breathed for a long time. Even this queer little village street,with its dozen shops and its half-dozen public-houses was very fair andpleasant in his town-weary eyes.

When he left the street he entered a noble high-road, bordered on eachside by a row of fine old elms, which made the turnpike road an avenueworthy to be the approach to a king’s palace. The Manor-house lay offthis road, guarded by tall gates of florid iron tracery, manufacturedin the Low Countries two hundred years ago. He stopped at the gatesto contemplate the scene, looking at it dreamily, as at somethingunreal—a picture that was fair but evanescent, and might vanish as hegazed.

Between the gates and the house the ground undulated gently. It wasall smooth sward, too small for a park, too[Pg 63] irregular for a lawn. Awinding carriage-road, shadowed with fine old trees, skirted the greenexpanse, and groups of shrubs here and there adorned it, rhododendrons,laurels, bay, deodoras, cypresses, all the variety of ornamentalconifers. Two great cedars made islets of shadow in the sunny grass,and a copper beech, a giant of his kind, was just showing its darkbrown buds. Beyond stood the Manor-house, tall, and broad, and red,with white stone dressings to door and windows, and a noble cornice, ahouse of Charles the Second’s reign, a real Sir Christopher Wren house,massive and grand in its stern simplicity.

John Treverton roused himself from his waking dream and rang the bell.A woman came out of the lodge, looked at him, dropped a low curtsey,opened the gate, and admitted him without a word, as if he were masterthere. In her mind he was master, though the trustees paid her wages.It was an understood thing in the household that Mr. Treverton wasgoing to marry Miss Malcolm and reign at Hazlehurst Manor.

He walked slowly across the smooth, well-kept grass. Everything waschanged and improved by the altered season. House and grounds seemednew to him. He remembered the flower-garden on the left of the house,the cheerless garden without a flower, where he had walked in the bleakwinter mornings, smoking his solitary cigar; he remembered the walledfruit-garden beyond, to which he had seen that strange guest admittedunder cover of darkness.

The thought of that night scene in the winter disturbed him evento-day, despite the apparent frankness of Laura’s explanation.

‘I suppose there is a mystery in every life,’ he said, with a sigh;‘and, after all, what can it matter to me?’

He had heard nothing of the change in Miss Malcolm’s plans, andsupposed the house abandoned to the care of servants. He was surprisedto see the drawing-room windows open, flowers on the tables, and alook of domesticity everywhere. He went past the house and into theflower-garden, a garden of the Dutch school, prim and formal, withlong, straight walks, box borders, junipers clipped into obelisks,a dense yew hedge, eight feet high, with arches cut in it to giveadmittance to the adjoining orchard. The beds and borders were a blazeof red and yellow tulips, which shone out against the verdure of theclose-shorn bowling-green and the tawny hue of the gravel, and made afeast of vivid colour, like the painted windows of a cathedral. JohnTreverton, who had not seen such a garden for years, was almost dazzledby its homely beauty.

He walked slowly to the end of the long path, looking about him indreamy contentment. The sweet, soft air, the sunshine—just at thatquiet hour of the afternoon when the light begins to[Pg 64] be golden—thewhistling of the blackbirds in the shrubbery, the freshness and beautyof all things, steeped his soul in a new delight. His life of late hadbeen spent in cities, fenced from the beauty of earth by a wildernessof walls, the glory of heaven screened by smoke, the air thick and foulwith the breath of men. This placid garden scene was as new to him asif he had come straight from the bottom of a mine.

Presently he stopped, as if struck with a new thought, looked straightbefore him, and muttered between clenched teeth:—

‘I shall be a fool if I let it slip from my hand.’

‘It’ meant Hazlehurst Manor, and the lands and fortune theretobelonging.

He was standing within a few yards of the yew-tree hedge, and just atthis moment the green arch opposite him became the frame of a livingpicture, and that a lovely one.

Laura Malcolm stood there, bareheaded, dressed in black, with a basketof flowers upon her arm—Laura, whom he had no idea of meeting in thisplace.

The western sky was behind her, and she stood, a tall, slim figure instraight, black drapery, against a golden background, like a saintin an early Italian picture, an edge of light upon her chestnut hairmaking almost an aureole, her face in shadow.

For a few moments she paused, evidently startled at the apparitionof a stranger, then recognised the intruder, and came forward andoffered him her hand frankly, as if he had been quite a commonplaceacquaintance.

‘Pray forgive me for coming in unannounced,’ he said; ‘I had no idea Ishould find you here. Yet it is natural that you should come sometimesto look at the old gardens.’

‘I am living here,’ answered Laura. ‘Didn’t you know?’

‘No, indeed. No one informed me of the change in your plans.’

‘I am so fond of the dear old house and garden, and the place is sofull of associations for me, that I was easily induced to stay when Mr.Clare told me that it would be better for the house. I am a kind ofhousekeeper in charge of everything.’

‘I hope you will stay here all your life,’ said Treverton quickly, andthen he coloured crimson, as if he had said something awful.

The same crimson flush mounted almost as quickly to Laura’s pale cheeksand brow. Both stood looking at the ground, embarrassed as a schoolboyand girl, while the blackbirds whistled triumphantly in the shrubbery,and a thrush in the orchard went into ecstasies of melody.

Laura was the first to recover.

‘Have you been staying long at Hazlehurst?’ she asked, quietly.

[Pg 65]

‘I only came an hour ago. My first visit was to the Manor, though Iexpected to find it an empty house.’

Another picture now appeared in the green frame—a young lady witha neat little figure, a retroussé nose, and an agreeably vivaciouscountenance.

‘Come here, Celia,’ cried Laura, ‘and let me introduce Mr. Treverton.You have heard your father talk about him. Mr. Treverton, Miss Clare.’

Miss Clare bowed and smiled, and murmured something indefinite. ‘PoorEdward!’ she was thinking all the while. ‘This Mr. Treverton is awfullygood-looking.’

‘Awfully’ was Miss Clare’s chief laudatory adjective; her superlativeform of praise was ‘quite too awfully,’ and when enthusiasm carried herbeyond herself she called things ‘nice.’ ‘Quite too awfully nice,’ washer maximum of rapture.

As she rarely left Hazlehurst Vicarage, and knew in all about twentypeople, it is something to her credit that she had made herselfmistress of the current metropolitan slang.

‘I suppose you are staying at the Sampsons?’ she said. ‘Mr. Sampsonis always talking of you. “My friend Treverton,” he calls you, but Isuppose you won’t mind that. It’s rather trying.’

‘I think I can survive even that,’ answered John, who felt grateful tothis young person for having come to his rescue at a moment when hefelt himself curiously embarrassed. ‘Mr. Sampson has been very kind tome.’

‘If you can only manage to endure him he is an awfully good-naturedlittle fellow,’ said Miss Clare with her undergraduate air. Shemodelled her manners and opinions upon those of her brother, and was inmost things a feminine copy of the Oxonian. ‘But how do you contrive toget on with his sister? She is quite too dreadful.’

‘I confess that she is a lady whose society does not afford meunqualified delight,’ said John, ‘but I believe she means kindly.’

‘Can a person with white eyelashes mean kindly?’ inquired Celia, witha philosophical air. ‘Has not Providence created them like that as awarning, just as venomous snakes have flat heads?’

‘That is treating the matter rather too seriously,’ said John. ‘I don’tadmire white eyelashes, but I am not so prejudiced as to consider theman indication of character.’

‘Ah,’ replied Celia, with a significant air, ‘you will know betterby-and-by.’

She was only twenty, but she talked to John Treverton with as assured atone as if she had been ages older than he in wisdom and experience oflife.

[Pg 66]

‘How pretty the gardens are at this season!’ said Treverton, lookinground admiringly, and addressing his remark to Laura.

‘Ah, you have only seen them in winter,’ she answered; ‘perhaps youwould like to walk round the orchard and shrubberies?’

‘I should, very much.’

‘And after that we will go indoors and have some tea,’ said Celia. ‘Youare fond of tea, of course, Mr. Treverton?’

‘I confess that weakness.’

‘I am glad to hear it. I hate a man who is not fond of tea. There isthat brother of mine appreciates nothing but strong coffee withoutmilk. I’m afraid he’ll come to a bad end.’

‘I am glad you think tea-drinking a virtue,’ said John, laughing.

And then they all three went under the yew-tree arch, into theloveliest of orchards—an orchard of seven or eight acres—an orchardthat had been growing a century and a half; pears, plums, cherries,apples; here and there a walnut tree towering above the rest; here andthere a gray old medlar; a pool in a corner overshadowed by two ruggedold quinces; grass so soft, and deep, and mossy; primroses, daffodils;pale purple crocuses; the whole bounded by a sloping bank on whichthe ferns were just unfolding their snaky, gray coils, and revealingyoung leaves of tenderest green, under a straggling hedge of hawthorn,honeysuckle, and eglantine.

Here among the old gnarled trunks, and on the hillocky grass, Mr.Treverton and the two young ladies walked for about half-an-hour,enjoying the beauty and freshness of the place, in this sweetest periodof the balmy spring day. Celia talked much, and John Treverton talkeda little, but Miss Malcolm was for the most part silent. And yet Johndid not think her dull or stupid. It was enough for him to look at thatdelicate, yet firmly-modelled profile, the thoughtful brow, grave lips,and calm, dark eyes, to know that neither intellect nor goodness waswanting in her whom his kinsman had designed for his wife.

‘Poor old man,’ he thought, ‘he meant to secure my happiness withoutjeopardising hers. If he could have known—if he could have known!’

They returned to the garden by a different arch; they visited thehot-houses, where the rose-hued azaleas and camellias made pyramidsof vivid colour; they glanced at the kitchen garden with itsasparagus-beds and narrow box-edged borders, its all-pervading odour ofsweet herbs and wallflowers.

‘I am positively expiring for want of a cup of tea,’ cried Celia.‘Didn’t you hear the church clock strike five, Laura?’

John remembered the six o’clock dinner at The Laurels.

‘I really think I must deny myself that cup of tea,’ he said. ‘TheSampsons dine at six.’

[Pg 67]

‘What of that?’ exclaimed Celia, who never would let a man out of herclutches till stern necessity snatched him from her. ‘It is not aboveten minutes’ walk from here to The Laurels.’

‘What an excellent walker you must be, Miss Clare. Well, I’ll hazardeverything for that cup of tea.’

They went into a pretty room, opening out of the garden, a room withtwo long windows wreathed round with passionflower and starry whiteclematis—the clematis montana, which flowers in spring. It was notlarge enough for a library, so it was called the book-room, and waslined from floor to ceiling with books—a great many of which had beencollected by Laura. It was quite a lady’s collection. There were allthe modern poets, from Scott and Byron downwards, a good many Frenchand German books—Macaulay, De Quincey, Lamartine, Victor Hugo—a gooddeal of history and belles-lettres, but no politics, no science, notravels. The room was the essence of snugness—flowers on mantelpieceand tables, basket-work easy chairs, cushions adorned with crewel-work,delightful little tables (after Chippendale), and on one of the tablesa scarlet Japanese tea-tray, with the quaintest of old silver teapots,and cups and saucers in willow-pattern Nankin ware. Laura poured outthe tea, while Celia began to devour hot buttered cake, the very lookof which suggested dyspepsia; but to some weak minds earth has no moreoverpowering temptation on a warm spring afternoon than hot butteredcake and strong tea with plenty of cream in it.

John Treverton sat in one of the low basket arm-chairs—such chairs asthey make in Buckinghamshire and Oxfordshire—and drank tea as if itwere the elixir of life. He had a strange feeling as he sat in thatchair by the open window, looking across the beds of tulips, abovewhich the bees were humming noisily—a feeling as if his life were onlyjust beginning; as if he were a child in his cradle, dimly conscious ofthe dawning of existence; no burdens on mind or conscience; no tie orencumbrance; no engagement of honour or faith; a dead blank behind him;and before him life, happiness, the glory and freshness of earth, love,home, all things which fate reserves for the man born to good luck.

This dream or fancy of his was so pleasant that he let it stay withhim while he drank three cups of tea, and while Celia rattled on aboutHazlehurst and its inhabitants, giving him what she called a socialmap of the country, which might be useful for his guidance during theweek he proposed to spend there. He only roused himself when the churchclock chimed the three-quarters, and then he pulled himself out of thebasket chair with a jerk, put down his cup and saucer, and wished Lauragood-bye.

‘I shall have to do the distance in ten minutes, Miss Clare,’ he said,as he shook hands with that vivacious young lady.

‘I’m afraid I ought to have said ten minutes for a bicycle,’[Pg 68] repliedCelia; ‘but the Sampsons won’t mind waiting dinner for you, and I don’tsuppose the delay will hurt their dinner.’

‘It will be nearer for you through the orchard,’ said Laura.

So John Treverton went through the orchard, at the end of which therewas a gate that opened into a lane leading to the high-road. It was thesame lane that skirted the walled fruit-garden, with the little doorthat John had seen mysteriously opened that winter night. The sight ofthe little wooden door made him curiously thoughtful.

‘I’ll never believe that there was anything approaching guilt in thatmystery,’ he said to himself. ‘No, I have looked into those lovelyeyes of hers, and I believe her incapable of an unworthy thought. Somepoor relation, I dare say—a scamp whom she would have been ashamed ofbefore the servants, so she received him secretly; doubtless to helphim with money.’

‘What an extraordinary girl you are, Laura!’ said Celia, draining theteapot. ‘Why did you never tell me that John Treverton was so perfectlylovely?’

‘My dear Celia, how am I to know what constitutes your idea of perfectloveliness in a young man? I have heard you praise so many, alldistinctly different. I told you that Mr. Treverton was gentlemanlikeand good-looking.’

‘Good-looking!’ cried Celia. ‘He is absolutely perfect. To see himsitting in that chair drinking tea and looking dreamily out of thegarden with those exquisite eyes of his! Oh, he is quite too awfullynice. Do you know the colour of his eyes?’

‘I have not the slightest idea.’

‘They are a greeny-gray—a colour that changes every minute, a tintbetween blue and brown; I never saw it before. And his complexion—justthat olive paleness which is so positively delightful. His nose isslightly irregular in line, not straight enough to be Grecian, and notcurved enough to be aquiline—but his mouth is awfully nice—so firmand resolute-looking, yet lapsing now and then into dreamy thought. Didyou see him lapse into dreamy thought, Laura?’

Miss Malcolm blushed indignantly; vexed, no doubt, at such foolishness.

‘Really, Celia, you are too ridiculous. I can’t think how you canindulge in such absurd raptures about a strange man.’

‘Why not about a strange man?’ asked Celia, with her philosophical air.‘Why should the perfections of a strange man be a forbidden subject?One may rave about a landscape; one may be as enthusiastic as onelikes about the stars or the moon, the sea, or a sunset, or even thelast popular novel? Why must not one admire a man? I am not going toput a padlock upon my lips to flatter such an absurd prejudice. As foryou, Laura, it is[Pg 69] all very well to sit there stitching at that fadedblackberry leaf—you are putting too much brown in it, I am sure—andlooking the image of all that is demure. To my mind you are more to beenvied than any girl I ever heard of, except the Sleeping Beauty in theWood.’

‘Why should I be envied?’

‘Because you are to have a splendid fortune and John Treverton for yourhusband.’

‘Celia, I shall be so grateful to you if you will be quite silent onthat subject, supposing that you can be silent about anything.’

‘I can’t,’ said Celia frankly.

‘It is by no means certain that I shall marry Mr. Treverton.’

‘Would you be so utterly idiotic as to refuse him?’

‘I would not accept him unless I could believe that he really likedme—better than any other woman he had ever seen.’

‘And of course he will; of course he does,’ cried Celia. ‘You know,as a matter of personal inclination, I would much rather you shouldmarry poor Edward, who adores the ground you walk upon, and, of course,adores you much more than the ground. But there is a limpness aboutTed’s character which makes me fear that he will never get on in theworld. He is a clever young man, and he thinks that he has nothing todo but go on being clever, and write verses for the magazines—whicheven I, as his sister, must confess are the weakest dilution ofSwinburne—and that Fame will come and take him by the hand, and leadhim up the steps of her temple, while Fortune will meet him in theportico with a big bag of gold. No, Laura, dearly as I love Ted, Ishould be sorry to see you sacrifice a splendid fortune, and refusesuch a man as John Treverton.’

‘There will be time enough to debate the question when Mr. Trevertonasks me to marry him,’ said Laura gravely.

‘Oh, that will come upon you all in a moment,’ retorted Celia, ‘whenyou won’t have me to help you. You had better make up your mindbeforehand.’

‘I should despise Mr. Treverton if he were to make me an offer beforehe knew a great deal more of me than he does now. But I forbid you totalk any more of this, Celia. And now we had better go and walk in theorchard for half-an-hour, or you will never be able to digest all thecake you have eaten.’

‘What a pity digestion should be so difficult, when eating is so easy,’said Celia.

And then she went dancing along the garden paths with the airylightness of a nymph who had never known the meaning of indigestion.

Once more John Treverton drove round his late kinsman’s estate,and this second time, in the sweet spring weather, the farms, andhomesteads, the meadows where the buttercups were[Pg 70] beginning to showgolden among the grass, the broad sweeps of arable land where the youngcorn was growing tall—seemed to him a hundredfold more fair than theyhad seemed in the winter. He felt a keener longing to be the master ofall these things. It seemed to him as if no life could be so sweet asthe life he might lead at Hazlehurst Manor, with Laura Malcolm for hiswife.

The life he might lead——if——

What was that ‘if’ which barred the way to perfect bliss?

There was more than one obstacle, he told himself gloomily, as he pacedthe elm avenue on the London road, one evening at sunset, after he hadbeen at Hazlehurst more than a week, during which week he had seenLaura very often.

There was, among many questions, the doubt as to Laura’s liking forhim. She might consider herself constrained to accept him, were he tooffer himself, in deference to the wish of her adopted father; butcould he ever feel sure that she really cared for him, that he was theone man upon earth whom she would choose for her husband?

A flattering whisper which crept into the ear of his mind, like acaressing breath of summer wind gently fanning his cheek, told himthat he was already something nearer and dearer to this sweet girlthan the ruck of mankind; that her lovely hazel eyes took a new lightand colour at his coming, that their beauty was shadowed with sadnessin the moment of parting from him; that there were tender, brokentones of voice, fleeting blushes, half smiles, sudden droopings ofdarkly-fringed eyelids, and many other more subtle signs, that told ofsomething more than common friendship. Believing this, what had he todo but snatch the prize?

Alas! between him and the light and glory of life stood a dark,forbidding figure, a veiled face, an arm sternly extended to stop theway.

‘It is not to be thought of,’ he said to himself. ‘I honour her toomuch—yes, I love her too well. The estate must go, and she and I mustgo on our several ways in the wilderness of life—to meet by chance,perhaps, half-a-century hence, when we have grown old, and hardlyremember each other.’

It was to be his last evening at Hazlehurst, and he was going to theManor-house to bid Laura and her friend good-bye. A very simple act ofpoliteness, assuredly, yet he hung back from the performance of it, andwalked slowly up and down under the elm trees, smoking a meditativecigar, and chewing the cud of fancies which were mostly bitter.

At last, just when the topmost edge of the sinking sun dropped belowthe dark line of distant woods, John Treverton made up his mind therewas no more time to be lost, if he meant to call at the Manor-housethat evening. He quickened his pace,[Pg 71] anxious to find Laura in thegarden, where she spent most of her life in this balmy spring weather.He felt himself more at ease with her in the garden than when he wasbrought face to face with her within four walls. Out of doors there wasalways something to distract attention, to give a sudden turn to theconversation if it became embarrassing to either of them. Here, too,it was easier to escape Celia’s searching eye, which was so often uponthem indoors, where she had very little to occupy her attention.

He went in at the lodge gate, as usual unquestioned. All the oldservants agreed in regarding him as the future owner of the estate.They wondered that he asserted himself so little, and went in and outas if he were nobody. The way to the old Dutch garden was by this timevery familiar to him. He had been there at almost every hour of theday, from golden noon to gray evening.

As he went round by the house he heard voices, a man’s voice amongthem, and the sound of that masculine voice was not welcome to his ear.Celia’s shrill little laugh rang out merrily, the sky-terrier yappedin sympathy. They were evidently enjoying themselves very much in theDutch garden, and John Treverton felt as if their enjoyment were anaffront to him.

He turned the angle of the house, and saw the group seated on a littlelawn in front of the book-room windows; Laura and Celia in rusticchairs, a young man on the grass at their feet, the dog dancing roundhim. John Treverton guessed at once that the young man was the Edward,or Ted, about whom he had heard Celia Clare so often discourse; theEdward Clare who, according to Miss Sampson, was in love with LauraMalcolm.

Laura half rose to shake hands with her guest. Her face at least wasgrave. She had not been laughing at the nonsense which provokedCelia’s mirth. John Treverton was glad of that.

‘Mr. Clare, Mr. Treverton.’

Edward Clare looked up and nodded—a rather supercilious nod, Johnthought, but he did not expect much friendliness from the vicar’s son.He gave the young man a grave bow, and remained standing by Laura’schair.

‘I hope you will forgive my late visit, Miss Malcolm,’ he said. ‘I havecome to wish you “good-bye.”’

She glanced up at him with a startled look, and he fancied—yes, hedared to fancy—that she was sorry.

‘You have not stopped long at Hazlehurst,’ she said, after a palpablepause.

‘As if any one would who was not absolutely obliged,’ cried Celia. ‘Ican’t imagine how Mr. Treverton has existed through an entire week.’

‘I assure you that I have not found my existence a burden,’[Pg 72] saidJohn, addressing himself to Celia. ‘I shall leave Hazlehurst with deepregret.’

He could not for worlds, in his present mood, have said as much toLaura.

‘Then you must be one of two things,’ said Celia.

‘What things?’

‘You must be either a poet, or intensely in love. There is my brotherhere. He never seems tired of roaming about Hazlehurst. But then he isa poet, and writes verses about March violets, and the first leafbudson the willows, and the reappearance of the May-fly, or the return ofthe swallow. And he smokes no end, and he reads novels to an extentthat is absolutely demoralizing. It’s dreadful to see a man dependentupon Mudie for getting through his life,’ exclaimed Celia, making aface that expressed extreme contempt.

‘I am not a poet, Miss Clare,’ said John Treverton, quietly; ‘yet Iconfess to having been very happy at Hazlehurst.’

He stole a glance at Laura to see if the shot told. She was lookingdown, her sweet, grave face pure and pale as ivory in the clear eveninglight.

‘It’s very civil of you towards the parish to say as much,’ said Edwardwith a veiled sneer, ‘and it is kind of you to shrink from woundingour feelings as aborigines, but I am sure you must have been ineffablybored. There is positively nothing to do at Hazlehurst.’

‘I suppose that’s why the place suits you, Ted?’ observed Miss Clareinnocently.

The conversation had an uncomfortable tone which was quite out ofharmony with the soft evening sky, and shadowy garden, where theflowers were losing their colour as the light declined. John Trevertonlooked curiously at the man he knew to be his rival.

He saw a man of about six-and-twenty, of the middle height, slim almostto fragility, yet with a compactness of form which indicated activityand possibly strength. Gray eyes inclining to blue, long lashes,delicately-pencilled eyebrows, a fair complexion, low, narrow brow, andregular features, a pale brown moustache, more silky than abundant,made up a face that was very handsome in the estimation of some people,but which assuredly erred on the side of effeminacy. It was a face thatwould have suited the velvet and brocade of one of the French Henry’sminions, or the lovelocks and jewel-broidered doublet of one of JamesStuart’s silken favourites.

It would have been difficult to imagine the owner of that face doingany good or great work in the world, or leaving any mark upon his time,save some petty episode of vanity, profligacy, and selfishness in thememoirs of a modern St. Simon.

[Pg 73]

‘Anything new in the evening papers?’ asked Mr. Clare, with a stifledyawn.

The languid inquiry followed upon a silence that had lasted rather toolong to be pleasant.

‘Sampson had not got his Globe when I left him,’ answered JohnTreverton; ‘but in the present stagnation of everything at home andabroad I confess to feeling very little interest in the evening papers.’

‘I should like to have heard if that unlucky dancer is dead,’ saidCelia.

John Treverton, who had been standing beside Laura’s chair like a manlost in a waking dream, turned suddenly at this remark.

‘What dancer?’ he asked.

‘La Chicot. Of course you have seen her dance. You happy Londonerssee everything under the sun that is worth seeing. She is somethingwonderful, is she not? And now I suppose I shall never see her.’

‘She’s a very handsome woman, and a very fine dancer, in her particularstyle,’ answered Treverton. ‘But what did you mean just now when youtalked about her death? She is as much alive as you and I are; at leastI know that her name was on all the walls and she was dancing nightlywhen I left London.’

‘That was a week ago,’ said Celia. ‘Surely you saw the account of theaccident in this morning’s Times? There was nearly a columnabout it.’

‘I did not look at the Times. Mr. Sampson and I started earlythis morning for a long round. What was this accident?’

‘Oh, quite too dreadful!’ exclaimed Celia. ‘It made my blood runcold to read the description. It seems that the poor thing had to goup into the flies, or the skies, or something, hooked on to somemoveable irons—a kind of telescopic arrangement, youknow.’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Treverton.

‘Well, of course that would be awfully jolly as long as it was safelydone, for she must look lovely floating upwards, with the limelightshining on her; but it seems the man who had the management of the ironmachine got tipsy, and did not know what he was doing, so the ironswere not properly braced together, and just as she was near the top thething gave way and she came down headlong.’

‘And was killed?’ asked John Treverton breathlessly.

‘No, she was not killed on the spot, but her leg was broken—a compoundfracture, I think they call it, and she was hurt about the head, andthe paper said she was altogether in a very precarious state. NowI have noticed that when a newspaper[Pg 74] says that a person is in aprecarious state, the next thing one hears of that person is that heor she is dead; so that I shouldn’t at all wonder if La Chicot’s deathwere in the evening papers.’

‘What a loss to society!’ sneered Edward Clare. ‘I think you are themost ridiculous girl in the world, Celia, to interest yourself inpeople who are as far off your groove as if they were the inhabitantsof the moon.’

‘hom*o sum,’ said Celia, proud of a smattering of Latin, thecrumbs that had fallen from her brother’s table, ‘and all the varietiesof mankind are interesting to me. I should like to have been a dancermyself, if I had not been a clergyman’s daughter. It must be an awfullyjolly life.’

‘Delightful,’ exclaimed Edward, ‘especially when it ends abruptlythrough the carelessness of a drunken scene-shifter.’

‘I must say good-night and good-bye,’ said John Treverton to Laura. ‘Ihave my portmanteau to pack ready for an early start to-morrow morning.Indeed, I am inclined to go by the mail to-night. It would save mehalf-a-day.’

‘The mail leaves at a quarter past ten. You’ll have to look sharp ifyou travel by that,’ said Edward.

‘I’ll try it, at any rate.’

‘Good-night, Mr. Treverton,’ said Laura, giving him her hand.

The lively Celia was not going to let him depart with so cold afarewell. He was a man, and, as such, eminently interesting to her.

‘We’ll all walk to the gate with you,’ she said; ‘it will be better forus than sitting yawning here, watching the bats skimming across theflower-beds.’

They all went, and it happened somehow, to John Treverton’s tremulousdelight, that Laura and he were side by side, a little behind the othertwo.

‘I am sorry you are obliged to leave so soon,’ said Laura, anxious tosay something vaguely civil.

‘I should go away more happy than I can tell you if I thought my goingcould make you sorry.’

‘Oh, I did not mean in such a particular sense,’ she said, with alittle laugh. ‘I am sorry for your own sake that you have to leave thecountry, just when it is so lovely, and to go back to smoky London.’

‘If you knew how I hate that world of smoke and all foul things, youwould pity me with the uttermost compassion your kind heart can feel,’he answered, very much in earnest. ‘I am going from all I love to all Idetest; and I know not how long it may be before I can return; but ifI should be able to come quickly will you promise me a kindly welcome,Laura? Will you promise to be as glad of my return as I am sorry to goto-night.’

‘I cannot make any such bargain,’ she said gently, ‘for I[Pg 75] cannotmeasure your sadness to-night. You are altogether a mysterious person;I have not even begun to understand you. But I hope you may come backsoon, when our roses are in bloom and our nightingales are singing, andif their welcome is not enough for you I will promise to add mine.’

There was a tender playfulness in her tone which was unspeakably sweetto him. They were quite alone, in a part of the carriage-drive wherethe trees grew thickest, the shadow of chestnut leaves folding themround, the low breath of the evening wind whispering in their ears. Itwas an hour for tender avowals, for unworldly thoughts.

John Treverton took Laura’s hand, and held it unreproved.

‘Tell me that you do not hate the memory of my cousin Jasper because ofthat absurd will,’ he said.

‘Could I hate the memory of one who was so good to me, the only fatherI ever knew?’

‘Say then that you do not hate me because of my cousin’s will.’

‘It would be very unchristianlike to hate you for an act of which youare innocent.’

‘No doubt, but I can imagine a woman hating a man under suchcirc*mstances. You take away your hand. Yes, I feel convinced that youdetest me.’

‘I took away my hand because I thought you had forgotten to let it go,’said Laura, determined not to be too serious. ‘Will it really make youmore satisfied with yourself if I tell you that I heartily forgive myadopted father for his will?’

‘Infinitely.’

‘And that, in spite of our ridiculous position towards each other, I donot quite—hate you.’

‘Laura, you are making me the happiest of men.’

‘But I am saying very little.’

‘If you knew how much it is to me! A world of hope, a world of delight,an incentive to high thoughts and worthy deeds, a regeneration of bodyand soul.’

‘You are talking wildly.’

‘I am wild with gladness. Laura, my love, my darling.’

‘Stop,’ she said suddenly, turning to him with earnest eyes, very palein the dim light, now completely serious. ‘Is it me or your cousin’sestate you love? If it is the fortune you think of, let there beno stage-play of love-making between us. I am willing to obey yourcousin—as I would have obeyed him living, honouring him and submittingto him as a father—but let us be true and loyal to each other. Let usface life honestly and earnestly, and accept it for what it is worth.Let us be faithful friends and companions, but not sham lovers.’

‘Laura, I love you for yourself, and yourself only. As I live, that isthe truth. Come to me to-morrow penniless, and tell me[Pg 76] that JasperTreverton’s will was a forgery. Come to me and say: “I am a pauper likeyourself, John, but I am yours,” and see how fond and glad a welcome Iwill give you. My dearest, I love you truly, passionately. It is yourlovely face, your tender voice, yourself I want.’

He put his arm round her, and drew her, not unwilling, to his breast,and kissed her with the first lover’s kiss that had ever crimsoned hercheek.

‘I like to believe you,’ she said softly, resting contentedly in hisarms.

This was their parting.

CHAPTER VIII.

‘DAYS THAT ARE OVER, DREAMS THAT ARE DONE.’

There was excitement and agitation in Cibber Street, Leicester Square,that essentially dramatic, musical, and terpsichorean nook in the greatforest of London. La Chicot had narrowly escaped death. It had been allbut death at the moment of the accident. It might be absolute death atany hour of the night and day that followed the catastrophe. At leastthis is what the inhabitants of Cibber Street told each other, and theywere one and all as graphic and as full of detail as if they had justleft La Chicot’s bedside.

‘She has never stirred since they laid her in her bed,’ said theshoemaker’s wife, at the dingy shop for ladies’ boots, two doors fromthe Chicot domicile; ‘she lies there like a piece of waxwork,pore thing, and every five minutes they takes and wetsher lips with a feather dipped in brandy; and sometimes she says “more,more,” very weak and pitiful!’

‘That looks as if she was sensible, at any rate,’ answered the goodwoman’s gossip, a letter of lodgings at the end of the street.

‘I don’t believe it’s sense, Mrs. Bitters; I believe it’s only aninward craving. She feels that low in her inside that the brandy’s arelief to her.’

‘Have they set her leg yet?’

‘Lord love you, Mrs. Bitters, it’s a compound fracture, and theswelling ain’t begun to go down. They’ve got a perfessional nurse fromone of the hospitals, and she’s never left off applying cooling lotion,night or day, to keep down the inflammation. The doctor hasn’t left thehouse since it happened.’

‘Is it Mr. Mivart?’

[Pg 77]

‘Lor, no; it’s quite a stranger; a young man that’s just been walkingthe orspital, but they say he’s very clever. He was at the PrinceFrederick when it happened, and see it all; and helped to bring herhome, and if she was a duch*ess he couldn’t be more careful over her.’

‘Where’s the husband?’ asked Mrs. Bitters.

‘Away in the country, no one knows where, for she hasn’t sense to tell’em, pore lamb. But from what Mrs. Evitt tells me, they was never thehappiest of couples.’

‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs. Bitters, with an air of widest worldly experience,‘dancers and such like didn’t ought to marry. What do they want with’usbands, courted and run after as they are? Out every night too, likeTom cats. ’Ow can they make a ’ome ’appy?’

‘I can’t say as I ever thought Mr. Chicot ’ad a ’appy look,’ assentedthe shoemaker’s wife. ‘He’s got a way of walking with his eyes on theground and his hands in his pockets, as if he didn’t take no interestin life.’

Thus, and in various other manners, was the evil fate of La Chicotdiscussed in Cibber Street and the surrounding neighbourhood. Everybodywas interested in her welfare. If she had been some patient domesticdrudge, a devoted wife and mother, the interest would have been mild incomparison, the whole thing tame and commonplace. But La Chicot—whosename was on the walls in capitals three feet high, whose bold, brightface smiled on the foot passenger at every turn in the road—La Chicotwas a personage, and whether she was to draw the lot of life or deathfrom fate’s mysterious urn was a public question.

It had been as the scene-shifter had shrewdly prophesied. She hadbeen drunk, and the stage-carpenter had been drunk, and the resulthad been calamity. There had been a perennial supply of champagnein La Chicot’s dressing-room during the last week, thanks to theliberality of an anonymous admirer, who had sent a three-dozen case ofRœderer, pints—fascinating little gold-tipped bottles that looked asinnocent as flowers or butterflies. La Chicot had an idea that a pintof champagne could hurt nobody. Of a quart she opined, as the famousglutton did of a goose, that it was too much for one and not enough fortwo.

She naturally suspected that the anonymous champagne came from theunknown giver of the bracelet, but she was not going to leave the caseunopened on that account. It was very pleasant to have an admirer whogave so freely and asked nothing. Poor fellow! It would be time enoughto snub him when he became obtrusive. In the meanwhile she accepted hisbounty as unquestioningly as she received the gifts of all-bounteousnature—the sun that warmed her, the west wind that[Pg 78] fanned her cheek,the wallflowers and primroses at the street corners that told herspring was abroad in the land.

Yet she was a woman, and, therefore, naturally curious about hernameless admirer. Her splendid eyes roamed among the faces of theaudience, especially among the gilded youth in the stalls, until theyalighted on a countenance which La Chicot believed likely to be the oneshe sought. It was a face that watched her with a grave attention shehad seen in no other countenance, though all were attentive—a sallowface, of a Jewish type, black eyes, an almost death-like pallor, afirmly-moulded mouth, the lips too thick for beauty, black hair, smoothand sleek.

‘That is the man,’ La Chicot said to herself, ‘and he looksinordinately rich.’

She stole a glance at him often after this, and she always saw the sameexpression in the pallid Israelitish face, an intensity she had neverseen in any other countenance.

‘C’est un homme à parvenir,’ she told herself; ‘si ça était guerrier ilaurait vaincu un monde, comme Napoléon.’

The face fascinated her somehow, or, at all events, it made herthink of the man. She drank his champagne with greater gusto afterthis, and on the night after her discovery, the weather beingunusually sultry for the season, she drank twobottles in the course of her toilet. When she went down to the wings,glittering with silvery tinsel, clad in a cloud of snowy gauze, shecould hardly stand; but dancing was a second nature with her, and shemanaged to get through her solos without disgrace. There was a certainwildness, an extra audacity, a shade too much of that peculiar qualitywhich the English call ‘go,’ and the French call ‘chic,’ but theaudience at the Prince Frederick liked extremes, and applauded her tothe echo.

‘By Jove, she’s a wonderful woman!’ exclaimed Mr. Smolendo, watchingher from the prompter’s entrance. ‘She’s a safe draw for the next threeseasons.’

Ten minutes afterwards came the ascent through the coral caves. Theironwork creaked, groaned, trembled, and then gave way. There was ashrill scream from the dancer, a cry of horror from the men at thewings, and La Chicot was lying in the middle of the stage, a confusedheap of tumbled gauze and silver, silent and unconscious, while thegreen curtain came down with a run.

It was late on the night after the accident when Jack Chicot came home.He found his wife lying in a dull stupor, as the gossips had describedher, life sustained by the frequent administration of brandy. The womanwas as near death as she could be without being ready for her grave.A stranger was sitting by her bedside when Jack went into the room, ayoung man with a[Pg 79] gravity of face and manner which was older than hisyears. The nurse was on the other side of the bed, applying a coolinglotion to La Chicot’s burning forehead. The leg had been successfullyset that afternoon, by one of the cleverest surgeons in London, and wassuspended in a cradle under the light coverlet.

Jack went to the bedside and bent over the motionless figure, andlooked at the dull, white face.

‘My poor Zaïre, this is bad,’ he murmured, and then he turned to thestranger, who had risen and stood beside him. ‘You are the doctor, Isuppose?’

‘I am the watch-dog, if you like. Mr. Smolendo would not trust myinexperience with so delicate an operation as setting the broken leg.It was a terrible fracture, and required the highest art. He sent forSir John Pelham, and everything has been done well and successfully.But he allowed me to remain as surgeon in charge. Your wife’s stateis perilous in the extreme. I fear the brain is injured. I was inthe theatre when the accident happened. I am deeply interested inthis case. I have lately passed my examination creditably, and ama qualified practitioner. I shall be glad if you will allow me toattend your wife—under Pelham, of course. It is not a question ofremuneration,’ the young man added hurriedly. ‘I am actuated only by myprofessional interest in Madame Chicot’s recovery.’

‘I have no objection to my wife’s profiting by your generous care,provided always that Sir John Pelham approves your treatment,’ answeredChicot, in a calmer tone than George Gerard expected from a man whohad just come home after a week’s absence to find his wife in peril ofdeath. ‘Do you think she will recover?’

This question was asked deliberately, with intense earnestness. Gerardsaw that the eyes which looked at him were watching for the answeringlook in his own eyes, waiting as for the sentence of doom.

That look set the surgeon wondering as to the relations betweenhusband and wife. A minute ago he had wondered at Chicot’s coldness—atranquillity that seemed almost indifference. Now the man was allintensity. What did the change mean?

‘Am I to tell you the truth?’ asked Gerard.

‘By all means.’

‘Remember I can give you only my opinion. It is an obscure case. Theinjury to the brain is not easily to be estimated.’

‘I will take your opinion for what it is worth. For God’s sake becandid.’

‘Then in my opinion the chances are against her recovery.’

Jack Chicot drew a long breath, a strange shivering sigh, which thesurgeon, clever as he was, knew not how to interpret.

‘Poor thing!’ said the husband, after a brief silence, looking[Pg 80] down atthe dull, blank face. ‘And three years ago she and I came out of theMairie very happy, and loving each other dearly! C’est dommage quecela passe si vite.’

These last words were spoken too low for Gerard to hear. They were abrief lament over a love that was dead.

‘Tell me about the accident,’ said Jack Chicot, sitting down in thechair Gerard had vacated. ‘You were in the theatre, you say. You saw itall.’

‘I did, and it was I who picked your wife up. I was behind the scenessoon enough for that. The panic-stricken wretches about were afraid totouch her.’

Gerard told everything faithfully. Jack Chicot listened with anunchanging face. He knew the worst that could be told him. The detailscould make little difference.

‘I said just now that in my opinion the chances were against yourwife’s recovery,’ said Gerard, full of earnestness, ‘but I did notsay the case was hopeless. If I thought it were, I should not be soanxious to undertake the care of your wife. I ask you to let me watchher because I entertain the hope—a faint hope at present, I grant—ofcuring her.’

Jack Chicot gave a little start, and looked curiously at the speaker.

‘You must be tremendously in love with your profession, to be soanxious about another man’s wife?’ he said.

‘I am in love with my profession. I have no other mistress. I desire noother!’

‘Well, you may do all you can to snatch her from the jaws of death,’said Chicot. ‘Let her have her chance, poor soul. That is only fair.Poor butterfly! Last night the star of a crowded theatre, the delightof every eye; to-night to lie thus, a mere log, living and yet dead. Itis hard.’

He walked softly up and down the room, deep in thought.

‘Do you know I implored her to refuse that ascent?’ he said. ‘I had aforeboding that harm would come of it.’

‘You should have forbidden it,’ said the surgeon, with his fingers onthe patient’s wrist.

‘Forbidden! You don’t know my wife.’

‘If I had a wife she should obey me.’

‘Ah! that’s a common delusion of bachelors. Wait till you have a wife,and you will tell a different story.’

‘She will do for to-night,’ said Gerard, taking up his hat, yetlingering for one long scrutiny of the white, expressionless face onthe pillow. ‘Mrs. Mason knows all she has to do; I will be here at sixto-morrow morning.’

‘At six! You are an early riser.’

‘I am a hard worker. One is impossible without the other. Good-night,Mr. Chicot; I congratulate you upon your power[Pg 81] to take a great troublequietly. There is no better proof of strong nerve.’

Jack fancied there was a hidden sneer in this parting compliment, butit made very little impression upon him. The perplexity of his life wasbig enough to exclude every other thought. ‘You had better go to bed,Mrs. Mason,’ he said to the nurse. ‘I shall sit up with my wife.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir, I could not feel that I was doing my duty ifI indulged myself with a night’s rest while the case is so critical;by-and-by I shall be thankful to get an hour’s sleep.’

‘Do you think Madame Chicot will ever be better?’

The nurse looked down at her white apron, sighed gently, and as gentlyshook her head.

‘We always like to look at the bright side of things, sir,’ sheanswered.

‘But is there any bright side to this case?’

‘That rests with Providence, sir. It is a very bad case.’

‘Well,’ said Jack Chicot, ‘we must be patient.’

He seated himself in the chair by the bedside and remained there allnight, never sleeping, hardly changing his attitude, sunk to the bottomof some deep gulf of thought.

Day came at last, and soon after daybreak came George Gerard, who foundno change either for better or worse in his patient, and ordered nochange in the treatment.

‘Sir John Pelham is to be here at eleven,’ he said. ‘I shall come ateleven to meet him.’

The great surgeon came, made his inspection, and said that all wasgoing on well.

‘We shall make her leg sound again,’ he said, ‘I have no fear aboutthat; I wish we were as certain about the brain.’

‘Do you think the brain is seriously hurt?’ asked Chicot.

‘We can hardly tell. The iron struck her head as she fell. There isno fracture of the skull, but there is mischief of some kind—ratherserious mischief, I fear. No doubt a good deal will depend on careand nursing. You are lucky to have secured Mrs. Mason; I can highlyrecommend her.’

‘Frankly, do you think my wife will recover?’ asked Chicot, questioningSir John Pelham to-day as earnestly as he had questioned George Gerardlast night.

‘My dear sir, I hope for the best; but it is a bad case.’

‘That must mean that it is hopeless,’ thought Chicot, but he only bowedhis head gently, and followed the surgeon to the door, where he triedto slip a fee into his hand.

‘No, no, my dear sir, Mr. Smolendo will arrange that little matter,’said the surgeon, rejecting the money, ‘and very properly too, sinceyour wife was injured in his service.’

‘I would rather have paid her debts myself,’ answered Chicot,[Pg 82] ‘thoughHeaven knows how long I could have done it. We are never very muchbeforehand with the world. Oh, by the way, how about that young manupstairs, Mr. Gerard? Do you approve his treatment of the case?’

‘Very much so; a remarkably clever young man—a man who ought to makerapid way in his profession.’

Sir John Pelham gave a compassionate sigh at the end of his speech,remembering how many young men he had known deserving of success,and how few of them had succeeded, and thinking what a clever andaltogether commendable young man he must himself have been to be one ofthe few.

After this Jack Chicot allowed Mr. Gerard to prescribe for his wifewith perfect confidence in the young man’s ability. Sir John Pelhamcame once a week, and gave his opinion, and sometimes made some slightchange in the treatment. It was a lingering, wearying illness, hardwork for the nurse, trying work for the watcher. The husband had takenupon himself the office of night nurse. He watched and ministered tothe invalid every night, while Mrs. Mason enjoyed four or five hours’sleep. Mr. Smolendo had suggested that they should have two nurses. Hewas willing to pay for anything that could ameliorate the sufferer’scondition, though La Chicot’s accident had almost ruined his season. Ithad not been easy to get a novelty strong enough to replace her.

‘No,’ said Jack Chicot, ‘I don’t want to take more of your money thanI can help; and I may as well do something for my wife. I’m uselessenough at best.’

So Jack went on drawing for the comic periodicals, and worked at nightbeside his wife’s bed. Her mind had never awakened since the accident.She was helpless and unconscious now as she had been when they broughther home from the theatre. Even George Gerard was beginning to loseheart, but he in no way relaxed his efforts to bring about a cure.

In the day Jack went for long walks, getting as far away from thatclose and smoky region of Leicester Square as his long legs would takehim. He tramped northward to Hampstead and Hendon, to Highgate, Barnet,Harrow; southward to Dulwich, Streatham, Beckenham; to breezy commonswhere the gorse was still golden, to woods where the perfume of pinetrees filled the warm, still air; to hills below which he saw Londonlying, a silent city, wrapped in a mantle of blue smoke.

The country had an inexpressible charm for him at this period of hislife. He was not easy till he had shaken the dust of London off hisfeet. He who a year ago in Paris had wasted half his days playingbilliards in the entresol of a café on the Boulevard St. Michel,or sauntering the stony length of the boulevards from the Madeleineto the Chateau d’Eau—was now a[Pg 83] solitary rambler in suburban lanes,choosing every path that led him furthest from the haunts of men.

‘You are always out when I come in the daytime, Mr. Chicot,’ saidGerard, one evening, when he had called later than usual and found Jackat home, dusty, tired after his day’s ramble. ‘Is not that rather hardon Madame Chicot?’

‘What can it matter to her? She does not know when I am here; she isquite unconscious.’

‘I am not so sure of that. She seems unconscious, but beneath thatapathy there may be some struggling sense of outward things. It is myhope that the mind is there still, under a dense cloud.’

The struggle was long and weary. There came a day on which even GeorgeGerard despaired. The wound in the leg had been slow to heal, and thepain had weakened the patient. Despite all that watchful nursing coulddo, she had sunk to the lowest ebb.

‘She is very weak, is she not?’ asked Jack, that summer afternoon—asultry afternoon late in June, when the close London street was like adusty oven, and faint odours from stale strawberries and half-rottenpineapples on the costermonger’s barrows tainted the air with a sicklysweetness.

‘She is as weak as she can be and live,’ answered Gerard.

‘You begin to lose faith?’

‘I begin to fear.’

As he spoke he saw a look of ineffable relief flash into Jack Chicot’seyes. His own eyes caught and fixed that look, and the two men stoodfacing each other, one of them knowing that the secret of his heart wasdiscovered.

‘I fear,’ said the surgeon, deliberately, ‘but I am not going to leaveoff trying to save her. I mean to save her life if it is in human powerto save it. I have set my heart upon it.’

‘Do your utmost,’ answered Chicot. ‘Heaven is above us all. It must beas fate wills.’

‘You loved her once, I suppose?’ said Gerard, with searching eyes stillon the other’s face.

‘I loved her truly.’

‘When and why did you leave off loving her?’

‘How do you know that I have ever done so?’ asked Chicot, startled bythe audacity of the question.

‘I know it as well as you know it yourself. I should be a poorphysician for an obscure disease of the brain if I could not readyour secret. This poor creature, lying here, has for some time pastbeen a burden and an affliction to you. If Providence were to removeher quietly, you would thank Providence. You would not lift your handagainst her, or refuse any aid you can give her, but her death would bean infinite relief. Well, I think you will have your wish. I think sheis going to die.’

‘You have no right to talk to me like this,’ said Chicot.

[Pg 84]

‘Have I not? Why should not one man talk freely to another, utteringthe truth boldly. I do not presume to judge or to blame. Who among usis pure enough to denounce his brother’s sin? But why should I pretendnot to understand you? Why affect to think you a loving and devotedhusband? It is better that I should be plain with you. Yes, Mr. Chicot.I believe this business is going to end your way, and not mine.’

Jack stood looking gloomily out of the open window down into the dingystreet, where the strawberry barrow was moving slowly along, whilethe costermonger’s brassy voice brayed out his strange jargon. He hadno word to answer to the surgeon’s plain speaking. The accusation wastrue. He could not gainsay it.

‘Yes, I loved her once,’ he said to himself presently, as he sat bythe bedside after George Gerard had gone. ‘What kind of love was it, Iwonder? I felt my life a failure, and had abandoned all hope of evergetting back into the beaten tracks of respectability, and it seemedto me to matter very little what I did with my life, or what kind ofwoman I married. She was the handsomest woman I had ever seen, and shewas fond of me. Why should I not marry her? Between us we could manageto live somehow, au jour le jour, from hand to mouth. We tooklife lightly, both of us. Those were pleasant days. Yet I look back andwonder that I could have lived in the gutter and revelled in it. Howeven a gentleman can sink when once he ceases to respect himself? Whendid I first begin to be weary? When did I begin to hate her? Never tillI had met ——. Oh, Paradise, which I have seen through the half-openedgate, shall I verily be free to enter your shining fields, your gardenof gladness and delight?’

He sat by the bed in thoughtful silence, till the nurse came in to takehis place, and then he went out into the dusty streets, and walkednorthward in search of air. He had promised the nurse to be back at teno’clock, when she could have her supper and go to bed, leaving him incharge for the night. This was the usual routine.

‘All may be over when I go home to-night,’ he said to himself, andit seemed to him as if the past few years—the period of his marriedlife—were part of a confused dream.

It was all over now. Its follies and its joys belonged to the past. Hecould look back and pity his wife and himself. Both had been foolish,both erring. It was done with. They had come to the last page of avolume that was speedily to be closed for ever. He could forgive, hecould pity and deplore all that foolish past, now that it was no longerto fetter the future.

He rambled far that day—he was lighter of foot—the atmosphere out ofLondon was clearer, or it seemed clearer, than usual.[Pg 85] He walked toHarrow, and lay on the grass below Byron’s tomb, looking dreamily downat the dim world of London.

It was after eleven when he got back to Cibber Street. The public houseat the corner was closed, the latest of the gossips had deserted theirdoor-steps. He looked up to the first-floor windows. La Chicot’s bedhad been moved into the front room, because it was more cheerful forher, the nurse said; but it was Mrs. Mason and not La Chicot who lookedout of the window. The sickly yellow light shone through the dingyblind, just as it always did after dark. There was nothing to indicateany change. But all things would be the same, no doubt, if death werein the room.

As Jack stood on the door-step feeling in his pockets for the key, thedoor opened, and Desrolles, the second-floor lodger, came out.

‘I am going to see if I can get a drop of brandy at the Crown andSceptre,’ he said, explanatorily; ‘I’ve had one of my old attacks.’

Mr. Desrolles was a sufferer from some chronic complaint which healluded to vaguely, and which necessitated frequent recourse tostimulants.

‘The Crown and Sceptre is closed,’ said Jack. ‘I’ve some brandyupstairs; I’ll give you a little.’

‘That’s uncommonly good-natured of you,’ said Desrolles. ‘I should havea night of agony if I couldn’t get a little brandy somewhere. How lateyou are!’

‘I’ve walked further than usual. It was such a fine evening.’

‘Was it really? Hereabouts it was dull and grey. I thought we weregoing to have a thunderstorm. Local, I suppose. I’ve got some good newsfor you.’

‘Good news for me. The rarity of the thing will make it welcome.’

‘Your wife’s better, decidedly better. I looked in two hours agoto inquire. The nurse thinks she has taken a turn. Mr. Gerard washere at eight, and thinks the same. It’s wonderful. She rallied inan extraordinary manner between three and five o’clock, took hernourishment with an appearance of appetite for the first time since shehas been ill. Mrs. Mason is delighted. Wonderful, isn’t it?’

‘Very wonderful!’ exclaimed Jack Chicot; and who shall tell thebitterness of heart with which he turned from the shining vision of thefuture—the vision that had been with him all that evening, back to thedreary reality of the present.

He found Mrs. Mason elated. She had never seen a more marked change forthe better.

‘She’s as weak as a new-born infant, poor dear,’ she said of herpatient, ‘but it’s just as if life was coming gently and slowly[Pg 86] back,like the tide coming in over the sands when it has ebbed as low as everit can ebb.’

The improvement continued steadily from that hour. The brain, so longclouded, awakened as from sleep. Zaïre recovered her strength, hersenses, her beauty, her insolence and audacity. Before September shewas the old ‘Chicot;’ the woman whose portrait had flaunted on all thewalls of London. Mr. Smolendo was in raptures. The broken leg was assound as ever it had been. La Chicot would be able to dance early inNovember. A paragraph announcing this fact had already gone the roundof the papers. Another paragraph, more familiar in tone, informed thetown that Madame Chicot’s beauty had gained new lustre during theenforced retirement of her long illness. Mr. Smolendo knew his public.

CHAPTER IX.

‘AND ART THOU COME! AND ART THOU TRUE!’

It was late in November, and the trees were bare in the grounds ofHazlehurst Manor. The grand old mansion wore its air of grave dignity,under the dull grey skies of late autumn, but the charms and graces ofsummer had gone, and there was a shade of melancholy in the stillnessof the house and garden, and that pleasant enclosure, too big for ameadow, and too small for a park, over which the rooks swept like ablack cloud at evensong, going screaming home to their nests in thetall elms behind the house.

In this dreary season of the year Laura Malcolm was living quite aloneat the Manor-house. Celia Clare had been invited to spend a monthwith a well-to-do aunt at Brighton, and Brighton in the winter seasonrepresented the highest form of terrestrial bliss that had ever comewithin Celia’s experience. She had vague dreams of Paris, as of a citythat must far surpass even Brighton in blissfulness; but she had nohope of seeing Paris, unless, indeed, she were to get married, when shewould insist on her husband taking her there for the honeymoon.

‘Of course, the poor creature would do anything I told him then,’ saidCelia; ‘it would be different afterwards. I dare say when we had beenmarried a year he would try to trample on me.’

‘I can’t imagine any one trampling upon you, Celia,’ said Laura,laughing.

‘Well, I think I should make it rather difficult for him. But allmen are tyrants. Look at papa, for instance; the best of men, witha heart of gold; but let the cook make a failure, and[Pg 87] he goes onall dinner-time like the veriest heathen. Oh, they are altogetheran inferior breed, believe me. There is your young man, Laura—veryhandsome, very gentlemanlike, but as weak as water.’

‘Whom do you mean by my young man?’ asked Laura.

‘You know, or you would not blush so violently. Of course I mean JohnTreverton, your future husband. And, by-the-bye, you are to be marriedwithin a year after old Mr. Treverton’s death. I hope you have begun toorder your trousseau.’

‘I wish you would not talk such nonsense, Celia. You know very wellthat I am not engaged to Mr. Treverton. I may never be engaged to him.’

‘Then what were you two talking about that night under the chestnuts,when you lingered so far behind us?’

‘We are not engaged. That is quite enough for you to know.’

‘Then if you are not engaged you ought to be. That is all I can say. Itis ridiculous to leave things to the last moment, if you are ever sosure of each other. Old Mr. Treverton died early in January, and it isnow late in November. I feel quite uncomfortable about going away andleaving your affairs in such an unsatisfactory state.’

Celia, who was the most frivolous of beings, affected a talent forbusiness, and assumed an elder sister air towards Laura Malcolm thatwas pleasant in its absurdity.

‘You need not be uneasy, Celia. I can manage my own affairs.’

‘I don’t believe you can. You are awfully clever, and have read morebooks than I have ever seen the outside of in the whole course of mylife. But you are not the least little bit practical or business-like.You run the risk of losing this dear old house, and the estate thatbelongs to it, as coolly as if it were the veriest trifle. I begin tobe afraid that you have a sneaking kindness for that worthless brotherof mine.’

‘You need have no such fear. I feel kindly towards your brother forauld lang syne, and because I think he likes me——’

‘As well as he can afford to like anybody, taking into account thesmall residue of affection that remains over and above his great regardfor himself,’ interjected Celia, contemptuously.

‘But I have no feeling for him warmer than a commonplace friendship. Inever shall have.’

‘Poor Ted! I am sorry for his sake, but I am very glad for yours.’

Celia went off to Brighton radiant with three trunks and twobonnet-boxes, and the Manor-house sank suddenly into silence and gloom.Celia’s small frivolities were often troublesome,[Pg 88] but her perennialgaiety of temper had pleasantly enlivened the spacious unpeopledhouse. Her fun was a mere school-girl’s fun, perhaps, at best, but itwas genuine, the spontaneous outcome of animal spirits and a happydisposition. Celia would have chatted as merrily over a cup of tea anda herring in a garret at five shillings a week, as amidst the fleshpotsof Hazlehurst Manor. She was a joyous, improvident, idle creature,with the unreasoning love of life for its own sake which makes aNeapolitan beggar happy in the sunshine, and an English gipsy contentedunder the low arch of his canvas tent, on the patch of waste grass bythe wayside, whence he may be driven at any moment by a relentlessconstable.

Celia was gone, and Laura had ample leisure for serious meditation.In the first few days she was glad to be alone, to be free to thinkher own thoughts, to have no fear of encountering the keen glance ofCelia’s penetrating eyes; not to see that canary head, perched on oneside with an air of insufferable knowingness. Then, after a littlewhile, a deep melancholy crept over her spirits, a bitter sense ofdisappointment, which she could not banish from her mind.

She had never forgotten that long leave-taking in the avenue. Surely,if anything could mean an engagement, the words spoken then, the kisstaken then, meant the most solemn engagement. Yet since that nightsix months had passed and John Treverton had made no sign. And in allthat time his image had but rarely been absent from her thoughts. Dayafter day, hour after hour, she had expected to see him enter thegarden unannounced, as when she had seen him from the yew tree archway,standing looking quietly round him at the spring flowers and thesmiling sunny lawn, where the shadows of the trees came and went likeliving things, where the earliest bees were humming, and the first ofthe butterflies skimming over beds of red and yellow tulips.

She had seen him every day during his last visit to the Sampsons,and that one week of friendly companionship had brought them verynear together. In all that time he had said no word about the curiousposition which they occupied towards each other, and she had admiredthe delicacy of mind to which she ascribed this reticence. It seemed toher that no word ought to be said till the final word which fulfilledJasper Treverton’s wish and united their two destinies for ever. AndLaura saw no reason why that word should not be spoken in due time. Shefancied that John Treverton liked her. He was somewhat fitful in hisspirits during that week of sun and shower, variable as the weather; attimes wildly gay, capping Celia’s maddest joke with one still madder;on other occasions lapsing into gloom, which provoked Celia to protestthat he[Pg 89] must have committed a murder in his early youth, and that thememory of his crime was haunting him.

‘Just like Eugene Aram,’ she had said; ‘now positively, Laura, heis like Eugene Aram; and I feel convinced that somebody’s bones arebleaching in a cave ready to be put together like the pieces of apuzzle, and to appear against him at the predestined moment. Don’tmarry him, Laura, I’m sure there is some dreadful burden on hisconscience.’

They had been infinitely happy together in the most artless fashion,with the unthinking gladness of children whose calculations nevertravel beyond the present moment. Perhaps it was the delicious Aprilweather, which spread a warm glaze of sunny yellow over the earth, andbathed the young leaves in vivid light, and painted the sky an Italianblue, and set the blackbirds and throstles singing from an hour beforesunrise to an hour after sundown. This might in itself be enough forhappiness. And then there was youth, a treasure so rich that none of ushave ever learned to measure its value till we have lost it; when welook back and lament it, as perhaps, after all is said, the dearest ofall those dear friends we have buried; for was it not this which madethose others so deeply dear?

Whatever the cause, those three, and more especially those two, hadbeen happy. And yet after that week of innocent intimacy, after thatparting kiss, John Treverton had remained away for more than half ayear, and not by so much as a letter had he assured Laura that shestill held a place in his heart and mind.

She thought of him now with bitterest self-reproach. She was angry withherself for having let her heart go out to him, for having made thetacit engagement involved in that farewell kiss.

‘After all it is only the fortune he cares about,’ she said to herself,‘and after my foolishness that night he fancies himself so secureof me that he can stay in London and enjoy life in his own way, andthen come and claim me at the last moment, just in time to fulfil theconditions of his cousin’s will. He is making the most of his last yearof liberty. He will have no more of me than the law obliges him tohave. The year has nearly gone, and he has given me one little week ofhis society. A cool lover, certainly. A hypocrite, too, for he puts onlooks and tones that seemed like deepest, strongest love. A gratuitoushypocrisy,’ pursued Laura, lashing herself to sharper scorn, ‘for Iimplored him to be frank with me. I offered him a loyal, friendlyalliance. But he is a man, and I suppose it is man’s nature to befalse. He preferred to declare himself my lover, forgetting that hisconduct would belie his words. I will never forgive him. I will neverforgive myself for being so easily deceived.[Pg 90] The estate shall go tothe hospital. If he were here to-morrow, kneeling at my feet, I wouldrefuse him. I know the hollowness of his pretended love. He cannot foolme a second time.’

She had never been vain of her beauty. The secluded life she had ledwith her adopted father had left her simple as a cloistered nun in allher thoughts and habits. Edward Clare had told her that she was lovely,many times, and had praised her loveliness in his verses, with all theaffectation, and some of the license of that new school of poets ofwhich he was an obscure member; but Laura had received all such praisesas the effervescence of the poet’s frothy intellect rather than as ajust tribute to her charms. Now, full of anger against John Treverton,she looked in her glass one winter night and wondered if she werereally beautiful.

Yes, if the Guido in the dining-room below was beautiful—if featuresof purest modelling, dark hazel eyes, and a clear complexion faintlyflushed with delicate carnation—if sculptured eyelids darkly fringed,a mouth half sad, half scornful, and dimples that showed momentarily inthe mockery of a self-contemptuous smile—if these meant beauty, LauraMalcolm was assuredly beautiful. She was too true an artist not to knowthat this was beauty which smiled at her bitterly from the darkness ofthe glass.

‘Perhaps I am not his style,’ she said, with a little laugh. ‘I haveheard Edward Clare say that of girls I have praised. “Yes, she is verywell, but not my style,” as if Providence ought to have had him in viewwhenever it created a pretty woman. “Not my style,” Edward would drawllanguidly, as much as to say, “and therefore a failure.”’

Every idea of John Treverton now remaining in Laura’s mind was athought of bitterness. She was so angry with him that she could notgive him credit for one worthy act or one honourable feeling. As nearlyas a soul so generous could hate did she now approach to the sin ofhatred.

This was her mood one day in the beginning of December, indeed, it hadbeen her mood always for the last three months; but in the leisure ofher late solitude her anger had intensified. This was her mood as shewalked in the garden, in the cold sunshine, looking at the pale primfaces of the fading chrysanthemums,—the perky china asters lendingthe last touch of bright colour to the dying year—the languorous lateroses, flaunting their sickly beauty, like ball-room belles who refusedto bow their heads to the sentence of time. It was a morning of unusualmildness: the arrow-point of the old-fashioned vane pointed south-west;the leaves of the evergreen oaks were scarcely ruffled by the wind; thetall Scotch firs, red and[Pg 91] rugged columns topped by masses of swartfoliage, stood darkly out against a calm, clear sky.

This garden was Laura’s chief delight in her loneliness. God had giftedher with that deep and abiding love of nature, which is perhaps one ofHis richest gifts. They who possess it can never be utterly joyless.

She had walked in garden and orchard for more than an hour, when shecame back by the old yew tree arch, and just in the spot where she hadseen him more than half a year ago, she saw John Treverton standingagain to-day.

What an unstable thing is a woman’s anger against the man she loves!Laura’s first feeling at sight of John Treverton was indignation. Shewas on the point of receiving him with crushing politeness, of freezinghim with coldest courtesy, when she perceived that he looked ill andcareworn, and was gazing at her with eyes full of yearning tenderness.Then she forgot her wrongs in one moment, and went up to him and gavehim her hand, saying gently,—

‘What have you been doing with yourself all this time?’

‘Knocking about London, doing very little good for myself or any oneelse,’ he answered frankly.

Then he seemed to lose himself in the delight of being with her. Hewalked by her side, saying never a word, only looking at her with fond,admiring eyes; as if she had come upon him suddenly, like a revelationof hitherto unknown loveliness and delight.

At last he found a voice, but not for any brilliant utterance.

‘Are you really just a little glad to see me again?’ he asked.‘Remember, you promised me a welcome.’

‘You have been in no haste to claim the fulfilment of my promise. Itwas made more than six months ago. You have had other welcomes in themeanwhile, no doubt, and have forgotten all about Hazlehurst Manor.’

‘The Manor-house, and she who occupies it, have never been absent frommy thoughts.’

‘Really; and yet you have stayed away so long. That looks rather likeforgetfulness.’

‘It was not forgetfulness. There have been reasons—reasons I cannotexplain.’

‘And do they no longer exist?’

‘No,’ he gave a long sigh, ‘they are at an end now.’

‘You have been ill perhaps,’ speculated Laura, looking at him with asolicitude she could not wholly conceal.

‘I have been far from well. I have been working rather harder thanusual. I have to earn my bread, you know, Laura.’

‘Have you any profession now that you have left the army?’ asked Laura.

[Pg 92]

‘I left the army six years ago. I have managed to live by my own laboursince that time. My career has been a chequered one. I have livedpartly by art, partly by literature, and have not succeeded in winninga name in either profession. That does not sound a brilliant account,does it? Its only merit is truth. I am nobody. Your generosity and mycousin Jasper’s will may make me somebody. My fate depends on you.’

This was hardly the tone of a lover. It was a tone that Laura’s pridewould have resented had she not inwardly believed that John Trevertonloved her. There is a subtle power in the love which keeps silencemightier than all love’s eloquence. A hand that trembles when ittouches another, one swift look from loving eyes, a sigh, a tone, willtell more than an oration. John Treverton was the most reticent oflovers, yet his reserve did not offend Laura.

They went into the grave old house together, and sat down to luncheon,tête-à-tête, waited upon by Trimmer, the old butler, who hadlived more than thirty years with Jasper Treverton, and had liftedLaura out of the carriage when his master brought her to the manora delicate child, looking wistfully round at strange objects withwide-opened eyes.

‘They looked just for all the world like man and wife,’ said Trimmer,when he went back to his pantry, ‘and I hope before long it’ll be that.They’ll make a fine couple, and I’m sure they’re fond o’ one anotheralready.’

‘It isn’t in Miss Laura to marry a man she wasn’t fond of, not for allthe fortunes in Christendom,’ retorted Mrs. Trimmer, who had been cookand housekeeper nearly as long as her husband had been butler.

‘Well, if I was a young woman I’d marry a’most anybody rather than I’dlose such a ’ome as Hazlehurst Manor,’ answered Trimmer. ‘I ain’t amoney-grubber, but a good ’ome ain’t to be trifled with. And if theydon’t marry, and the estate goes to build a norsepital, what’s tobecome of you and me? Some folks in our position would be all agog forsetting up in the public line and making our fortunes, but I’ve seenmore fortunes lost than won that way, and I know when I’m well off.Good wages paid reg’lar, and everything found for me, is all I ask.’

After luncheon Laura and John went for a walk in the grounds. A mutualinclination led them to the shrubbery where they had parted that Aprilnight. The curving avenue of good old trees made a pleasant walkeven at this season, when not a green leaf was left, and the raggedcrows’ nests showed black amidst the delicate tracery of the topmostbranches. The air was even milder than in the morning. It might havebeen an afternoon early in October. John Treverton stopped in front ofthe rugged trunk of the great chestnut under which Laura and[Pg 93] he hadparted. The young leaves had made a canopy of shade that night; now thebig branches stood out dark and bare, stained with moss and weather.The grass at the foot of the tree was strewn with green husks andbroken twigs, dead leaves and shining brown nuts.

‘I think it was at this spot we parted,’ said John. ‘Do you remember?’

‘I have a vague recollection that it was somewhere about here,’ Lauraanswered, carelessly.

She knew the spot to an inch, but was not going to admit as much.

He took her hand, and drew it gently through his arm, as if they werestarting upon a pilgrimage somewhere, then bent his head and kissed thedelicate bare hand—a lovely tapering hand that could only belong to alady, a hand which was in itself something for a lover to adore.

‘Darling, when are we to be married?’ he asked softly, almost in awhisper, as if an unspeakable shyness took hold of him at that criticalmoment.

‘What a question!’ cried Laura, with pretended astonishment. ‘Who hasever talked about marriage? You have never asked me to be your wife.’

‘Did I not? But I asked you if you were angry with your adoptedfather for his will, and you said No. That was as much as to say youwere content we should gratify the good old man’s wish. And we canonly do so by becoming man and wife. Laura, I love you more than Ican ever say, and loving you as I do, though I am conscious of manyshortcomings—yes, though I know myself in many respects unworthy to beyour husband—a pauper—unsuccessful—without name or fame—less thannobody—still, darling, I fall upon my knees here, at your feet; I, whonever knelt to a woman before, and have too seldom knelt to my God, andsue to you in forma pauperis. Perhaps in all England there livesno man less worthy to be your husband, save for the one merit of lovingyou with all his heart and soul.’

He was kneeling before her, bareheaded, at the foot of the old chestnuttree, among the rugged roots that curved in and out amidst the grass.Laura bent down, and touched his forehead with her lips. It was hardlya kiss. The sweet lips fluttered on his forehead for an instant andwere gone. No butterfly’s wing was ever lighter.

‘I will take you, dear,’ she said gently, ‘with all your faults,whatever their number. I have a feeling that I can trust you—all themore, perhaps, because you do not praise yourself. We will try to doour duty to each other, and to our dead benefactor, and to use hiswealth nobly, shall we not, John?’

[Pg 94]

‘You will use it, nobly, love; you can do nothing that is notnoble,’ he answered, gravely.

He was pale to the lips, and there was no gladness in his look, thoughit was full of love.

CHAPTER X.

ENGAGED.

John Treverton stayed at the Manor-house till after dark, alone withhis betrothed, and happier than he had ever been in his life. Yes,happy, though it was with a desperate happiness as of a child pluckingwild flowers on the sunny edge of an abyss. He must have been somethingless or more than human if he had not been happy in Laura Malcolm’scompany to-day, as they sat by the fire in the gloaming, side by side,her head leaning against his shoulder, his arm round her waist, herdark eyes hidden under drooping lids as they gazed dreamily downward atthe smouldering logs; the room lit dimly by the fire-glow, grotesqueshadows coming and going on the wall behind them, like phantom forms ofgood or evil angels hovering near them as they sat face to face withfate, the one unconscious of all danger, the other reckless and defiant.

Now that the word had been spoken, that they two were pledged to eachother to the end of life, Laura let her heart go out to her loverwithout reserve. She was not afraid to let him see her fondness.She did not seek to make her love more precious to him by simulatedcoldness. She gave him all her heart and soul, as Juliet gave herselfto Romeo. Lips that had never breathed a word of love, now murmuredsweetest words in his ear; eyes that had never looked into a lover’seyes, gazed and lost themselves in the depths of his. Never was lovermore innocently or unreservedly adored. If he had been boastful orself-assertive, Laura’s pride would have taken alarm. But his deephumility, and a shadow of melancholy which hung over him even whenhe seemed happiest, asked for her pity; and a woman is never betterpleased with her lover than when he has need of her compassion.

‘And do you really love me, Laura?’ he asked, his face bent over thebeautiful head which seemed to have found so natural a resting-placeupon his shoulder. ‘If there had been no such thing as my cousinJasper’s will, and you and I had met in the outside world, do you thinkI am the man your heart would have chosen?’

‘That is too abstruse a question in metaphysics,’ she answered,[Pg 95]laughingly. ‘I only know that my heart chose you, and that papa’swill—I must call him by the old name—did not influence my choice.Don’t you think that is quite enough for you to know?’

‘It is all I desire to know, my loveliest. Or not quite all. I shouldlike to know—out of mere idle curiosity—when you first began to thinkme not altogether despicable.’

‘Do you want the history of the case from the very beginning?’

‘From the eggs to the apples, from the very first instant when yourheart began to beat a little more kindly for me than for all the restof the world.’

‘I will tell you——’

She paused, and looked up at him with a smile of innocent coquetry.

‘Yes, dearest.’

‘When you have told me the history of your life, from the instant whenI became more to you than the common herd of women.’

His first answer was a deep sigh.

‘Ah, dear love, my case was different. I struggled against my passion.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I felt myself unworthy of you.’

‘That was foolish.’

‘No, dear, it was wise and right. You are like a happy child, Laura;your past is a blank page, it has no dark secrets——’

He felt her trembling as he spoke. Had his words frightened her? Didshe begin to divine the dangers that hemmed him around?

‘Dearest, I don’t want to alarm you; but in the past experience of aman of my age there is generally one page he would give ten years ofhis life to cancel. I have a dark page. Oh, my love, my love, if I feltmyself really worthy of you my heart would hardly hold my happiness.It would break with too great a joy. Men’s hearts have so broken.When did I begin to love you? Why, on the night I first entered thishouse—the cheerless winter night, when I came, like the prodigal son,weary of the husks and the stye, vaguely yearning for some better life.Your thrilling eyes, your grave, sweet smile, your tender voice, cameupon me like the revelation of a new world, in which womanhood meantgoodness and purity and truth. My senses were as yet unmoved by yourbeauty; my mind reverenced your goodness. You were no more to me thana picture in a gallery, but you thrilled my soul as the picture mighthave done; you awakened new thoughts, you opened a door into heaven.Yes,[Pg 96] Laura, admiration, reverence, worship, those began on the firstnight. Before I left Hazlehurst, worship had warmed into passionatelove.’

‘Yet you stayed away from January to April!’

‘My absence was one long conflict with my love.’

‘And from April to December—after——’

‘After you had shown me your heart, dear love, and I knew that youmight be mine. That last absence needed a more desperate courage. Well,I came back, you see. Love was stronger than wisdom.’

‘Why must it be unwise for us to love each other?’

‘Only because of my unworthiness.’

‘Then we will forget your unworthiness, or, if your modesty likesbetter, I will love you and your unworthiness too. I do not suppose youa faultless paragon, John. Papa told me that you had been extravagantand foolish. You will not be extravagant and foolish any more, willyou, dear, when you are a sober married man?’

‘No, love.’

‘And we will both strive to do all the good we can with our largefortune.’

‘You shall be the chief disposer of it.’

‘No, no, I would not have it so on any account. You must be lord andmaster. I shall expect you to be quite the ideal country squire, thesun and centre of our little universe, the general benefactor. I willbe your prime minister and adviser, if you like. I know all the poorpeople for ten miles round, on our estate, and on other people’s land.I know their wants and their weaknesses. Yes, John, I think I can helpyou in doing much good; in making improvements that will not ruin you,and will make the lives of the labouring people much happier.’

quoted John, tenderly. ‘Can I ever be happier than in obeying you?’

‘Do you know that it will be a great happiness to me not to leave theManor,’ said Laura, presently. ‘You must not think me mercenary, orthat I value a big house and a large fortune. It is not so, John. Icould live quite contentedly on the income papa left me, more thancontentedly, in a cottage with you; but I love the Manor for its ownsake. I know every tree in the grounds, and have watched them allgrowing, and sketched and painted them until I almost know the form ofevery branch.[Pg 97] And I have lived so long in these old rooms that I doubtif any other rooms would ever look like home. It is a dear old house,is it not, John? Will you not be very proud when you are the master ofit?’

‘I shall be very proud of my wife when I can dare to call her mine.That will be pride enough for me,’ answered John, drawing her a littlenearer to his heart. ‘And now, I suppose I ought to go and see Sampson,and tell him that everything is definitely settled. When are we to bemarried, love? My cousin died on the 20th of January. We ought not todelay our marriage longer than the end of this month.’

‘Let us be married on the last day of the month,’ said Laura. ‘Itis the most solemn day in all the year. We shall never forget theanniversary of our wedding if it is on that day.’

‘I should never forget it in any case,’ answered John Treverton. ‘Letit be on that day, love. The closing year shall unite me to you forlife. I shall see Mr. Clare to-night, and arrange everything.’

They were a long time saying ‘Good-bye,’ and just at the last JohnTreverton suggested that Laura should put on her hat and jacket andwalk to the gates with him, so the first ‘Good-bye’ was wasted trouble.They were a long time walking to the gates, and the early winter nighthad come, and the stars were shining when they reluctantly parted.Laura tripped along the avenue with as light a foot as Juliet’s whenshe came to the friar’s cell to be married; John Treverton went slowlydown the road towards Hazlehurst village, with his head bent upon hisbreast, and all the joy faded out of his face.

He found Mr. Sampson and his sister just sitting down to dinner, andwas welcomed with enthusiasm by both.

‘Upon my soul, you’re a most extraordinary fellow,’ exclaimed thelawyer, after a good deal of handshaking. ‘You run off in no end of ahurry, promising to come back in a week or two at latest, and for sixmonths we see no more of you; and you don’t even favour your familysolicitor with a line to say why you don’t come. There are not many menin England who would play fast and loose with such chances as yours.Your cousin, when he made that curious will of his, told me you hadbeen wild, but I was not prepared for such wildness as this.’

‘Really, Tom,’ remonstrated Miss Sampson, blushing the salmon pinkpeculiar to sandy-haired beauty, ‘you have no right to talk to Mr.Treverton like that.’

‘Yes, I have,’ answered Sampson, who prided himself on his openmanner—his ‘bonnomy,’ as he called it; ‘I have the right given me by agenuine interest in his affairs—the interest of a friend rather than alawyer. You don’t suppose it’s for the sake of the six-and-eightpencesI take so much upon myself, Lizzie?[Pg 98] No, it is because I have a sincereregard for my old client’s kinsman, and a disinterested anxiety for hiswelfare.’

‘I think you may make your mind easy about me,’ said John, without anyappearance of elation; ‘I am going to be married on the last day ofthis month, and I want you to prepare the settlement.’

‘Bravo!’ cried Tom Sampson, flourishing his napkin; ‘I’m almost as gladas if I’d backed the winner of the double event and woke up to findmyself worth twenty thousand pounds. My dear fellow, I congratulateyou. The Hazlehurst property is a good eight thousand a year. There’sthree thousand in ground rents in Beechampton, and your dividends fromrailways and consols bring your income to a clean fourteen thousand.’

‘If Miss Malcolm were penniless, I should be as proud of winning her asI am now,’ said John, gravely.

‘That’s a very gentlemanlike way of looking at it,’ exclaimed thelawyer, as much as to say, ‘We know all about it; you are bound to saythat kind of thing.’

Miss Sampson looked down at her plate, and felt that appetite wasgone for ever. It was foolishness, no doubt, to feel so keen a pang;but girlhood is prone to foolishness, and Eliza Sampson had not yetowned to thirty. She had known from the first that John Treverton wasto marry Laura Malcolm, and yet she had allowed herself to indulge insecret worship at his shrine. He was handsome and attractive, and MissSampson had seen so few young men who were either one or the other,that she may be forgiven for fixing her young unhackneyed affection onthe first distinguished stranger who came within the narrow orbit ofher colourless life.

She had lived under the same roof with him; she had handed himhis coffee in the morning, his tea—ah, how carefully creamed andsugared!—in the evening. She had studied his tastes, and catered forhim with unfailing care. She had played Rosellen’s Reverie in G forhis delectation every evening during his two visits. She had sung hisfavourite ballads, and if her voice sometimes failed her on the highnotes, she made up in pathos what she wanted in power. These things arenot easily to be forgotten by a youthful mind fed upon three-volumenovels, and naturally prone to sentiment.

‘Our wedding will be a very quiet affair,’ said John Treverton,presently; ‘Laura wishes it to be so, and I am of her mind. I shallbe glad if you will kindly refrain from talking about it to anyone,Sampson, and you too, Miss Sampson. We don’t want to be objects ofinterest in the village.’

‘I will be as dumb as a skin of parchment,’ answered the lawyer, ‘and Iknow that Eliza will be the soul of discretion.’

Eliza looked up shyly at their guest, her white eyelashes quiveringwith emotion.

[Pg 99]

‘I ought to congratulate you, Mr. Treverton,’ she faltered, ‘but it isall so sudden, so startling, that I can hardly find words.’

‘My dear Miss Sampson, I know your friendly feeling towards me,’ Johnanswered, with tranquil good-nature.

Oh, how cool he was, how cruelly indifferent to her feelings! And yethe ought to have known! Had Rosellen’s Reverie, with the soft pedaldown, said nothing?

Later in the evening John Treverton and his host smoked their cigarstête-à-tête in Mr. Sampson’s office, besidethe comfortable hearth, by which the lawyer was fonder of sitting thanin his sister’s highly decorated drawing-room, among the starchedantimacassars, and chairs that were not to be sat on, and foot-stoolsthat were intended for anything rather than the accommodation of thehuman foot. This unsociable habit of spending his evenings aloof fromthe family circle Mr. Sampson excused on the plea of business.

The two men sat opposite each other for some time in friendly silence,John Treverton gravely meditative, Mr. Sampson in an agreeable frameof mind. He was congratulating himself on the prospect of retaininghis position as agent for the Treverton Estate, which profitablestewardship must have been lost to him if John Treverton had been sobesotted in his folly as to forfeit his heritage by refusing to complywith the conditions of his kinsman’s will.

‘I want fully to understand my position,’ said John, presently. ‘Am Ifree to make what settlement I please upon my future wife?’

‘You are free to settle anything which you at present possess,’answered the lawyer.

‘My present possessions amount to something less than a five-poundnote.’

‘Then I don’t think we need talk about a marriage settlement. By theterms of your cousin’s will his estate is to be held in trust for atwelvemonth. If within that time you shall have married Miss Malcolm,the estate will pass into your possession at the end of the year. Youcan then make a post-nuptial settlement, on as liberal a scale as youplease; but you cannot give away what you do not possess.’

‘I see. It must be a post-nuptial settlement. Well, you may as welltake my instructions at once. You can rough-draft the settlement,submit your draft to counsel, have it engrossed and ready for executionupon the day on which I pass into possession of the property.’

‘You are in a desperate hurry,’ said Sampson, smiling at his client’sgrave eagerness.

‘Life is full of desperate uncertainties. I want the welfare of thewoman I love to be assured, whatever fate may be mine.’

[Pg 100]

‘That is a generous forethought rare in lovers. However intensely theymay love in the present, their love seldom takes the form of solicitudefor the beloved one’s future. Hence generation after generation ofpenniless widows and destitute children. After me the deluge, is yourlover’s motto. Well, Mr. Treverton, what do you propose to settle onyour wife in this post-nuptial deed?’

‘The entire estate, real and personal,’ answered John Treverton,quietly.

Mr. Sampson dropped his cigar, and sat transfixed, an image ofhalf-amused astonishment.

‘This bangs Banagher;’ he exclaimed, ‘you must be mad.’

‘No, I am only reasonable,’ answered Treverton. ‘The estate was left tome nominally, to Laura Malcolm actually. What was I to the testator? Ablood relation, truly, but a stranger. At the time he made that will hehad never seen my face; what little he had ever heard of me must havebeen to my disadvantage; for my life has been one long mistake, and Ihave given no man reason to sing my praises. What was Laura to him? Hisadopted daughter, the beloved and the affectionate companion of hisdeclining years; his faithful nurse, his disinterested slave. Whateverlove he had to give must have been given to her. She had grown up byhis hearth. She had sweetened and cheered his lonely life. He left hisestate to me, in trust for her; so that he might keep his oath, and yetleave his wealth where his heart prompted him to bestow it. He foundin me a convenient instrument for the carrying out of his wishes; andI have reason to be proud that he was not unwilling to trust me withsuch a charge, to give me the being he held dearest. I shall settle thewhole of the estate on my wife, Sampson. I consider myself bound inhonour to do so.’

Mr. Sampson looked at his client with a prolonged and searching gaze, aslow smile dawning on his somewhat stolid countenance.

‘Don’t be offended at my asking the question,’ he said. ‘Are you indebt?’

‘I don’t owe sixpence. I have lived a somewhat Bohemian life, but Ihave not lived upon other people’s money.’

‘I am glad to hear that,’ said Sampson, selecting a fresh cigar froma comfortably-filled case, ‘because if you imagine that by such asettlement as you propose you could escape the payment of any debtsnow existing you are mistaken. A man can make no settlement to theinjury of his creditors. As regards future liability the case would bedifferent, and if you were deeply involved in commerce, a speculator,I could understand your desire to shift the estate from your ownshoulders to your wife’s. But as it is——’

[Pg 101]

‘Can’t you understand something not strictly commercial?’ exclaimedJohn Treverton, waxing impatient. ‘Can’t you understand that I want toobey the spirit as well as the letter of my cousin Jasper’s will? Iwant to make his adopted daughter the actual mistress of the estate, inthe same position she would have naturally occupied had he never madethat foolish vow.’

‘In so doing you make yourself a pensioner on her bounty.’

‘So be it. I am content to occupy that position. Come, my dear Sampson,we need not argue the question any further. If you won’t draw up theform of settlement I want, I must find a lawyer who will.’

‘My dear sir,’ cried Tom Sampson, briskly, ‘when a client of mineis obstinately bent upon making a fool of himself, I always see himthrough his folly. He had better make a fool of himself in my handsthan in anyone else’s. I do not suffer by the loss of his business, andI am vain enough to believe that he suffers less than he would if hetook his business to any other office. If you have quite made up yourmind, I am ready to rough-draft any form of settlement you dictate; butI am bound to warn you that the dictation of such a settlement is aqualification for Bedlam.’

‘I will risk even as much as that. Nobody need know anything about thesettlement but you and I, and, later, my wife. I shall not speak of itto her until it is ready for execution.’

Mr. Sampson, in a chronic state of wonder, took half a quire ofslippery blue foolscap, and began his draft, with a very squeaky quillpen and a large consumption of ink. Simple and uniform as the giftwas which John Treverton wished to make to his wife, the transfer ofit required to be hedged round and intertwined with so much legalphraseology that Tom Sampson had consumed his half-quire of foolscapbefore he came to the end of the draft. The estate had to be scheduled,and every homestead and labourer’s cottage had to be described in aphrase of abstract grandeur, as ‘all that so and so, commonly knownas so and so,’ and so forth, with almost maddening iteration. JohnTreverton, smoking his cigar, and letting his thoughts wander away ata tangent every now and then to regions that were not always pathsof pleasantness, thought his host would never leave off driving thatinexorable quill—the sort of pen to sign a death-warrant and feel nonethe worse for it—over the slippery paper.

‘Come,’ exclaimed Sampson, at last, ‘I think that ties the estateup pretty tightly on your wife and her children after her. She cansquander the income as she pleases, and play old gooseberry up toa certain point, but she can’t put the tip of her little finger onthe principal. And now you have only to name two responsible men astrustees.’

[Pg 102]

‘I don’t know two respectable men in the world,’ said John, frankly.

‘Yes, you do. You know the vicar of this parish, and you know me. Yourcousin Jasper considered us worthy to be trustees to his will. You needhardly be afraid to make us trustees to your marriage settlement.’

‘I have no objection, and I certainly know no better men.’

‘Then we’ll consider it settled. I’ll send the deed to counsel byto-morrow’s post. I hope you quite understand that this settlement willmake you a pauper—wholly dependent upon your wife. If you were tothrow yourself on the parish, she would have to maintain you. Bar that,she may use you as badly as she likes.’

‘I am not afraid of her ill-usage.’

‘Upon my honour and conscience,’ mused Thomas Sampson, as he laidhimself down to rest that night. ‘I believe John Treverton is over headand ears in love with Miss Malcolm. Nothing but love or lunacy canexplain his conduct. Which is it? Well, perhaps the line that dividesthe two is only a distinction without a difference.’

CHAPTER XI.

NO TROUSSEAU.

Laura was utterly happy in the brief interval between her betrothal andher wedding. She had given her love and trust unreservedly, feelingthat duty and love went hand in hand. In following the inclination ofher heart she was obeying the behest of her benefactor. She had beenvery fond of Jasper Treverton, had loved him as truly as ever daughterloved a father. It seemed the most natural process to transfer her lovefrom the adopted father to his young kinsman. The old man in his gravewas the bond of union between the girl and her lover.

‘How pleased papa would have been if he could have known that John andI would be so fond of each other,’ she said to herself, innocently.

Celia Clare hurried back from Brighton, eager to assist her friend atthis momentous crisis of her life.

‘Brighton was quite too delightful,’ said Celia, ‘but not for worldswould I be absent from you at such a time. Poor soul, what would youhave done without me?’

‘Dear Celia, you know how fond I am of you, but I think I could reallyhave managed to get married without your assistance.’

[Pg 103]

‘Get married! Yes, but how would you have done it?’ cried Celia, makingher eyes very round and big. ‘You would have made a most horrid muddleof it. Now, what about your trousseau? I’ll wager you have hardlythought of it.’

‘There you are wrong. I have ordered two travelling dresses, and ahandsome dinner dress.’

‘And your collars and cuffs, your handkerchiefs, your peignoirs, yourcamisoles,’ pursued Celia, enumerating a string of articles.

‘My dear child, do you suppose I have lived all these years withoutcuffs and collars, and handkerchiefs?’

‘Laura, unless you have everything new you might just as well not bemarried at all.’

‘Then you may consider my marriage no marriage, for I am not troublingmyself about new things.’

‘Give me carte blanche and leave everything to me. What is the use ofmy sacrificing Brighton just when it was more than too enchanting,unless I can be of some use to you?’

‘Well, Celia, in order that you may not be unhappy, I will give youpermission to review my wardrobe, and if you find an alarming dearthof collars and handkerchiefs I’ll drive you to Beechampton in the ponycarriage, and you shall buy whatever you think proper.’

‘Beechampton is hideously behind the age, disgustingly démodé,and your things ought to be in the latest style. I’ll look through theadvertisem*nts in the Queen, and send to London for patterns. Itis no use having new things if they are not in the newest fashion. Onedoes not wear out one’s cuffs and collars—they go out.’

‘You shall have carte blanche, dear, if it will atone for the loss ofBrighton.’

‘My dearest girl, you know I would not desert you at such a crisisof your life for forty Brightons,’ cried Celia, who had lofty ideasabout friendship; ‘and now about your wedding gown? That is the mostimportant point of all.’

‘It is ordered.’

‘You did not mention it just now.’

‘Did I not? I am going to be married in one of the gowns I ordered fortravelling, a mixture of grey silk and velvet, the jacket trimmed withchinchilla. I think it will be very handsome.’

Celia fell back in her chair as if she were going to faint.

‘No wedding gown!’ she cried; ‘no trousseau, and no wedding gown! Thisis indeed an ill-omened marriage! Well may poor Edward talk.’

Laura flushed indignantly at this last sentence.

‘Pray what has your brother been saying against my marriage?’ sheasked, haughtily.

[Pg 104]

‘Well, dear, you cannot expect him to feel particularly pleasant aboutit, knowing—as you must know—how he has gone on doting upon you, andhoping against hope, for the last three years. I don’t want to make youunhappy, but I must confess that Edward has a very bad opinion of Mr.Treverton.’

‘I daresay Mr. Treverton will manage to exist without Edward’s goodopinion.’

‘He thinks there is something so utterly mysterious in hisconduct—something insulting to you in the fact of his holding himselfaloof so long, and then coming back at the last moment, just in time tosecure the estate!’

‘I am the best judge of Mr. Treverton’s conduct,’ answered Laura,deeply wounded. ‘If I can trust him other people may spare themselvesthe trouble of speculating upon his motives.’

‘And you can trust him?’ asked Celia, anxiously.

‘With all my heart and soul.’

‘Then have a proper wedding gown,’ exclaimed Celia, as if the wholequestion of bliss or woe were involved in that one detail.

When next Miss Malcolm met Edward Clare there was a coolness in hergreeting which the young man could not mistake.

‘What have I done to offend you, Laura?’ he asked, piteously.

‘I am offended with everyone who doubts the honour of my futurehusband,’ she answered.

‘I’m sorry for that,’ he said, gloomily. ‘A man cannot help histhoughts.’

‘A man can hold his tongue,’ said Laura.

‘Well, I will be silent henceforth. Good-bye.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Anywhere, anywhere out of the world; that is to say out of this littleworld of Hazlehurst. I think I am going to London. I shall take alodging close to the British Museum, and work hard at literature. It istime I made my mark.’

Laura thought so too. Edward had been talking of making his mark forthe last five years, but the mark as yet was a very feeble one.

Next day he was gone, and Laura had a sense of relief in his absence.

Celia stayed at the Manor-house during the time before the wedding.She was always in attendance upon the lovers, drove with them, walkedwith them, sat by the fire with them at the cheery, dusky afternoontea time, when those mysterious shadows that looked like guardianangels came and went upon the walls. John Treverton seemed to have noobjection to Celia’s company, he rather courted it, even. He was not anardent lover, Celia thought; and yet it would have been difficult todoubt that he was deeply in love. Never since that first evening hadLaura’s head[Pg 105] rested against his breast, never since then had he givenfull and unrestrained utterance to his passion. His manner was full ofreverent affection; as if he respected his betrothed almost too deeplyto be lavish in the expression of warmer feeling; as if she stood sohigh above him in his thoughts of her that love was a kind of worship.

‘I think I should like a more demonstrative lover,’ said Celia, with acritical air. ‘Mr. Treverton is so awfully serious.’

‘And now that you have seen more of him, Celia, are you still inclinedto think that he is mercenary; that it is the estate and not me hecares for?’ asked Laura, with no fear as to the answer.

‘No, dear, I honestly believe that he adores you, that he isdreadfully, desperately, almost despairingly, in love with you,’answered Celia, very seriously, ‘but still he is not my style of lover.He is too melancholy.’

Laura had no answer to this objection. As the days had hurried ontowards the end of this eventful year her lover’s spirits had assuredlynot grown lighter. He was full of thought, curiously absent-minded attimes. She, too, grew grave in sympathy with him.

‘It is such a solemn crisis of our lives,’ she thought. ‘Sometimes Ifeel as if all things could not go happily to the end, as if somethingmust happen to part us, at the very last, on the eve of our weddingday.’

The eve of the wedding came, and brought no calamity. It was a veryquiet evening. The lovers dined together at the vicarage, and walked tothe Manor-house afterwards, alone with each other, almost for the firsttime since the night of their betrothal. Everything had been arrangedfor to-morrow’s wedding! Such a quiet wedding! No one had been invitedexcept Mr. Sampson and his sister. The vicar’s wife was to be present,of course. She would in a manner represent the bride’s mother. Celiawas to be the only bridesmaid. They were to be married by licence, andno one in the village had as yet any inkling of the event. The servantsat the Manor-house had only been told the date of the marriage withinthe last two days, and had been forbidden to talk about it; and as theywere old servants, who had long learned to identify themselves with‘the family,’ they were not likely to disobey Miss Malcolm’s orders.

The house, always the perfection of neatness, had been swept andgarnished for this important occasion. The chintz covers had beentaken off the chairs and sofas in the drawing-room, revealing tapestrywreaths and clusters of flowers, worked by Jasper Treverton’s motherand aunts in a period of almost awful remoteness. The housekeeper hadbeen baking her honest old face in front of a huge kitchen fire, whileshe stirred her jellies,[Pg 106] and watched her custards, and turned her gamepie. There was to be a breakfast fit for the grandest wedding, thoughMiss Malcolm had told Mrs. Trimmer that a very simple meal would bewanted.

‘You mustn’t deny me the pleasure of doing my best, at such a time,’urged the faithful servant. ‘I should feel it a reproach to me all therest of my life if I didn’t. There shan’t be no extravagance, Miss, butI must put a pretty breakfast on the table. I’m so glad our barberrybushes bore well this year. The berries make such a tasty garnish forcold dishes.’

Mrs. Trimmer was roasting herself and her poultry in the spacious oldkitchen, at ten o’clock at night, while John and Laura were comingfrom the vicarage, arm in arm, Laura strangely glad to have him allto herself for one little half hour, he vexatiously silent. Celia wasat the Manor-house, laid up with a headache and a new novel. She hadexcused herself from the dinner in her usual flippant style.

‘Give them my love, and say I was too seedy to come,’ she said. ‘Goingto dine with one’s parents is quite too slow. I dined with them onChristmas Day, you know; and Christmas Day at the vicarage has alwaysbeen the quintessence of dulness. The thing Iwondered at most, when I came of age, was how I ever could have livedthrough twenty-one of our Christmases.’

They were thus, by happy accident, as Laura thought, alone together;and, behold! the lover, the bridegroom of to-morrow, had not a word tosay.

‘John,’ Laura began softly at last, almost afraid to break this gloomysilence, ‘there is one thing you have not told me, and yet it is whatmost girls in my position would call a very important matter.’

‘What is that, dearest?’

‘You have never told me where we are to spend our honeymoon. Celia hasbeen worrying me with questions about our plans, andI have found it difficult to evade her. I did not like to confess myignorance.’

A simple and a natural question surely, yet John Treverton started, asat the sharpest thrust that Fate could have at him.

‘My dearest love—I—I have really not thought about it,’ he answered,stumblingly. ‘We will go anywhere you like. We will decide to-morrow,after the wedding.’

‘Is not that a rather unusual mode of proceeding?’ asked Laura, with afaint laugh.

She was somewhat wounded by this show of indifference as to thevery first stage in their journey through life. She would haveliked her lover to be full of wild schemes, to be eager to take hereverywhere—to the Engadine, the Black Forest, the English Lakes,Killarney, the Trossachs—all in a breath.

[Pg 107]

‘Are not all the circ*mstances of our marriage unusual?’ he repliedgravely. ‘There is only one thing certain, there is only one thingsweet and sacred in the whole business—we love each other truly anddearly. That is certain, is it not, Laura?’

‘On my side quite certain.’

‘And on my side quite as certain as that I live and that I shall die.Our love is deep and fixed, rooted in the very ground of our lives, isit not, Laura? Nothing, no stroke of time or fate can change it.’

‘No stroke of time or fate can change my love for you,’ she said,solemnly.

‘That is all I want to know. That is the certainty which makes my soulglad and hopeful.’

‘Why should it be otherwise? Were there ever two people more fortunatethan you and I. My dear adopted father dies, leaving a will that mighthave made us both wretched, that might have tempted you to pretend alove you could not feel, me to give myself to a man I could not love.But instead of any such misery as that, we fall in love with eachother, almost at first sight, and feel that Providence meant us foreach other, and that we could be happy together in the deepest poverty?’

‘Yes,’ said John, meditatively, ‘it is odd that my cousin Jasper shouldhave been so sure we should suit each other.’

‘There is a Providence in these things,’ murmured Laura.

‘If I could but think so,’ said her lover, rather to himself than toher.

CHAPTER XII.

AN ILL-OMENED WEDDING.

The last day of the year, nature’s dullest, dreariest interval betweenthe richness of autumn and the fresh young beauty of spring. Not aflower in the prim old Manor-house garden, save a melancholy tea-rose,that looked white and wan under the dull grey sky, and a few pallidchrysanthemums, with ragged petals and generally deplorable aspect.

‘What a miserable morning!’ exclaimed Celia, shivering, as she lookedout of Laura’s dressing-room window at the sodden lawn and theglistening yew-tree hedge, beyond which stretched a dismal perspectiveof leafless apple-trees, and the tall blackpoplars that marked the boundary of the home pastures, where the prettygrey Jersey cows had such a happy time in spring and summer.

[Pg 108]

Laura and her companion were taking an early breakfast—a meal at whichneither could eat—by the dressing-room fire. Both young women were ina state of nervous agitation, but while one was restless and full oftalk, the other sat pale and silent, too deeply moved for any show ofemotion.

‘Drip, drip, drip,’ cried Celia, pettishly, ‘one of those odiousScotch mists, that is as likely to last for a week as for an hour.Nice draggle-tail creatures we shall look after we have walked up thatlong churchyard path under such rain as this. Well, really, Laura,don’t think me unkind for saying so, but I do call this an ill-omenedwedding.’

‘Do you?’ said Laura, with a faint smile. ‘Do you really suppose thatit will make any difference to my future life whether I am married on arainy day or on a fine one? I rather like the idea of going out of thedulness into the sunshine, for I know our wedded life will be full ofsunshine.’

‘How confident you are!’ exclaimed Celia, wonderingly.

‘What have I to fear? We love each other dearly. How can we fail to behappy?’

‘That’s all very well, but I should have been easier in my mind if youhad had a wedding gown. Think how awkward it will be, by-and-by, whenyou are asked to dinner parties. As a bride you will be expected toappear in ivory satin and orange blossoms. People will hardly believein you.’

‘How many dinner parties are likely to be given within ten miles ofHazlehurst during the next six months?’ asked Laura.

‘Not many, I admit,’ sighed Celia. ‘One might as well live on theGold Coast, or at some remote station in Bengal. Of course, papa andmamma will give a dinner in your honour, and Miss Sampson will askyou to tea. Oh, Miss Sampson’s teas, with the tea and coffee handedround on an electro-plated salver, and Rosellen’s Reverie in G on thecracked old piano, and vingt et un at the loo-table, and anchovysandwiches, blanc-mange, and jelly to wind up the wild dissipations ofthe evening. Then there are the county families, bounded on the eastby Sir Joshua Parker, and on the north by the Dowager Lady Barker. Youwill have stately calls from them. Lady Barker will regret that she hasleft off giving dinner parties since her lamented husband’s death. LadyParker will square accounts by sending you a card for a garden partynext July.’

This conversation took place at half-past eight. At ten the two girlswere dressed and ready to drive to the church. Laura looked lovely inher grey silk travelling dress, and grey Gainsborough hat, with itsdrooping ostrich plume.

‘One thing I can honestly say, from the bottom of my heart,’ exclaimedCelia, and Laura turned to her with a smile, expecting to hearsomething interesting; ‘you have out and away the[Pg 109] handsomest ostrichfeather I ever saw in my life. You may leave it to me in your will ifyou like. I’m sure I took trouble enough to get it; and you ought to begrateful to me for getting your hat to match your gown so exactly.’

And now they are driving along the muddy road, between bare ranks ofdark and dripping trees, and under as dull and colourless a sky asever roofed in Hazlehurst. The old church, with its queer cornersand darksome side-aisles, its curious gallery pews in front of theorgan, something like boxes at a theatre, where the aristocracy sitin privileged retirement, its hatchments, its old-fashioned pulpit,reading-desk, and clerk’s desk, its faded crimson cushions anddraperies—a church which the restorer’s hand has never improved, forwhose adornment no devout ladies have toiled and striven, the dullold-world parish church of the last century—looked its darkest andgloomiest to-day. Not even the presence of youth and beauty couldbrighten and enliven it.

John Treverton, and Mr. Sampson, who was to give the bride away, werethe last to arrive. The bridegroom was deadly pale, and the smile withwhich he met his bride, though full of fondest love, was wanting ingladness. Celia performed her duty as bridesmaid in a business-likeway, worthy of the highest praise. Mr. Clare read the servicedeliberately and well, the pale bridegroom spoke out manfully when histime came; nor did Laura’s low voice falter when she pronounced thewords that sealed her fate.

The wedding breakfast was quietly cheerful. That the bridegroomshould have very little to say, and that the bride should be paleand thoughtful, surprised no one. The vicar and the lawyer werein excellent spirits; Celia’s lively tongue chimed in at everyopportunity. Mrs. Clare was full of friendly anticipations about whatthe young couple would do when they settled down. The dull, dampmorning had sharpened people’s appetites, and there was a good dealsaid in praise of the game pie and the truffled turkey; while the oldwines that had been brought forth, mantled in cobwebs, from the darkrecesses of Jasper Treverton’s cellar, were good enough to evolvefaint flashes of wit from the most sluggish brain. Thus the weddingbreakfast, which had the air of a small family gathering, went offpleasantly enough.

The bride and bridegroom were not to start on their travels till afterdark. They were going northward by the mail, on their way to Dover.

Very little had been said about the honeymoon. It was only vaguelyunderstood that John Treverton and his wife were going to the South ofFrance. The vicar had to hurry off soon after breakfast, to read thefuneral service over the coffin of a venerable parishioner, and therest of the company took his departure as a signal to disperse. Therewas nothing to detain them. This marriage was not as other marriages.There were to be no[Pg 110] evening revels, there was no dazzling array ofwedding gifts to stare at and talk about. Laura had so few friends thather wedding presents could have been reckoned on the fingers of thelittle white hand that looked so strange and wonderful in her eyes,glorified with a brand new ring, a broad and solid band of gold, strongenough to wear till her golden wedding. The few guests felt that therewas nothing more for them to do but to take their leave, with muchreiteration of good wishes, and cheery anticipations of the festivitieswhich were to enliven the old house, when the honeymoon should havewaned.

And now all were gone; the brief winter day was closing, the new yearwas coming with hastening footsteps. Only the merest remnant of the oldyear remained. How silent the house was in the winter gloaming, silentwith an almost death-like stillness! Laura and Celia had spun out theirparting to the last moment, lingering together in the hall long afterthe rest had gone. Celia had so much to say, so many injunctions aboutcuffs and collars, and the time and seasons at which Laura was to wearher various gowns. And then there were little gushes of affection, hugsand squeezes.

‘You won’t care one iota for me now you’ve a husband,’ murmured Celia.

‘You know better, you silly girl. My marriage will not make theslightest difference in my feelings.’

‘Oh, but it always does,’ said Celia, with an experienced air. ‘When aman marries, the friends of his bachelor days go to the wall; everybodyknows that; and it’s just the same thing with a girl. I expect to findmyself nowhere.’

Laura declared she would always be true to friendship, and thus theyparted, Celia running home by herself, with all her wedding finerysmothered under a waterproof Ulster. The rain had ceased by this time,and there was the red gleam of a wintry sunset in the west.

The hall-door shut with a clang that echoed in the silence of thehouse, and Laura went slowly back to the drawing-room, wondering alittle to find herself alone in the gloom of twilight on her weddingday. It was altogether so different from the ordinary idea of awedding—this delayed departure, this uncomfortable interval betweenthe festivity of the wedding breakfast and the excitement of thewedding journey.

She found the drawing-room empty. She had left John Treverton therewith Mr. Sampson half an hour ago, when she went upstairs to assist inpacking Celia in the waterproof, and now both were gone. The spaciousroom, splendid with an old-fashioned splendour, was lighted only by thefading wood fire. The white panelled walls and antique mirrors had aghostly look; the shadowy corners were too awful to contemplate.

[Pg 111]

‘Perhaps I shall find him in the study,’ Laura said to herself. ‘It iskettledrum time.’

She laughed softly to herself. How new, how strange it would be to sitdown tête à tête at the oval tea-table, man and wife, settledin domesticity for life, no further doubt of each other or of theirfate possible to either—the bargain made, the bond sealed, the pledgegiven, that could be broken only by death.

She went slowly through the silence of the house to the room at theend of the corridor, the little book-room opening into the flowergarden. She opened the door softly, meaning to steal in and surpriseher husband in some pleasant reverie, but on the threshold she stoppedappalled, struck dumb.

He was sitting in an attitude of deepest dejection, his foreheadresting on his folded arms, his face hidden. Sobs, such as but seldomcome from the agonized heart of a strong man, were tearing the heart ofJohn Treverton. He had given himself up, body and soul, to the passionof an unconquerable despair.

Laura ran to him, bent over him, drew her arm gently round his neck.

‘Dearest, what is amiss?’ she asked, tenderly, with trembling lips.‘Such grief, and on such a day as this! Something dreadful must havehappened. Oh, tell me, love, tell me!’

‘I can tell you nothing,’ he answered, hoarsely, putting her arm awayas he spoke. ‘Leave me, Laura. If you pity me, leave me to fight mybattle alone. It is the only kindness you can show me.’

‘Leave you, and in such grief as this! No, John, I have a right toshare your sorrow. I will not go till you have confided in me. Trustme, love, trust me. Whom can you trust if not your wife?’

‘You don’t know,’ he gasped, almost angrily. ‘There are griefs youcannot share—a depth of torture you can never fathom. God forbid thatyour pure young soul should ever descend into that black gulf. Laura,if you love, if you pity me—and indeed, dear love, I need all yourpity—leave me now for a little while; leave me to finish my strugglealone. It is a struggle, Laura, the fiercest this weak soul of mine hasever passed through. Come back in an hour, dear, and then—you willknow—I can explain some part, at least, of this mystery. In an hour,in an hour,’ he repeated, with increasing agitation, pointing with awavering hand to the door.

Laura stood for a moment or so, irresolute, deeply moved, her womanlydignity, her pride as a wife, hurt to the quick. Then, with a smile,half sad, half bitter, she softly quoted the gentle speech ofShakespeare’s gentlest heroine:—

[Pg 112]

And with those words she left him, full of painful wonder.

If she could have seen the agonized look he turned upon her as she lefthim; if she could have seen him start and shiver as the door closedupon her, and rise and rush to the door, and kneel down and press hislips upon the insensible panel her hand had touched, and beat hisforehead against the dull wood in a paroxysm of despair, she might havebetter estimated the strength of his love and the bitterness of hisgrief.

She went to her own room, and sat wondering helplessly at this troubleand mystery that had come down like a sudden storm-cloud upon thebrightness of her new life. What did it mean? Had all his professionsof love been false? Had he bound himself to her for the sake of hiscousin’s fortune, despite all his protestations to the contrary? Didhe love some one else? Was there some older, dearer tie that madethis bond of to-day intolerable to him? Whatever the cause of hisrepentance, it was clear to Laura’s mind that her husband of a fewhours bitterly repented his marriage. Never surely had such deephumiliation fallen upon a woman.

She sat in the firelit dressing-room, looking straight before her,numbed and helpless in her grief and humiliation. Reflection couldthrow no new light upon her husband’s conduct. What reason could hehave for grief or regret, if he loved her? Never had fortune smiledmore kindly upon man and wife than upon these two.

She looked back upon the days of their brief courtship, and rememberedmany things which favoured the idea that he had never really lovedher, that he had been actuated by mercenary considerations alone. Sheremembered how cold a lover he had been, how seldom he had courtedher confidence, how little he had told of his own life, how glad hehad always seemed of Celia’s company, frivolous and even fatiguing asthat young lady’s conversation was apt to be. It was all too clear.She had been duped and fooled by this man to whom she had so freelygiven her heart, from whom she had asked nothing but candour and plaindealing. She lived through that hour of waiting somehow. It was thelongest hour she had ever known. Her maid came to attend to the fire,and light the candles on dressing-table and mantelpiece, and lingered alittle, pretending to be busied about the trunks and travelling bags,expecting her mistress to talk to her, and then departed softly, to goback to the revellers in the housekeeper’s room, where the atmospherewas heavily charged with tea and buttered toast, and to tell them howdull the bride looked, and how she had sat like a statue and said nevera word.

‘Who was it went out at the front door just now?’ asked the old butler,looking up from a cup of tea which he had been gently fanning with hisbreath. ‘I heard it shut to.’

[Pg 113]

‘It must ’ave bin Mr. Treverton,’ said Mary, Laura’s maid. ‘I met ’imin the ’all. I dessay he were goin’ out to smoke his cigar. It was toodark for me to see his face, but he didn’t walk as gay and light asa gentleman ought on his wedding day, to my mind,’ added Mary, withauthority.

‘Well, I dunno,’ remarked Mr. Trimmer, the butler, solemnly. ‘Perhaps awedding ain’t altogether the comfortablest day in a man’s life. There’stoo many eyes upon him. He feels as he’s the objick of everybody’snotice, and if he’s a delicate-minded man it kind of preys upon him. Ican quite understand Mr. Treverton’s not feeling quite himself to-day.And then you see he comes into the estate by a fluke, as you may say,and he ain’t got it yet, and he won’t feel himself independent till theyear’s out, and the property is ’anded over to him.’

Mr. Trimmer did not drop his aspirates habitually, like Mary; he onlylet one slip now and then when he was impressive.

The hour was ended. For the last twenty minutes Laura had been sittingwith her watch in her hand. Now she rose with her heart beatingtumultuously, and went quickly down the wide old staircase, hasteningto hear her husband’s explanation of his extraordinary conduct. He hadpromised to explain.

Had she not been very foolish in torturing herself for this last hourwith vain endeavours to fathom the mystery?

Had she not been still more foolish when she jumped at conclusions, andmade up her mind that John Treverton did not love her? There might betwenty other reasons for his grief, she told herself, now that the hourof suspense was ended, and that she was going to hear his explanation.

She trembled as she drew near the door, and felt as if in anothermoment she might stumble and fall fainting on the threshold. Shewas approaching the most critical moment of her life, the veryturning-point of her destiny. All must depend upon what John Trevertonhad to say to her in the next few minutes. She opened the door and wentin, breathless, incapable of speech. She felt that she could ask him noquestions, she could only stand there and listen to all he had to tell.

The room was empty, Laura could just see as much as that in thefitful glow of the fire; and then a jet of flame leaped suddenly outof the dimness like a living thing, and showed her a letter lying onthe table. He had written to her. That which he had to tell was tooterrible for speech, and he had, therefore, written. Hope and comfortdied within her at the sight of that letter. She hurried back to herdressing-room, where she had left the candles burning, locked herselfin, and then, standing, faint and still trembling, by the mantelpiece,she tore open the envelope and read her husband’s letter.

[Pg 114]

‘Dearest and ever dearest,—

‘When this letter is in your hands I shall have left you, in allprobability for a long time, perhaps for ever. I love you as dearly,as fondly, as passionately as ever man loved woman, and the pain ofleaving you is worse than the pain of death. Life is not so sweet tome as you are. This world holds no other delight for me but your sweetcompany, your heavenly love; yet I, the most miserable of men, mustforego both.

‘Dearest, I have done a shameful and perhaps a foolish act. I havecommitted a crime in order to bind your life with mine, somehow, inthe rash hope that some day that bond may be made legal and complete.Two ends are served by this act of mine. I have won you from all othermen—John Treverton’s wife will have no suitor—and I have secured youthe possession of your old home and your adopted father’s fortune. Hisdesire is at least realized by this sad and broken wedding of ours.

‘Dearest love, I must leave you, because there is an old tie whichforbids me as a man of honour to be more to you than I now am. Yourhusband in name; your defender and champion, if need were, before allthe world; your adoring slave, in secret and in absence, to the dayof my death. If Fate prove kind, this bond of which I speak will notlast for ever. My fetters will fall off some day, and I shall returnto you a free man. Oh, my love, pity and forgive me, keep a place inyour heart for me always, and believe that in acting as I have acted Ihave been prompted by love alone. I shall not touch a sixpence of mycousin’s fortune till I can come back to you, a free man, and receivewealth and happiness from you. Till then you will be sole mistress ofHazlehurst Manor, and all that goes with it. Mr. Sampson will tell youwhat settlement I have made—a settlement that will be duly executedby me upon the day on which I become the ostensible owner of my cousinJasper’s estate.

‘My beloved, I can say no more; I dare reveal no more. If you deignto think at all of one who has so deceived you, think of me pityinglyas the most deeply wretched of men. Forgive me if you can; and I dareeven to hope for pardon from the infinite goodness of your nature. Itis sweet to me in my misery to know that you bear my name—that thereis a link between us that can never be broken, even though Fate shouldbe cruel enough to part us for life. But I hope for better things fromdestiny; I hope for and look forward to a time when I shall sign myselfwith pride and gladness more intense than the pain I feel to-day, yourloving husband, John Treverton.’

She stood for some minutes pale as marble, with the letter in her hand,and then she lifted the senseless paper to her lips, and kissed itpassionately.

‘He loves me,’ she cried involuntarily. ‘Thank God for that. I can bearanything now I am sure of that.’

[Pg 115]

She believed implicitly in the letter. A woman with wider knowledge ofthe evil things of this world might have seen only a tissue of lies inthese wild lines of John Treverton’s; but to Laura they meant truth andtruth alone. He had acted very wickedly; but he loved her. He had doneher almost the deepest wrong a man could do to a woman; but he lovedher. He had duped and fooled her, made her ridiculous in the sight ofher friends and acquaintance; but he loved her. That one virtue in himalmost atoned for all his crimes.

‘There’s not the least use in my trying to hate him,’ she told herself,in piteous self-abasem*nt, ‘for I love him with all my heart and soul.I suppose I am a mean-spirited young woman, a poor creature, for Icannot leave off loving him, though he has treated me very cruelly, andalmost broken my heart.’

She locked the letter in the secret drawer of her dressing-case, andthen sat down on a low stool by the fire and wept very quietly overthis new, strange sorrow.

‘Celia was right,’ she said to herself, by-and-by, with a bitter smile.‘It was an ill-omened marriage. She need not have taken so much troubleabout my collars and cuffs.’

And then later she began to think of the difficulties, the absurdity ofher position.

‘Wife and widow,’ she thought, ‘with a husband who ran away from me onmy wedding-day. How am I to account to the world for his conduct? Whata foolish, miserable creature I shall appear.’

It came suddenly into her mind that she could not endure, not yetawhile, at any rate, to have to explain her husband’s conduct—to givesome reason for his desertion of her. Anything would be better thanthat. She must run away somewhere. She must leave the revelation totime. It would be easier for her to write to her old friend the vicarfrom a distance.

She could bear anything rather than to be cross-examined by Celia, whohad always distrusted John Treverton, and who might be secretly elatedat his having proved himself an impostor.

‘I must go away at once,’ she decided; ‘this very night. I must go formy honeymoon alone.’

She rang, and Mary came quickly, flushed with tea, buttered toast, andthe hilarity below stairs.

‘What time is the carriage to come for us, Mary?’ asked Mrs. Treverton.

‘At a quarter to eight, ma’am. The mail goes at twenty minutes beforenine.’

‘And it is just half-past six. Mary, do you think you could get readyto go with me in an hour and a quarter?’

It had been arranged that Laura was to travel without a maid,[Pg 116] much tothe disappointment of Mary, who had an ardent desire to see foreignlands.

‘Lor’, ma’am, I haven’t a thing packed; but I should dearly like to go.Do you really mean it?’

‘I do mean it, and I shall be very much pleased with you if you’llcontrive to pack your trunk in time to go with me.’

‘I’ll do it, ma’am,’ cried Mary, clasping her hands in ecstasy, andthen she tore downstairs like a mad thing to announce to the assemblyin the housekeeper’s room that she was going to France with hermistress.

‘That’s a sudden change,’ said the butler. ‘And where’s Mr. Trevertonall this time? He didn’t ought to be out of doors in the dark, smokinghis cigar, instead of keeping his wife company.’

‘No more he didn’t,’ said Mary, with indignation; ‘he ain’t my notionof a ’usband, leaving her to mope alone on her wedding day, poor dear!It’s my belief she’d been crying her eyes out just now, tho’ she wasartful enough to keep her face turned away from me while she spoke. Idessay she’s made up her mind to take me abroad with her for company,because she feels she’ll be dull and lonesome with ’im.’

‘You’d better go and pack up your box,’ said the housekeeper, ‘and notstand gossiping there. What do you know of the ways of gentry, marriedor single, I should like to know? When you’ve been in service as longas I have you may talk.’

‘Well, I’m sure,’ cried Mary, indignantly, and then she expressed ahope that her soul was her own, even at Hazlehurst Manor.

Before half-past seven, Mary had packed her box, and had it conveyedto the hall. Mrs. Treverton’s trunks and bags had also been broughtdown. At a quarter to eight the carriage drove up to the door, anold-fashioned landau in which Jasper Treverton used to take hisdaily airing, drawn by a pair of big horses that had begun life atthe plough. Since the lamps had been lighted no one had seen thebridegroom. The tea-things had been taken into the book-room, and theurn had hissed itself to silence, but no one had come there to taketea. Laura only came downstairs when the carriage was at the door.

‘Joe, run and look for Mr. Treverton,’ cried the butler to hisunderling.

‘Mr. Treverton will meet us at the station,’ Laura said, hurriedly; andthen she got into the carriage, and called to Mary to follow her.

‘Tell Berrows to drive quickly to the station,’ she told the butler,and at the first crack of the whip the overfed horses swung the bigcarriage round, as if they meant to annihilate the good old house, andwent off along the avenue with the noise of a Barclay and Perkins dray.

[Pg 117]

‘Well, I never did!’ exclaimed the housekeeper. ‘Fancy his meeting herat the station, instead of their going off together, sitting side byside, like true lovers.’

‘I’m afraid there’s not much true love about it, Martha,’ said herhusband, sententiously, and then, waxing familiar, he said, ‘When youand me was married we didn’t manage matters so did we, my lass?’

CHAPTER XIII.

THE SETTLEMENT.

Laura had been married three weeks and a day, and the new year wasjust three weeks old. It was a very ailing and ungenial year in thisinfantine stage of its existence. There had been hardly a day ofpleasant weather since its birth, nothing but rain and sleet, anddamp raw cold, and morning mists and evening fogs. It was not a good,honest, old-fashioned winter, such as we read of in story books, andenjoy about once in a decade. It was simply obnoxious, ill-conditionedweather, characteristic of no particular season.

It was just a day after the anniversary of Jasper Treverton’s death,and Tom Sampson was meditating in a lazy, comfortable way, on hisformer client, as he sat by the office fire sipping his tea, which hehad desired to be brought to him in his den, as he was so terriblybusy. He had not dipped a pen in the ink yet, and it was half-pastnine o’clock; but it was not for Eliza Sampson to know this. She wasalways taught to believe that when her brother spent his evenings inthe office he was working severely—‘double tides,’ he called it. Ifshe came in to look at him she found him scratching away violently witha quill that tore shrieking along the paper, like an express trainrushing through a village station; and it was not for her to know thatThomas snatched up his pen and put on this appearance of industry whenhe heard her gentle footfall at his door. Domestic life is made up ofsuch small secrets.

To-night Tom Sampson was in a particularly lazy humour. He was gettinga rich man, not by large earnings, but by small expenditure, and life,which is an insoluble problem for many, was as easy for him as one ofthose nine elementary axioms in Euclid that seem too foolishly obviousto engage the reasoning power of the smallest schoolboy, such as—‘ifequals be taken from equals, the remainders are equal,’ and so on. Tomwas thinking that he ought to be thinking about marrying. He was[Pg 118] notin love, and never had been since he exchanged his schoolboy jacket fora tail-coat; but he told himself that the time had come when he mightprudently allow himself to fall in love. He would love not too well,but wisely.

‘Lizzie is a good girl, and she knows my ways,’ he said to himself,‘but she’s getting old maidish, and that’s a fault which will growupon her. Yes, decidedly, it is time I thought of a wife. A man’schoice is confoundedly limited in such a hole as this. I don’t wantto marry a farmer’s daughter, though I might get a fine healthy youngwoman, and a tidy little bit of money, if I could please myself amongthe agricultural class; but Tom Sampson has his failings, and prideis one of ’em. I should like my wife to be a cut above me. There’sCelia Clare, now. She’s more the kind of thing I should fancy; plumpand pretty, with nice, lively ways. I’ve had a little too much of thesentimental from poor Lizzie. Yes, I might do worse than marry Celia.And I think she likes me.’

Mr. Sampson’s meditations were interrupted at this point by the soundof a footstep on the sloshy gravel walk outside his office door.There was a half-glass door opening into the garden, as well as thedoor opening from the passage, which was the formal approach for Mr.Sampson’s clients. Only his intimates entered by the garden door, andhe was unable to imagine who his late visitor could be.

‘Ten o’clock,’ he said to himself. ‘It must be something particular.Old Pulsby has got another attack of gout in the stomach, perhaps,and wants to alter his will. He always alters his will when he gets asharp attack. The pain makes him so savage that it’s a relief to him todisinherit somebody.’

Mr. Sampson speculated thus as he undrew the bolt and opened the glassdoor. The man who stood before him was no messenger from old Pulsby,but John Treverton, clad in a white mackintosh, from which the waterran in little rills.

‘Is it yourself or your ghost?’ asked Sampson, falling back to let hisclient enter.

The question was not without reason. John Treverton’s face was as whiteas his raiment, and the combined effect of the pale, haggard face andthe long white coat was altogether spectral.

‘Flesh and blood, my dear Sampson, I assure you,’ replied the othercoolly, as he divested himself of his mackintosh, and took up his standin front of the comfortable fire, ‘flesh and blood frozen to the bone.’

‘I thought you were in the South of France.’

‘It doesn’t matter what you thought, you see I am here. Yesterday putme in legal possession of my cousin’s estate. I have come to executethe deed of settlement. It’s all ready of course?’

‘It’s ready, yes; but I didn’t think you’d be in such a hurry.[Pg 119] Ishould have thought you would have stopped to finish your honeymoon.’

‘My honeymoon is of very little importance compared with my wife’sfuture welfare. Come, Sampson, look sharp. Who’s to witness mysignature?’

‘My sister and one of the servants can do that.’

‘Call them in, then. I’m ready to sign.’

‘Hadn’t you better read the deed first?’

‘Well, yes, perhaps. One can’t be too careful. I want my wife’sposition to be unassailable as the summit of Mount Everest. You havetaken counsel’s opinion, and the deed will hold water?’

‘It would hold the Atlantic. Your gift is so entirely simple, thatthere could be no difficulty in wording the deed. You give your wifeeverything. I think you a fool, so did the advising counsel; but thatmakes no difference.’

‘Not a whit.’

John Treverton sat down at the office table and read the deed ofsettlement from the first word to the last. He gave to his dear wife,Laura Treverton, all the property, real and personal, of which he stoodpossessed, for her sole and separate use. There was a good deal oflegal jargon, but the drift of the deed was clear enough.

‘I am ready,’ said John.

Mr. Sampson rang the bell for the servant, and shouted into the passagefor his sister. Eliza came running in, and at sight of John Treverton’spale face screamed, and made as if she would have fainted.

‘Gracious, Mr. Treverton!’ she gasped, ‘I thought there were oceansbetween us. What in mercy’s name has happened?’

‘Nothing alarming. I have only come to execute my marriage settlement,which I was not in a position to make till yesterday.’

‘How dreadful for poor Mrs. Treverton to be left alone in a foreignland!’

John Treverton did not notice this speech. He dipped his pen in the inkand signed the paper, while Miss Sampson and Sophia, the housemaid,looked on wonderingly.

‘Sophia, run and get a pair of sheets aired, and get the spare roomready,’ cried Eliza, when she had affixed her signature as witness. ‘Ofcourse you are going to stop with us, Mr. Treverton?’

‘You are very kind. No, I must get away immediately. I have a trapwaiting to take me back to the station. Oh, by-the-way, Sampson, aboutthat money you kindly advanced to me. It must come out of the estatesomehow; I suppose you can manage that?’

[Pg 120]

‘Yes, I think I can manage that,’ answered Sampson modestly. ‘Do youwant any further advance?’

‘No, the estate belongs to my wife now. I must not tamper with it.’

‘And what’s hers is yours of course. Well, I congratulate you with allmy heart. You are the luckiest fellow I ever knew, bar none. A handsomewife, and a handsome fortune. What more can a man ask from Fate?’

‘Not much, certainly,’ said John Treverton, ‘but I must catch the lastup-train. Good-night.’

‘Going back to the South of France?’

John Treverton did not wait to answer the question. He shook handshastily with Eliza, and dashed out into the garden. A minute afterwardsMr. Sampson and his sister heard the crack of a whip, and the sound ofwheels upon the high road.

‘Did you ever see such a volcanic individual?’ exclaimed the solicitor,folding up the deed of settlement.

‘I am afraid he is not happy,’ sighed Eliza.

‘I am afraid he is mad,’ said Tom.

CHAPTER XIV.

‘YOU HAVE BUT TO SAY THE WORD.’

Mr. Smolendo was in his glory. In the words of his friends andfollowers he was coining money. He was a man to be cultivated andrevered. A man for whom champagne suppers or dinners at Richmond wereas nothing; a man for whom it was easier to lend a five-pound notethan it is for the common ruck of humanity to advance half-a-crown.Flatterers fawned upon him, intimate acquaintances hung fondly uponhim, reminding him pathetically that they knew him twenty years ago,when he hadn’t a sixpence, as if that knowledge of bygone adversitywere a merit and a claim. A man of smaller mind might have had hismental equilibrium shaken by all this adulation. Mr. Smolendo was aman of granite, and took it for what it was worth. When people wereparticularly civil, he knew they wanted something from him.

‘The lessee of a London theatre is not a man to be easily had,’ hesaid; ‘he sees human nature on the ugliest side.’

Christmas had come and gone, the New Year was six weeks old, and Mr.Smolendo’s prosperity continued without abatement. The theatre wasnightly crowded to suffocation. There were morning performances everySaturday. Stalls and boxes were booked a month in advance.

[Pg 121]

‘La Chicot is a little gold mine,’ said Mr. Smolendo’s followers.

Yes, La Chicot had the credit of it all. Mr. Smolendo had produced agrand fairy spectacle, in which La Chicot was the central figure. Sheappeared in half-a-dozen costumes, all equally original, expensive,and audacious. She was a fountain of golden water, draped exclusivelyin dazzling golden fringe, a robe of light, through which herfinely-sculptured form flashed now and then, as the glittering fringeparted for an instant, like a revelation of the beautiful. She was afishwoman in a scanty satin kirtle, scarlet stockings, and a high capof finest Brussels lace. She was a bayadère, a debardeur, a wood nymph,an odalisque. She did not dance as she danced before her accident,but she was as beautiful as ever, and a trifle more impudent. She hadlearnt enough English to speak the lines of her part, and her accentgave a charm and a quaintness to the performance. She sang a comic songwith more chic than melody, and was applauded to the echo. The criticstold her she had ascended to a higher grade in the drama. La Chicottold herself that she was the greatest woman in London, as well as thehandsomest. She lived in a circle of which she herself was the centre.The circumference was a ring of admirers. There was no world beyond.

Something to this effect she told her fellow lodger, Mr. Desrolles,one grey afternoon in February, when he dropped in to beg a glass ofbrandy, in order to stave off one of those attacks he so often talkedabout. She was always particularly friendly with the ‘Second Floor,’ asit was the fashion of the house to call this gentleman. He flatteredand amused her, fetched and carried for her, and sometimes kept hercompany when she was in too low spirits to drink alone.

‘My good creature, you oughtn’t to live in such a hole as this.Upon my soul, you ought not,’ said Desrolles with an air that washalf-protection, half-patronage.

‘I know I ought not,’ replied La Chicot. ‘There is not an actress inParis who would not call me stupid as an owl for my pains. Quediable, I sacrifice myself for the honour of a husband who mockshimself of me, who amuses himself elsewhere, and leaves me to fretand pine alone. It is too much. See then, Desrolles, it may be thatyou think I boast myself when I tell you that one of the richest menin London is over head and ears in love with me. See, here are hisletters. Read them, and see how much I have refused.’

She opened a work-basket on the table, and from a chaos of reelsof cotton, tapes and buttons, and shreds and patches, extractedhalf-a-dozen letters, which she tossed across the table to Desrolles.

‘Do you leave your love-letters where your husband might so easily findthem?’ asked Desrolles, wonderfully.

[Pg 122]

‘Do you suppose he would give himself the trouble to look at them?’she cried scornfully. ‘Not he. He has so long left off caring for mehimself, that he never supposes that anybody else can fall in love withme. Help yourself to that cognac, Monsieur Desrolles. It is the onlysafe drink in this miserable climate of yours; and put some coals onthe fire, mon bonhomme. I am frozen to the marrow of my bones.’

La Chicot filled her glass by way of setting a good example, andemptied it as placidly as if the brandy had been sugar and water.

Desrolles looked over the letters she had handed him. They all went tothe same tune. They told La Chicot that she was beautiful, and that thewriter was madly in love with her. They offered her a carriage, a housein Mayfair, a settlement. The offers rose in value with the lapse oftime.

‘How have you answered him?’ asked Desrolles, curious and interested.

‘Not at all. I knew better how to make myself valued. Let him wait forhis answer.’

‘A man must be very hard hit to write like that,’ suggested thegentleman.

La Chicot shrugged her statuesque shoulders. She was lovely even inher more than careless attire. She wore a long loose dressing-gown ofscarlet cashmere, girdled with a cord and tassels, which she tied anduntied, and twisted and untwisted in sheer idleness. Her massy hair wasrolled in a great rough knob at the back of her head, ready to escapefrom the comb and slide down her back at the slightest provocation. Thedead white of her complexion showed like marble against the scarletrobe, the dense hair showed raven black above the pale brow and largeluminous eyes.

‘Is he as rich as he pretends to be?’ asked La Chicot, thoughtfullyswinging the heavy scarlet tassel, and lazily contemplating the fire.

‘To my certain knowledge,’ said Mr. Desrolles, with an oracular air,‘Joseph Lemuel is one of the wealthiest men in London.’

‘I don’t see that it much matters,’ said La Chicot, meditatively. ‘Ilike money, but so long as I have enough to buy what I want, it’s allthat I care about, and I don’t like that grim-looking Jew.’

‘Compare a house in Mayfair with this den,’ urged Desrolles.

‘Where is Mayfair?’

Desrolles described the neighbourhood.

‘A wilderness of dull streets,’ said La Chicot, with a contemptuousshrug. ‘What is one street better than another? I should like a housein the Champs Elysées—a house in a garden,[Pg 123] dazzling white, all overflowers, with big, shining windows, and a Swiss stable.’

‘A house like a toy,’ said Desrolles. ‘Well, Lemuel could buy you oneas easily as I could buy you a handful of sugar plums. You have but tosay the word.’

‘It is a word that I shall never say,’ exclaimed La Chicot, decisively.‘I am an honest woman. And then, I am too proud.’

Desrolles wondered whether it was pride, virtue, or rank obstinacywhich made La Chicot reject such brilliant offers. It was not easy forhim to believe in virtue, masculine or feminine. He had not travelledby those paths in which the virtues grow and flourish, but he had madeintimate acquaintance with the vices. Since a certain interview with LaChicot’s husband, in which he had promised to keep a paternal eye uponthe lady, Mr. Desrolles had wound himself completely into the wife’sconfidence. He had made himself alike useful and agreeable. Though shekept her wealthy adorer at arm’s length, she liked to talk of him. Thehothouse flowers he sent her adorned her table, and looked strangelyout of place in the tawdry, littered room, where yesterday’s dust wasgenerally left to be swept away to-morrow.

One thing La Chicot did not know, and that was that Mr. Desrolles hadmade the acquaintance of her admirer, and was being paid by Mr. Lemuelto plead his cause.

‘You seem to be better off than you used to be, my friend,’ she said tohim one day. ‘Unless I deceive myself, that is a new coat.’

‘Yes,’ answered the man of the world, without blushing. ‘I have beendabbling a little on the Stock Exchange, and have had better luck thanusual.’

Desrolles stirred the heaped-up coals into a blaze, and filled himselfa third glass of cognac.

‘It’s as fine as a liqueur,’ he said, smacking his lips. ‘It would be asin to dilute such stuff. By the way, when do you expect your husband?’

‘I never expect him,’ answered La Chicot. ‘He goes and comes as hechooses. He is like the wandering Jew.’

‘He is gone to Paris on business, I suppose!’

‘On business or pleasure. I neither know nor care which. He earns hisliving. Those ridiculous pictures of his please both in London andParis. See here!’

She tossed him over a crumpled heap of comic papers, English andFrench. Her husband’s name figured in all, affixed to the wildestcaricatures—scenes theatrical and Bohemian, sketches full of life andhumour.

‘To judge from those you would suppose he was rather a cheerfulcompanion,’ said La Chicot, ‘and yet he is more dismal than a funeral.’

[Pg 124]

‘He vents all his cheerfulness on his wood blocks,’ suggested Desrolles.

Of late Jack Chicot had been a restless wanderer, spending very littleof his life in the Cibber Street lodging. There was not even thepretence of union between his wife and him, and there never had beensince La Chicot’s recovery. They were civil to each other, for the mostpart; but there were times when the wife’s tongue grew bitter, and herevil temper flashed out like a thin thread of forked lightning cleavinga dark summer sky. The husband was always civil. La Chicot could notexasperate him into retaliation.

‘You hate me too much to lose your temper with me,’ she said to himone day in the presence of the landlady; ‘you areafraid to trust yourself. If you gave way for a moment you might killme. The temptation would be too strong for you.’

Jack Chicot said never a word, but stood with his arms folded, smilingat her, heaven knows how bitterly.

One day she stung him into speech.

‘You are in love with some other woman,’ she cried. ‘I know it.’

‘I have seen a woman who is not like you,’ he answered with a sigh.

‘And you are in love with her.’

‘For her unlikeness to you? That would be a charm, certainly.’

‘Go to her. Go to your ——’

The sentence ended in a foul epithet—one of the poison-flowers ofParisian argot.

‘The journey is too long,’ he said. ‘It is not easy to travel from hellto heaven.’

Jack Chicot had been once to the Prince Frederick Theatre since hiswife’s return to the stage. He went on the first night of the grandspectacular burlesque which had brought Mr. Smolendo so much money. Hesat looking on with a grave, unchanging face, while the audience aroundhim grinned in ecstasy; and when La Chicot asked his opinion of theperformance, he openly expressed his disgust.

‘Are not my costumes beautiful?’ she asked.

‘Very. But I should prefer a little less beauty and a little moredecency.’

The rest of the audience were easier to please. They saw no indecencyin the dresses. No doubt they saw what they had paid to see, and thatcontented them.

Never had woman more of her own way than La Chicot after that wonderfulrecovery of hers. She went where she liked, drank as much as she liked,spent every sixpence of her liberal salary on her own pleasure, and washeld accountable by no one.[Pg 125] Her husband was a husband only in name.She saw more of Desrolles than of Jack Chicot.

There was only one person who ever ventured to reprove or expostulatewith her, and that was the man who had saved her life, at so large asacrifice of time and care. George Gerard called upon her now and then,and spoke to her plainly.

‘You have been drinking again,’ he would say, while they were shakinghands.

‘I have had nothing since last night, when I took a glass of champagnewith my supper.’

‘You mean a bottle; and you have had half a bottle of brandy thismorning to correct the champagne.’

She no longer attempted to deny the impeachment.

‘Well, why should I not drink?’ she exclaimed, defiantly. ‘Who careswhat becomes of me?’

‘I care: I have saved your life once, against long odds. You owe mesomething for that. But I cannot save you if you make up your mind todrink yourself to death. Brandy is a slow suicide, but for a woman ofyour temperament it’s as certain as prussic acid.’

Upon this La Chicot would dissolve in maudlin tears. It was a pitifulsight, and wrung the student’s heart. He could have loved her so well,would have tried so hard to save her, had it been possible. He did notknow how heartless a piece of beautiful clay she was. He put down hererrors to her husband’s neglect.

‘If she had been my wife, she might have been a very different woman,’he said to himself, not believing the innate depravity of anything soabsolutely beautiful as La Chicot.

He forgot how fair some poisonous weeds are, how beautiful the scarletberries of the nightshade look when they star the brown autumn hedges.

So La Chicot went her way triumphantly. There was no danger to life orlimb for her in the new piece—no perilous ascent to the sky borders.She drank as much brandy as she liked, and, so long as she contrived toappear sober before the audience, Mr. Smolendo said nothing.

‘I’m afraid she’ll drink herself into a dropsy, poor thing,’ he saidcompassionately one day to a friend at the Garrick Club. ‘But I hopeshe’ll last my time. A woman of her type could hardly be expected todraw for more than three seasons, and La Chicot ought to hold out foranother year or so.’

‘After that, the hospital,’ said his friend.

Mr. Smolendo shrugged his shoulders.

‘I never trouble myself about the after-career of my artists,’ heanswered pleasantly.

EDWARD CLARE DISCOVERS A LIKENESS.

‘Hazlehurst Rectory, February 22nd.—Dear Ned,—Do you remember mysaying, when Laura refused to have a proper wedding-gown, that hermarriage was altogether an ill-omened business? I told her so, Itold you so; in fact, I think I told everybody so; if it be not anunpardonable exaggeration to call the handful of wretched dowdies andfrumps in such a place as Hazlehurst everybody. Well, I was right. Themarriage has been a complete fiasco. What do you think of ourpoor Laura’s coming home from her honeymoon alone? Without evenso much as her husband’s portmanteau! She has shut herself up in theManor-house, where she lives the life of a female anchorite, and isso reserved in her manner towards me, her oldest friend, her all butsister, that even I do not know the cause of this extraordinary stateof affairs.

‘“My dear Celia, don’t ask me anything about it,” she said, when we hadkissed each other, and cried a little, and I had looked at her collarand cuffs to see if she had brought a new style from Paris.

‘“My dearest, I must ask you,” I replied; “I don’t pretend to be morethan human, and I am burning with curiosity and suppressed indignation.What does it all mean? Why have you challenged public opinion by cominghome alone? Have you and Mr. Treverton quarrelled?”

‘“No,” she said, decisively; “and that is the last question about mymarried life that I shall ever answer, Celia, so you need not ask meany more.”

‘“Where did you part with him?” I asked, determined not to give way. Myunhappy friend was obstinately silent.

‘“Come and see me as often as you like, so long as you do not talk tome of my husband,” she said a little later. “But if you insist upontalking about him, I shall shut my door upon you.”

‘“I hear he has acted most generously with regard to the settlements, sohe cannot be altogether bad,” I said—for you know I am not easily putdown—but Laura was adamant. I could not extort another word from her.

‘Perhaps I ought not to tell you this, Ned, knowing what I do aboutyour former affection for Laura; but I felt that I must open my heartto somebody. Parents are so stupid that it’s impossible to tell themthings.

‘I can’t conceive what this poor girl is going to do with her[Pg 127] life. Hehas settled the whole estate upon her, papa says, and she is awfullyrich. But she is living like a hermit, and not spending more thanher own small income. She even talks of selling the carriage horses,Tommy and Harry, or sending them back to the plough, though I knowshe dotes upon them. If this is meanness, it is too awful. If she hasconscientious scruples about spending John Treverton’s money, it issimply idiotic. Of the two, I could rather think my friend a miser thanan idiot.

‘And now, my dear Ned, as there is nothing else to tell you about thedismalest place in the universe, I may as well say good-bye.—Yourloving sister,

‘Celia.’

‘P.S.—I hope you are writing a book of poems that will make theLaureate burst with envy. I have no personal animosity to him; but youare my brother, and, of course, your interest must be paramount.’

This letter reached Edward Clare in his dingy lodgings, in a narrowside street near the British Museum, lodgings so dingy that it wouldhave grieved the heart of his country-born and country-bred mother tosee her boy in such a den. But the apartments were quite dear enoughfor his slender means. The world had not yet awakened to the stupendousfact that a new poet had been born into it. Stupid reviewers went onprosing about Tennyson, Browning, and Swinburne, and the name of Clarewas still unknown, even though it had appeared pretty often at the footof a neat triplet of verses filling an odd page in a magazine.

‘I shall never win a name in the magazines,’ the young man toldhimself. ‘It is worse than not writing at all. I shall rot unknown inmy garret, or die of hunger and opium, like that poor boy who perishedwithin a quarter of a mile of this dismal hole, unless I can get somerich publisher to launch me properly.’

But in the meantime a man must live, and Edward was very glad to get anoccasional guinea or two from a magazine. The supplies from home fellconsiderably below his requirements, though to send them strained thefather’s resources. The embryo Laureate liked to take life pleasantly.He liked to dine at a popular restaurant, and to wash down his dinnerwith good Rhine wine, or sound claret. He liked good cigars. He couldnot wear cheap boots. He could do without gloves at a pinch, but thosehe wore must be the best. When he was in funds he preferred a hansomto pedestrianism. This, he told himself, was the poetical temperament.Alfred de Musset was, doubtless, just such a man. He could fancy Heineleading the same kind of life in Paris, before disease had chained himto his bed.

That letter from Celia was like vitriol dropped into an open wound.Edward had not forgiven Laura for accepting John Treverton, or theestate that went with him. He hated John[Pg 128] Treverton with a vigoroushatred that would stand a great deal of wear and tear. He ponderedlong over Celia’s letter, trying to discover the clue to the mystery.It seemed to him tolerably clear. Mr. and Mrs. Treverton had marriedwith a deliberate understanding. Love between them there was none, andthey had been too honest to pretend an affection which neither felt.They had agreed to marry and live apart, sharing the dead man’s wealth,fulfilling the letter of the law, but not the spirit.

‘I call it sheer dishonesty,’ said Edward. ‘I wonder that Laura canlend herself to such an underhand course.’

It was all very well to talk about John Treverton’s liberality insettling the entire estate upon his wife. No doubt they had theirprivate understanding duly set forth in black and white. The husbandwas to have his share of the fortune, and squander it how he pleased inLondon or Paris, or any part of the globe that seemed best to him.

‘There never was such confounded luck,’ exclaimed Edward, angry withFate for having given this man so much and himself so little; ‘a fellowwho three months ago was a beggar.’

In his idle reverie he found himself thinking what he would have donein John Treverton’s place, with, say, seven thousand a year at hisdisposal.

‘I would have chambers in the Albany,’ he thought, ‘furnished on thepurest æsthetic principles. I’d keep a yacht at Cowes, and three orfour hunters at Melton Mowbray. I’d spend February and March in theSouth, and April and May in Paris, where I should have a pied àterre in the Champs Elysées. Yes, one couldlead a very pleasant life, as a bachelor, on seven thousand a year.’

Thus it will be seen that, although Mr. Clare had been seriously inlove with Miss Malcolm, it was the loss of Jasper Treverton’s moneywhich he felt most keenly, and it was the possession of that fortunefor which he envied John Treverton.

One afternoon in February, one of those rare afternoons on which thewinter sun glorifies the gloomy London streets, Mr. Clare called at theoffice of a comic periodical, the editor of which had accepted some ofhis lighter verses—society poems in the Praed and Locker manner. Twoor three of his contributions had been published within the last month,and he came to the office with the pleasant consciousness that therewas a cheque due to him.

‘I shall treat myself to a careful little dinner at the Restaurantdu Pavillon,’ he told himself, ‘and a stall at the Prince ofWales’s to wind up the evening.’

He was not a man of vicious tastes. It was not the aqua fortisof vice, but the champagne of pleasure that he relished.[Pg 129] He was toofond of himself, too careful of his own well-being, to fling awayyouth, health, and vigour in the sloughs and sewers of evil living. Hehad a refined selfishness that was calculated to keep him pure of lowiniquities. He had no aspiration to scale mountain peaks, but he hadsufficient regard for himself to eschew gutters.

The cheque was ready for him, but when he had signed the formal receiptthe clerk told him the editor wanted to speak to him presently, if hewould be kind enough to wait a few minutes.

‘There’s a gentleman with him, but I don’t suppose he’ll be long,’ saidthe clerk, ‘if you don’t mind waiting.’

Mr. Clare did not mind, particularly. He sat down on an office stool,and made himself a cigarette, while he thoughtfully planned his dinner.

He was not going to be extravagant. A plate of bisque soup, a sliceof salmon en papilotte, a wing of chicken with mushrooms, anomelette, half a bottle of St. Julien, and a glass of vermuth.

While he was musing pleasantly thus, the swinging inner door of theoffice was dashed open, and a gentleman walked quickly through to theopen doorway that led into the street, with only a passing nod to theclerk. Edward Clare just caught a glimpse of his face as he turned togive that brief salutation.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked, starting up from his stool, and dropping thehalf-made cigarette.

‘Mr. Chicot, the artist.’

‘Are you sure?’

The clerk grinned.

‘Pretty positive,’ he said. ‘He comes here every week, sometimes twicea week. I ought to know him.’

Edward knew the name well. The slap-dash caricatures, more Parisianin style than English, which adorned the middle page of the weeklypaper called ‘Folly as it Flies,’ were all signed ‘Chicot.’The dancer’s admirers, for the most part, gave her the credit of thoseproductions, an idea which Mr. Smolendo had taken care to encourage.It was an advantage that his dancer should be thought a woman of manyaccomplishments—a Sarah Bernhardt in a small way.

Edward Clare was mystified. The face which he had seen turned towardsthe clerk had presented a wondrous likeness of John Treverton. If thisman who called himself Chicot had been John Treverton’s twin brother,the two could not have been more alike. Edward was so impressed withthis idea that, instead of waiting to see his editor, he hurried outinto the street, bent upon following Mr. Chicot the artist. The officewas in one of the narrow streets northward of the Strand. If Chicothad turned to the left, he must be by this time following the strongcurrent[Pg 130] of the Strand, which flows westward at this hour, with itstide of human life, as regularly as the river flows to the sea. Ifhe had turned to the right, he was most likely lost in the labyrinthbetween Drury Lane and Holborn. In either case—three minutes havingbeen wasted in surprise and interrogation—there seemed little chanceof catching him.

Edward turned to the right, and went towards Holborn. Accident favouredhim. At the corner of Long Acre he saw Chicot, the artist, button-holedby an older man, of somewhat raffish aspect. That Chicot was anxiousto get away from the button-holer was obvious, and before Edward couldreach the corner he had done so, and was off at a rapid pace westward.There would be no chance of overtaking him, except by running; and torun in Long Acre would be to make oneself unpleasantly conspicuous.There was no empty hansom within sight. Edward looked rounddespairingly. There stood the raffish man watching him, and looking asif he knew exactly what Mr. Clare wanted.

Edward crossed the street, looked at the raffish man, and lingered,half inclined to speak. The raffish man anticipated his desire.

‘I think you wanted my friend Chicot,’ he said, in a most insinuatingtone.

He had the accent of a gentleman, and in some wise the look of agentleman, though his degradation from that high estate was patent toevery eye. His tall hat, sponged and coaxed to a factitious polish,was of an exploded shape; his coat was the coat of to-day; his stockwas twenty years old in style, and so frayed and greasy that it mighthave been worn ever since it first came into fashion. The hawk’s eye,the iron lines about the mouth and chin, were warnings to the man’sfellow-creatures. Here was a man capable of anything—a being soobviously at war with society as to be bound by no law, daunted by nopenalty.

Edward Clare dimly divined that the creature belonged to the dangerousclasses, but in his excellent opinion of his own cleverness deemedhimself strong enough to cope with half a dozen such seedy sinners.

‘Well, yes, I did rather want to speak to him—er—about a literarymatter. Does he live far from here?’

‘Five minutes’ walk. Cibber Street, Leicester Square. I’ll take youthere if you like. I live in the same house.’

‘Ah, then you can tell me all about him. But it isn’t the pleasantestthing to stand and talk in an east wind. Come in and take a glass ofsomething,’ suggested Edward, comprehending that this shabby-genteelstranger must be plied with drink.

‘Ah,’ thought Mr. Desrolles, ‘he wants something of me. This liberalityis not motiveless.’

[Pg 131]

Tavern doors opened for them close at hand. They entered the refinedseclusion of a jug and bottle department, and each chose the liquorhe preferred—Edward sherry and soda water, the stranger a glass ofbrandy, ‘short.’

‘Have you known Mr. Chicot long?’ asked Edward. ‘Don’t suppose I’mactuated by impertinent curiosity. It’s a matter of business.’

‘Sir, I know when I am talking to a gentleman,’ replied Desrolles, witha stately air. ‘I was a gentleman myself once, but it’s so long agothat the world and I have forgotten it.’

He had emptied his glass by this time, and was gazing thoughtfully,almost tearfully, at the bottom of it.

‘Take another,’ said Edward.

‘I think I will. These east winds are trying to a man of my age. Have Iknown Jack Chicot long? Well, about a year and a half—a little less,perhaps—but the time is of no moment, I know him well.’

And then Mr. Desrolles proceeded to give his new acquaintanceconsiderable information as to the outer life of Mr. and Mrs. Chicot.He did not enter into the secrets of their domesticity, save to admitthat Madame was fonder of the brandy bottle—a lamentable propensity inso fair a being—than she ought to be, and that Mr. Chicot was not sofond of Madame as he might be.

‘Tired of her, I suppose?’ said Edward.

‘Precisely. A woman who drinks like a fish and swears like a trooper isapt to pall upon a man, after some years of married life.’

‘Has this Chicot no other income than what he earns by his pencil?’asked Edward.

‘Not a sou.’

‘He has not been flush of money lately—since the new year, forinstance?’

‘No.’

‘There has been no change in his way of life since then?’

‘Not the slightest—except, perhaps, that he has worked harder thanever. The man is a prodigious worker. When first he came to London hehad an idea of succeeding as a painter. He used to be at his easel assoon as it was light. But since the comic journals have taken him uphe has done nothing but draw on the wood. He is really a very goodcreature. I haven’t a word to say against him.’

‘He is remarkably like a man I know,’ said Mr. Clare, musingly; ‘but ofcourse it can’t be the same. The husband of a French dancer. No, thatisn’t possible. I wish it were,’ he muttered to himself, with clenchedteeth.

‘Is he like some one you know?’ interrogated Desrolles.

[Pg 132]

‘Wonderfully like, so far as I could make out in the glimpse I got ofhis face.’

‘Ah, those glimpses are sometimes deceptive. Is your friend residing inLondon?’

‘I don’t know where he is just at present. When last I saw him he wasin the west of England.’

‘Ah, nice country that,’ said Desrolles, kindling with suddeneagerness. ‘Somersetshire or Devonshire way, you mean, I suppose?’

‘I mean Devonshire.’

‘Charming county—delightful scenery!’

‘Very, for your Londoner, who runs down by express train to spend afortnight there. Not quite so lively for your son of the soil, whosees himself doomed to rot in a God-forsaken hole like Hazlehurst, thevillage I came from. What! you know the place!’ exclaimed Edward, forthe man had given a start that betokened surprised recognition of thename.

‘I do know a village called Hazlehurst, but it’s in Wilts,’ the otheranswered, coolly. ‘So the gentleman who resembles my friend Chicot is anative of Devonshire, and a neighbour of yours?’

‘I didn’t say he was either,’ returned Edward, who did not want to becatechised by a disreputable-looking stranger. ‘I said I had last seenhim at Hazlehurst. That’s all. And now, as I’ve an appointment at fiveo’clock, I must wish you good afternoon.’

They both left the bar together, and went out into Long Acre, whencethe wintry sunshine had departed, giving place to that dull, thickgreyness which envelopes London at eventide, like a curtain.

To those who love the city, as Charles Lamb loved it, for instance,there is something comfortable even in this all-enshrouding grey,through which the lamps shine cheerfully, like friendly eyes.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t got my card case with me,’ said Desrolles, feelingin his breast pocket.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ the other answered, curtly. ‘Good-day to you.’

And so they parted, Edward Clare walking swiftly away towards thelittle French restaurant hard by St. Ann’s Church, where he meant tosolace himself with a comfortable dinner.

‘A cad!’ mused Desrolles, looking after him. ‘Provincial, and a cad!Strange that he should come from Hazlehurst.’

Mr. Clare dined entirely to his own satisfaction, and with what heconsidered a severe economy; for he contented himself with half abottle of claret, and took only one glass of green chartreuse after hissmall cup of black coffee. The coffee made[Pg 133] him bright and wakeful, andhe left the purlieus of St. Ann in excellent spirits. He had changedhis mind about the Prince of Wales’s. Instead of indulging himself witha stall at that luxurious theatre, he would rough it and go to the pitat the Prince Frederick, to see MademoiselleChicot. He had been haunted by her name on the walls of London, but hehad never yet had the desire to see her. Now all at once his curiositywas aroused. He went, and admired the dancer, as all the world admiredher. He was early enough to get a seat in the front row of the pit,and from this position could survey the stalls, which were filledwith men, all declared worshippers of La Chicot. There was one squatfigure—a stout dark man, with sleek black hair, and colourless Jewishface—which attracted Edward’s particular attention. This man watchedthe dancer, from his seat at the end of a row, with an expression thatdiffered markedly from the vacuous admiration of other countenances.In this man’s face, dull and weary as it was, there was a look thattold of passion held in reserve, of a purpose to be pursued to the veryend. A dangerous admirer for any woman, most of all perilous for such awoman as La Chicot.

She saw him, and recognised him, as a familiar presence in an unknowncrowd. One brilliant flash of her dark eyes told as much as this, andperhaps was a sufficient reward for Joseph Lemuel’s devotion. A slowsmile curled his thick lips, and lost itself in the folds of his fatchin. He flung no bouquet to the dancer. He had no desire to advertisehis admiration. When the curtain fell upon the brilliant tableau whichended the burlesque—a picture made up of handsome women in dazzlingdresses and eccentric attitudes, lighted by the broad glare of amagnesium lamp—Edward left the pit and went round to the narrow sidestreet on which the stage-door opened. He had an idea that the dancer’shusband would be waiting to escort her home.

He waited himself in the dark chilly street for about a quarter ofan hour, and then, instead of Mr. Chicot, the artist, he saw hisacquaintance of the tavern stroll slowly to the stage-door, wrapped inan ancient poncho, made of shaggy stuff, like the skin of a wild beast,and smoking a gigantic cigar. This gentleman took up his stand outsidethe stage-door, and waited patiently for about ten minutes, whileEdward Clare walked slowly up and down on the opposite pavement, whichwas in profound shadow.

At last La Chicot came out, a tall, commanding figure in a black silkgown, which swept the pavement, a sealskin jacket, and a little roundhat set jauntily on her dark hair.

She took Desrolles’ arm as if it were an accustomed thing for him toescort her; and they went away together, she talking[Pg 134] with considerableanimation, and as loud as a lady of the highest rank.

‘Curious,’ thought Edward. ‘Where is the husband all this time?’

The husband was spending his evening at a literary club, of somewhatBohemian character, where there was wit to cheer the saddened soul,and where the nightly talk was of the wildest, breathing ridicule thatspared nothing between heaven and earth, and a deep scorn of fools, andan honest contempt for formalism and veneer of all kinds—for the artthat follows the fashion of a day, for the literature that is made topattern. In such a circle Jack Chicot found temporary oblivion. Theseriotous assemblies, this strong rush of talk, were to him as the watersof Lethe.

CHAPTER XVI.

SHALL IT BE ‘YES’ OR ‘NO’?

‘This looks as if he were serious, doesn’t it?’ asked La Chicot.

The question was addressed to Mr. Desrolles. The two were standing sideby side in the wintry dusk, in front of one of the windows that lookedinto Cibber Street, contemplating the contents of a jewel-case, whichLa Chicot held open.

Embedded in the white velvet lining there lay a collet necklaceof diamonds, each stone as big as a prize pea; such a necklace asDesrolles could not remember to have seen, even in the jewellers’windows, before which he had sometimes paused out of sheer idleness, tocontemplate such finery.

‘Serious!’ he echoed. ‘I told you from the first that Joseph Lemuel wasa prince.’

‘You don’t suppose I am going to keep it?’ said La Chicot.

‘I don’t suppose you, or any other woman, would send it back, if itwere a free gift,’ answered Desrolles.

‘It is not a free gift. It is to be mine if I consent to run away frommy husband and live in Paris as Mr. Lemuel’s mistress. I am to have avilla at Passy, and fifteen hundred a year.’

‘Princely!’ exclaimed Desrolles.

‘And I am to leave Jack free to live his own life. Don’t you think hewould be glad?’

There was something almost tigerish in the look which emphasised thisquestion.

‘I think that it would not matter one jot to you whether he[Pg 135] were glador sorry. He would make a row, I suppose, but you would be safe on theother side of the Channel.’

‘He would get a divorce,’ said La Chicot. ‘Your English law breaks amarriage as easily as it makes one. And then he would marry that otherwoman.’

‘What other woman?’

‘I don’t know—but there is another. He owned as much the last time wequarrelled.’

‘A divorce would make you a great lady. Joseph Lemuel would marry you.The man is your slave; you could twist him round your little finger.And then, instead of your little box at Passy, you might have a mansionin the Champs Elysées, among the ambassadors. You would go to the racesin a four-in-hand. You might be the most fashionable woman in Paris.’

‘And I began life washing dirty linen in the river at Auray, among alot of termagants who hated me because I was young and handsome. I hadnot much pleasure in those days, my friend.’

‘Your Parisian life would be a change. You must be very tired ofLondon.’

‘Tired! But I detest it prettily, your city of narrow streets anddismal Sundays.’

‘And you must have had enough dancing.’

‘I begin to be tired of it. Since my accident I have not the oldspirit.’

She had the jewel-case in her hand still, and was turning it about,admiring the brightness of the stones, which sparkled in the dim light.Presently she went back to her low chair by the fire, and let the caselie open in her lap, with the fire-glow shining on the gems, until thepure white stones took all the colours of the rainbow.

‘I can fancy myself in a box at the opera, in a tight-fitting rubyvelvet dress, with no ornaments but this necklace and single diamondsfor eardrops,’ mused La Chicot. ‘I do not think there are many women inParis who would surpass me.’

‘Not one.’

‘And I should look on while other women danced for my amusem*nt,’she pursued. ‘After all, the life of a stage dancer is a poor thingat best. There are only so many rungs of the ladder between me and adancing girl at a fair. I am getting tired of it.’

‘You will be a good deal more tired when you are a few years older,’said Desrolles.

‘At six-and-twenty one need not think of age.’

‘No; but at six-and-thirty age will think of you.’

‘I have asked for a week to consider his offer,’ said La Chicot.[Pg 136] ‘Thisday week I am to give him an answer, yes or no. If I keep the diamonds,it will mean yes. If I send them back to him, it will mean no.’

‘I can’t imagine any woman saying no to such a necklace as that,’ saidDesrolles.

‘What is it worth, after all? Fifteen years ago a string of glass beadsbought in the market at Auray would have made me happier than thosediamonds can make me now.’

‘If you are going to moralise, I can’t follow you. I should say, at arough guess, those diamonds must be worth three thousand pounds.’

‘They are to be taken or left,’ said La Chicot, in French, with hercareless shrug.

‘Where do you mean to keep them!’ inquired Desrolles. ‘If your husbandwere to see them, there would be a row. You must not leave them in hisway.’

‘Pas si bête,’ replied La Chicot. ‘See here.’

She flung back the loose collar of her cashmere morning gown, andclasped the necklace round her throat. Then she drew the collartogether again, and the diamonds were hidden.

‘I shall wear the necklace night and day till I make up my mind whetherto keep it or not,’ she said. ‘Where I go the diamonds will go—nobodywill see them—nobody will rob me of them while I am alive. What isthe matter?’ she asked suddenly, startled by a passing distortion ofDesrolles’ face.

‘Nothing. Only a spasm.’

‘I thought you were going to have a fit.’

‘I did feel queer for the moment. My old complaint.’

‘Ah, I thought as much. Have some brandy.’

Though La Chicot made light of Mr. Lemuel’s offering in her talk withDesrolles, she was not the less impressed by it. After she had comefrom the theatre that night she sat on the floor in her dingy bedroomwith a looking-glass in her hand, gloating over her reflection withthat string of jewels round her neck, turning her swan-like throatevery way to catch the rays of the candle, thinking how glorious shewould look with those shining stars upon her ivory neck, thinking whata new and delightful life Joseph Lemuel’s wealth could give her; a lifeof riot and dissipation, fine clothes, epicurean dinners, late hours,and perfect idleness. She even thought of all the famous restaurantsin Paris where she would like to dine; fairy palaces on the Boulevard,all lights, and gilding, and crimson velvet, which she knew only fromthe outside; houses where vice was more at home than virtue, and wherea single cutlet in its paper frill cost more than a poor man’s familydinner. She looked round the shabby room, with its blackened ceilingand discoloured paper, on which the damp had made ugly blotches; thetawdry curtains, the rickety[Pg 137] deal dressing-table disguised in dirtymuslin and ragged Nottingham lace—and the threadbare carpet. Howmiserable it all was! She and her husband had once gone with the crowdto see the house of a Parisian courtesan, who had died in the zenithof her days. She remembered with what almost reverential feeling themob had gazed at the delicate satin draperies of boudoir and salon, theporcelain, the tapestries, the antique lace, the tiny cabinet pictureswhich shone like jewels on the satin walls. Vice so exalted was almostvirtue.

In the dining-room, paramount over all other objects, was enshrined theportrait of the departed goddess, a medallion in a frame of velvet andgold. La Chicot well remembered wondering to see so little beauty inthat celebrated face—a small oval face, grey eyes, a nondescript nose,a wide mouth. Intelligence and a winning smile were the only charms ofthat renowned beauty. Cosmetiques and Wörth had done all the rest. Butthen the dead and gone courtesan had been one of the cleverest women inFrance. La Chicot made no allowance for that.

‘I am ten times handsomer,’ she told herself, ‘and yet I shall neverkeep my own carriage.’

She had often brooded over the difference between her fate and that ofthe woman whose house, and horses, and carriages, and lap dogs, andjewels she had seen, the sale of which had made a nine days’ wonderin Paris. She thought of that dead woman to-night as she sat withthe mirror in her hand admiring the diamonds and her beauty, whileJack Chicot was doing his best to forget her in his Bohemian clubnear the Strand. She remembered all the stories she had heard of thatextinguished luminary—her arrogance, her extravagance, the abjectslavery of her adorers, her triumphal progress through life, scornfuland admired.

It was not the virtuous who despised her, but she who despised thevirtuous. Honest women were the chosen mark for her ridicule. People inParis knew all the details of her brazen, infamous life. Very few knewthe history of her death-bed. But the priest who shrived her and thenursing sister who watched her last hours could have told a story tomake even Frivolity’s hair stand on end.

‘It was a short life, but a merry one,’ thought La Chicot. ‘How wellI remember her the winter the lake in the Bois was frozen, and therewas skating by torchlight! She used to drive a sledge covered all overwith silver bells, and she used to skate dressed in dark red velvet andsable. The crowd stood on one side to let her pass, as if she had beenan empress.’

Then her thoughts took another turn.

‘If I left him, he would divorce me and marry that other woman,’ shesaid to herself. ‘Who is she, I wonder? Where[Pg 138] did he see her? Not atthe theatre. He cares for no one there. I have watched him too closelyto be deceived in that.’

Then she half-filled a tumbler with brandy, and flavoured itwith water, in order to delude herself with the idea that shewas drinking brandy and water; and then, lapsing into a state ofsemi-intoxication—a dreamy, half-consciousness, in which life, seenhazily, took a brighter hue—she flung aside her mirror, and threwherself half-dressed upon the bed.

Jack Chicot, who had taken to coming home long after midnight, slept onthe sofa in a little third room, where he worked. There was not muchchance of his seeing the jewels. He and his wife were as nearly partedas two people could be, living in the same house.

La Chicot contemplated the diamonds, and abandoned herself to much thesame train of thought, for several nights; and now came the last nightof the week which Mr. Lemuel had allowed for reflection. To-morrow shewas to give him his answer.

He was waiting for her at the stage-door when she came out. Desrolles,her usual escort, was not in attendance.

‘Zaïre, I have been thinking of you every hour since last we spoketogether,’ Joseph Lemuel began, delighted at finding her alone. ‘Youare as difficult to approach as a princess of the blood royal.’

‘Why should I hold myself cheaper than a princess?’ she asked,insolently. ‘I am an honest woman.’

‘You are handsomer than any princess in Europe,’ he said. ‘Butyou ought to compassionate an adorer who has waited so long andso patiently. When am I to have your answer? Is it to be yes? Youcannot be so cruel as to say no. My lawyer has drawn up the deed ofsettlement. I only wait your word to execute it.’

‘You are very generous,’ said La Chicot, scornfully, ‘or veryobstinate. If I run away with you and my husband gets a divorce, willyou marry me?’

‘Be faithful to me, and I will refuse you nothing.’ He went with herto the door of her lodgings for the first time, pleading his cause allthe way, with such eloquence as he could command, which was not much.He was a man who had found money all powerful to obtain everything hewanted, and had seldom felt the need of words.

‘Send me a messenger you can trust at twelve o’clock to-morrow, and ifI do not send you back your diamonds——’

‘I shall know that your answer is yes. In that case you will find mybrougham waiting at a quarter-past seven o’clock to-morrow evening,at the corner of this street, and I shall be in the brougham. We willdrive straight to Charing Cross, and start for Paris by the mail. Itwill be too dark for any one to notice the carriage. What time do yougenerally go to the theatre?’

[Pg 139]

‘At half-past seven.’

‘Then you will not be missed till you are well out of the way. Therewill be no fuss, no scandal.’

‘There will be a tremendous fuss at the theatre,’ said La Chicot. ‘Whois to take my place in the burlesque?’

‘Any one. What need you care? You will have done with burlesque and thestage for ever.’

‘True,’ said La Chicot.

And then she remembered the Student’s Theatre in Paris, and how herpopularity had waned there. The same thing might happen here in London,perhaps, after a year or two. Her audience would grow tired of her.Already people in the theatre had begun to make disagreeable remarksabout the empty champagne bottles which came out of her dressing-room.By-and-by, perhaps, they would be impudent enough to call her adrunkard. She would be glad to have done with them.

Yet, degraded as she was, there were depths of vice from which herbetter instincts plucked her back; as if it were her good angelclutching her garments to drag her from the edge of an abyss. Shehad once loved her husband; nay, after her own manner, she loved himstill, and could not calmly contemplate leaving him. Her brain, muddledby champagne and brandy, shaped all thoughts confusedly; yet at herworst the idea of selling herself to this Jewish profligate shockedand disgusted her. Her soul was swayed to and fro, to this side andto that. She had no inclination to vice, but she would have liked thewages of sin; for in this lower world the wages of sin meant a villa atPassy, and a couple of carriages.

‘Good night,’ she said abruptly to her lover. ‘I must not be seentalking to you. My husband may come home at any minute.’

‘I hear that he generally comes home in the middle of the night,’ saidMr. Lemuel.

‘What business is it of yours if he does?’ asked La Chicot, angrily.

‘Everything that concerns you is my business. When I, who love theground you walk upon, hear how you are neglected by your husband, doyou suppose the knowledge does not make me so much the more determinedto win you?’

‘Send your messenger for my answer to-morrow,’ said La Chicot, and thenshe shut the door in his face.

‘I hate him,’ she muttered, when she was alone in the passage, stampingher foot as if she had trodden upon a venomous insect.

She went upstairs, and again sat down, half undressed, upon the floor,to look at the diamond necklace. She had a childish love of the gems—adelight in looking at them—which differed[Pg 140] very little from herfeelings when she was fifteen years younger, and longed for a blue beadnecklace exposed for sale in the quaint old market-place at Auray.

‘I shall send them back to him to-morrow,’ she said to herself. ‘Thediamonds are beautiful—and I am getting tired of my life here, and Iknow that Jack hates me—but that man is too horrible—and—I am anhonest woman.’

She flung herself on her knees beside the bed, in the attitude ofprayer, but not to pray. She had lost the habit of prayer soon aftershe left her native province. She was sobbing passionately for the lossof her husband’s love, with a dim consciousness that it was by her owndegradation she had forfeited his regard.

‘I’ve been a good wife to him,’ she murmured in broken syllables,‘better than ever I was——’

And then speech lost itself in convulsive sobs, and she cried herselfto sleep.

CHAPTER XVII.

MURDER.

Murder! an awful word under the most ordinary circ*mstances ofevery-day life—an awful word even when spoken of an event thathappened long ago, or afar off. But what a word shouted in the dead ofnight, through the close darkness of a sleeping house, thrilling theear of slumber, freezing the blood in the half-awakened sleepers’ veins.

Such a shout—repeated with passionate clamour—scared the inhabitantsof the Cibber Street lodging-house at three o’clock in the wintermorning, still dark as deepest night. Mrs. Rawber heard it in her backbedroom on the ground floor. It penetrated confusedly—not as a word,but as a sound of fear and dread—to the front kitchen, where Mrs.Evitt, the landlady, slept on an ancient press bedstead, which by daymade believe to be a book-case. Lastly, Desrolles, who seemed to haveslept more heavily than the other two on that particular night, camerushing out of his room to ask the meaning of that hideous summons.

They all met on the first-floor landing, where Jack Chicot stoodon the threshold of his wife’s bedroom, with a candle in his hand,the flickering flame making a patch of sickly yellow light amidstsurrounding gloom—a faint light in which Jack Chicot’s pallidcountenance looked like the face of a ghost.

‘What is the matter?’ Desrolles asked the two women, simultaneously.

[Pg 141]

‘My wife has been murdered. My God, it is too awful! See—see——’

Chicot pointed with a trembling hand to a thin thread of crimsonthat had crept along the dull grey carpet to the very threshold.Shudderingly the others looked inside, as he held the candle towardsthe bed, with white, averted face. There were hideous stains on thecounterpane, an awful figure lying in a heap among the bed-clothes,a long loose coil of raven hair, curved like a snake round therigid form—a spectacle which not one of those who gazed upon it,spell-bound, fascinated by the horror of the sight, could ever hope toforget.

‘Murdered, and in my house!’ shrieked Mrs. Evitt, unconsciously echoingthe words of Lady Macbeth, on a similar occasion. ‘I shall never let myfirst floor again. I’m a ruined woman. Seize him, ’old ’im tight,’ shecried, with sudden intensity. ‘It must ’ave been her ’usband done it.You was often a-quarrelling, you know you was.’

This fierce attack startled Jack Chicot. He turned upon the woman withhis ghastly face, a new horror in his eyes.

‘I kill her!’ he cried. ‘I never raised my hand against her in my life,though she has tempted me many a time. I came into the house threeminutes ago. I should not have known anything, for when I come in lateI sleep in the little room, but I saw that——’ (he pointed to the thinred streak which had crept across the threshold, and under the door,to the carpetless landing outside), ‘and then I came in and found herlying here, as you see her.’

‘Somebody ought to go for a policeman,’ suggested Desrolles.

‘I will,’ said Chicot.

He was the only person present in a condition to leave the house andbefore any one could question his right to leave it he was gone.

They waited outside that awful chamber for a quarter of an hour, but nopoliceman came, nor did Jack Chicot return.

‘I begin to think he has made a bolt of it,’ said Desrolles. ‘Thatlooks rather bad.’

‘Didn’t I tell you he’d done it?’ screamed the landlady. ‘Iknow he’d got to hate her. I’ve seen it in his looks—andshe has told me as much, and cried over it, poor thing, when she’dtaken a glass or two more than was good for her. And you let him go,like a coward as you was.’

‘My good Mrs. Evitt, you are getting abusive. I was not sent into theworld to arrest possible criminals. I am not a detective.’

‘But I’m a ruined woman!’ cried the outraged householder.‘Who’s to occupy my lodgings in future, I should like toknow? The house’ll get the name of being haunted. Here’s Mrs.[Pg 142] Rawbereven, that has been with me close upon five year, will be wanting togo.’

‘I’ve had a turn,’ assented the tragic lady, ‘and I don’t feel that Ican lie down in my bed again downstairs. I’m afraid I may have to lookfor other apartments.’

‘There,’ whimpered Mrs. Evitt, ‘didn’t I tell you I was a ruined woman?’

Desrolles had gone into the front room, and was standing at an openwindow watching for a policeman.

One of those guardians of the public peace came strolling alongthe pavement presently, with as placid an air as if he had been aninhabitant of Arcadia, to whom Desrolles shouted, ‘Come up here,there’s been murder.’

The public guardian wheeled himself stiffly round and approached thestreet door. He did not take the word murder in its positive sense,but in its local significance, which meant a row, culminating in a fewbruises and a black eye or two. That actual murder had been done, andthat a dead woman was lying in the house, never entered his mind. Heopened the door and came upstairs with slow, creaking footsteps, as ifhe had been making a ceremonious visit.

‘What’s the row?’ he asked curtly, when he came to the first floorlanding, and saw the two women standing there, Mrs. Evitt wrapped in awaterproof, Mrs. Rawber in a yellow cotton dressing-gown of antiquatedfashion, both with scared faces and sparse, dishevelled hair.

Mr. Desrolles was the coolest of the trio, but even his countenance hada ghastly look in the light of the guttering candle which Jack Chicothad set down on the little table outside the bedroom door.

They told him breathlessly what had happened.

‘Is she dead?’ he asked.

‘Go in and look,’ said Mrs. Evitt. ‘I dared not go a-nigh her.’

The policeman went in, lantern in hand, a monument of stolid calm,amidst the terror of the scene. Little need to ask if she were dead.That awful face upon the pillow, those glazed eyes with their widestare of horror, that gaping wound in the full white throat, fromwhich the life-blood had poured in a crimson stream across the whitecounterpane, until it made a dark pool beside the bed, all told theirown tale.

‘She must have been dead for an hour or more,’ said the policeman,touching the marble hand.

La Chicot’s hand and arm were flung above her head, as if she had knownwhat was coming, and had tried to clutch the bell-pull behind her. Theother hand was tightly clenched as in the last convulsion.

[Pg 143]

‘There’ll have to be an inquest,’ said the policeman, after he hadexamined the window, and looked out to see if the room was easilyaccessible from without. ‘Somebody had better go for a doctor. I’ll gomyself. There’s a surgeon at the corner of the next street. Who is she,and how did it happen?’

Mrs. Evitt, in a torrent of words, told him all she knew, and all shesuspected. It was La Chicot’s husband that had done it, she was sure.

‘Why?’ asked the policeman.

‘Who else should it be? It couldn’t be burglars. You saw yourself thatthe window was fastened inside. She’d no valuables to tempt any one.Light come light go was her motto, poor thing. Her money went as fastas it came, and if it wasn’t him as did it, why haven’t he come back?’

The policeman asked what she meant by this, whereupon Desrolles toldhim of Mr. Chicot’s disappearance.

‘I must say that it looks fishy,’ concluded the second floor lodger. ‘Idon’t want to breathe a word against a man I like, but it looks fishy.He went out twenty minutes ago to fetch a policeman, and he hasn’t comeback yet.’

‘No, nor never will,’ said Mrs. Rawber, who was sitting on the stairsshivering, afraid to go back to her bedroom.

That ground floor bedroom of hers was a dismal place at the best oftimes, overshadowed by the wall of the yard, and made dark and damp bya protruding cistern, but how would it seem to her now when the housewas made horrible by murder?

‘Do you know what time it was when the husband gave the alarm?’ askedthe policeman.

‘Not more than twenty minutes ago.’

‘Any of you got a watch?’

Desrolles shrugged his shoulders. Mrs. Evitt murmured something abouther poor husband’s watch which had been a good one in its time, tillone of the hands broke short off and the works went wrong. Mrs. Rawberhad a clock on her bedroom mantelpiece, and had noticed the time whenthat awful cry awoke her, scared as she was. It was ten minutes afterthree.

‘And now it wants twenty to four,’ said the sergeant, looking at hiswatch. ‘If the husband did it, he must have done it a good hour beforehe gave the alarm; at least that’s my opinion. We shall hear what thedoctor says. I’ll go and fetch him. Now, look here, my good people: ifyou value your own characters, you’ll none of you attempt to leave thishouse to-night. Your evidence will be wanted at the inquest to-morrow,and the quieter and closer you keep yourselves meanwhile the safer foryou.’

‘I shall go back to bed,’ said Desrolles, ‘as I don’t see my way tobeing of any use.’

[Pg 144]

‘That’s the best thing you can do,’ said the sergeant, approvingly;‘and you, ma’am,’ he added, turning to Mrs. Rawber, ‘had better followthe gentleman’s example.’

Mrs. Rawber felt as if her bedroom would be peopled with ghosts, butdid not like to give utterance to her fears.

‘I’ll go down and set a light to my parlour fire, and mix myself awine-glassful of something warm,’ she said. ‘I feel chilled to themarrow of my bones.’

‘You, ma’am, had better wait up here till I come back with the doctor,’said the policeman.

Desrolles had returned to his room by this time. Mrs. Rawber wentdownstairs with the policeman, glad of his company so far. He waitedpolitely while she struck a lucifer and lighted her candle, and then hehurried off to find the doctor.

‘There’s company in a fire,’ mused Mrs. Rawber, as she groped for woodand paper in the bottom of a cupboard not wholly innocent of blackbeetles.

There was company in a glass of hot gin-and-water, too, by-and-by,when the tiny kettle had been coaxed into a boil. Mrs. Rawber was atemperate woman, but she liked what she called her ‘little comforts,’and an occasional tumbler of gin-and-water was one of them.

‘It’s very hard upon me,’ she said to herself, thinking of the dreadfuldeed that had been done upstairs; ‘the rooms suit me, and I’m used tothem; and yet I believe I shall have to go. I shall fancy the place ishaunted.’

She glanced round over her shoulder, fearful lest she should see LaChicot in her awful beauty—a marble face, a blood-stained throat, andglassy eyes regarding her with sightless stare.

‘I shall have to leave,’ thought Mrs. Rawber.

Meanwhile Mrs. Evitt was alone upstairs. She was a ghoul-like woman,for whom horrors were not without a ghastly relish. She liked to visitin the house of death, to sit beside the winter fire with a batch ofgossips, consuming tea and toast, dwelling on the details of a lastillness, or discussing the order of a funeral. She had a dreadfulcourage that came of familiarity with death. She took up the candle,and went in alone and unappalled to look at La Chicot.

‘How tight that hand is clenched!’ she said to herself; ‘I wonderwhether there’s anything in it?’

She forced back the stiffening fingers, and with the candle held close,bent down to peer into the marble palm. In the hollow of that dead handshe found a little tuft of iron-grey hair, which looked as if it hadbeen torn from a man’s head.

Mrs. Evitt drew the hairs from the dead hand, and with a carefulprecision laid them in an old letter which she took from her pocket,and folded up the letter into a neat little packet,[Pg 145] which she returnedto the same calico receptacle for heterogeneous articles.

‘What a turn it has given me!’ she said to herself, stealing back tothe landing, her petticoats lifted, lest the hem of her garments shouldtouch that dreadful pool beside the bed.

The expression of her face had altered since she entered the room.There was a new intelligence in her dull gray eyes. Her countenanceand bearing were as of one whose mind is charged with the weight of anawful secret.

The surgeon came, an elderly man, who lived close at hand, and wasexperienced in the ways of that doubtful section of society whichinhabited the neighborhood of Cibber Street. In his opinion La Chicothad been dead three hours. It was now on the stroke of four. Oneo’clock must, therefore, have been the time of the murder.

The police-sergeant came back in company with a man in plain clothes,and these two made a careful examination of the premises together,the result of which inspection went to show that it would have beenextremely difficult for any one to enter the house from the back. Thefront door was left on the latch all night, and had been for the lasteleven years, and no harm had ever come of it, Mrs. Evitt declared,plaintively. It was a Chubb lock, and she didn’t believe there wasanother like it in all London.

The two men went into every room in the house, disturbed Mr. Desrollesin a comfortable slumber, and surveyed his bedchamber with eyes whichtook in every detail. There was very little for them to see: a tentbedstead draped with flabby faded chintz, a rickety washstand, a smallchest of drawers with a looking-glass on the top, and three odd chairs,picked up at humble auctions.

After inspecting Mr. Desrolles’ rooms and overhauling his limitedwardrobe, they looked in upon Mrs. Rawber, and roused that talentedwoman’s ire by opening all her drawers and cupboards, and peeringcuriously into the same, whereby they beheld more mysteries oftheatrical attire than ought to be seen by the public eye.

‘You don’t suppose I did it, I hope?’ protested Mrs. Rawber, in hergrandest tragedy voice.

‘No, ma’am, but we’re obliged to do our duty,’ answered the policeofficer. ‘It’s only a form.’

‘It’s a very disagreeable form,’ said Mrs. Rawber, ‘and if youtallow-grease my Lady Macbeth dresses, I shall expect you to make themgood.’

The man in plain clothes committed himself to no opinion, nor did heenter upon any discussion as to the motive of a crime apparently somotiveless. He made his notes of the plain facts of the case, and wentaway with the sergeant.

[Pg 146]

‘What am I to do about laying her out?’ asked Mrs. Evitt of the doctor.‘I wouldn’t lay a finger upon her for a hundred pounds.’

‘I’ll send round a nurse from the workhouse,’ said the doctor, after amoment’s thought. ‘They’re not easily scared.’

Half an hour later the workhouse nurse came, a tall, bony woman, whoexecuted her horrible task in a business-like manner, which testifiedto the strength of her nerve and the variety of her experience.

By five o’clock in the morning all was done, and La Chicot lay withmeekly folded hands under clean white linen—the heavy lids closed forever on the once lovely eyes, the raven hair parted on the classic brow.

‘She’s the handsomest corpse I’ve laid out for the last ten years,’said the nurse, ‘and I think she does me credit. If you’ve got a kettleon the bile, mum, and can give me a cup of tea, I shall be thankful forit; and I think a teaspoonful of sperrits in it would do me good. I’vebeen up all night with a fractious pauper in the small-pox ward.’

‘Oh, lor!’ cried Mrs. Evitt, with an alarmed countenance.

‘You’ve been vaccinated, of course, mum,’ said the nurse cheerfully.‘You don’t belong to none of them radical anti-vaccinationists, I’msure. And as to catching complaints of that kind, mum, it’s only yourpore-spirited, nervous people as does it. I never have no pity for suchweak mortals. I look down on ’em too much.’

CHAPTER XVIII.

WHAT THE DIAMONDS WERE WORTH.

The inquest was held at noon next day. The news of the murder hadspread far and wide already, and there was a crowd gathered roundthe house in Cibber Street all the morning, much to Mrs. Evitt’saggravation. The newspaper reporters forced their way into her housein defiance of her protests, and finding her slow to answer theirquestions, got hold of Mr. Desrolles, who was very ready to talk and todrink with every comer.

George Gerard called at the house in Cibber Street between nine and teno’clock. He had heard of the murder on his way from the BlackfriarsRoad, where he was now living as assistant to a general practitioner,to the hospital where he was still attending the clinical lectures.He had heard an exaggerated version of the event, and came expectingto find a case of murder and suicide, the husband stretched lifelessbeside the wife he had sacrificed to his jealous fury.

[Pg 147]

It was not without some difficulty that he got permission to enterthe room where the dead woman lay. The hospital nurse had been put incharge of that chamber by the police, and Gerard was obliged to enforcehis arguments with a half-crown, which he could ill afford, before thelady’s conscientious scruples were quieted, and she gave him the key ofthe room.

He went in with the nurse, and stayed for about a quarter of an hour,engaged in a careful and thoughtful examination of the wound. It wasa curious wound. La Chicot’s throat had not been cut, in the commonacceptation of the phrase. The blow that had slain her was a deepstab; a violent thrust with some sharp, thin, and narrow instrument,which had pierced the hollow of her neck, and penetrated in a slantingdirection to the lungs.

What had been the instrument? Was it a dagger? and, if so, what kind ofdagger? George Gerard had never seen a dagger thin enough to inflictthat fine, narrow slit through which the blood had oozed so slowly.The crimson stream that stained coverlet and floor had flowed from thelivid lips of the corpse, betokening hæmorrhage of the lungs.

There had been a struggle before that fatal wound was given. On theround, white wrist of the dead a purple bruise showed where a savagehand had gripped that lovely arm; on the right shoulder, from which theloose night-dress had fallen, appeared the marks of strong fingers thathad fastened their clutch there. The nurse showed Gerard these bruises.

‘They tell a tale, don’t they?’ she said.

‘If we could only read it aright,’ sighed Gerard.

‘It looks as if she had fought for her life, poor soul,’ suggested thenurse.

Gerard made no further remark, but stood beside the bed, looking roundhim with thoughtful, scrutinizing gaze, as if he would have asked thevery walls to tell him the secret of the crime they had looked upon afew hours before.

‘The police have been here and have discovered nothing?’ he said,interrogatively.

‘Whatever they’ve discovered they’ve kept to themselves,’ answered thenurse, ‘but I don’t believe it’s much.’

‘Did they go in there?’ asked Gerard, pointing to the open door of thatsmall inner room, a mere den, where Jack Chicot had painted in the dayswhen he cherished the hope of earning his living as a painter. Hereof late he had drawn his wood-blocks, and here, on a wretched narrowcouch, he had slept.

‘Yes, they went in,’ replied the nurse, ‘but I’m sure they didn’t findanything particular there.’

Gerard passed into the dusty little den. There was an old easel with anunfinished picture, half-covered with a ragged[Pg 148] chintz curtain. Gerardplucked the curtain aside, and looked at the picture. It was crude, butfull of a certain melodramatic power. The subject was from a poem of DeMusset’s, a Venetian noble, crouching in the shadow of a doorway, atdead of night, dagger in hand, waiting to slay his enemy. There was adeal table, ink-stained, decrepit, scattered withpapers, pens, pencils, a battered pewter inkstand, an empty cigar-box,a file of ‘Folly as it Flies,’ and odd numbers of other comic journals.On the old-fashioned window-seat—for these houses in Cibber Streetwere two hundred years old—there was a large wooden paint-box, fullof empty tubes, brushes, a couple of palettes, an old palette-knife,rags, sponges. At the bottom of the box, hidden under rags and rubbish,there lay a long thin dagger, of Italian workmanship, the handle offinely-wrought silver, oxidized with age—just such a dagger as anartist would fancy for his armoury. One glance at the canvas yondertold Gerard that this was the dagger in the picture.

George Gerard took up the dagger and looked at it curiously—a longthin blade, flexible, sharp, a deadly weapon in a strong hand, a weaponto inflict just such a wound as that deep stab which had slain LaChicot.

He examined the blade, the handle—looking at both through his pocketmicroscope. Both were darkly tarnished, possibly with the recent stainof blood; but the weapon had been carefully cleansed, and there was noactual speck of blood upon either handle or blade.

‘Strange that the detectives should have overlooked this,’ he said tohimself, replacing the dagger in the box.

Mrs. Evitt had told him of Jack Chicot’s unaccountable disappearance,how he had gone out to call the police, and had never come back. Whatcould this mean, except guilt? And here in the husband’s colour-box wasjust such a weapon as that with which the wife had been stabbed.

‘And I know that he was weary of her, I know that he wanted her todie,’ mused Gerard. ‘I read that secret in his face six months ago.’

He left the room presently, without any expression of opinion to thehospital nurse, who was eager to discuss the deed that had been done,and had theories of her own about it. He left the house and walked theneighbouring streets for an hour, waiting for the inquest.

‘Shall I volunteer my opinion before the Coroner?’ he asked himself.‘To what end? It is but a theory, after all. And a Coroner is rarely aman inclined to give his ear to speculations of that kind. I’d betterwrite to one of the newspapers. Would it do any good if I were to bringthe crime home to the husband? Not much, perhaps. Wherever the wretchgoes he carries with[Pg 149] him a conscience that must be a worse punishmentthan the condemned cell. And to hang him would not bring her back tolife. Poor foolish, lost creature, the only woman I ever loved.’

The Prince of Wales’s Feathers—more popularly known as the Feathers—apublic-house at the corner of Cibber Street and Woodpecker Court,was the scene of the inquiry. The witnesses were the doctor, thepolice-sergeant, the detective who had assisted in the examination ofthe premises, Desrolles, Mrs. Evitt, and Mrs. Rawber. Jack Chicot, themost important witness of all, had not been seen since he left thehouse under the pretence of summoning the police. This disappearanceof the husband, after giving an alarm which roused the sleepinghousehold—an altogether unnecessary and foolish act, supposing himto be the murderer—was the most remarkable feature in the case, andpuzzled the Coroner.

He questioned Mrs. Evitt closely as to the habits of the dancer and herhusband.

‘You say they quarrelled frequently,’ he said. ‘Were their disputes ofa violent character?’

‘I have heard her violent, but never him. She was very fond of him,poor thing; though she wasn’t a woman to give way or to be guided by ahusband. She was fonder of drink than she ought to be, and he tried tokeep her from it—leastways, when they first came to my house. Later heseemed to have give her up, as you may say, and let her go her own way.’

‘Did he seem attached to her?’

‘Not to my fancy. I thought the love was all on her side.’

‘Was he a man of violent temper?’

‘No; he was one that took things very quiet. I used to think there wassomething underhand in his character. I can call to mind her saying tome once, after they had been quarrelling, “Mrs. Evitt, that man hatesme too much to strike me. If he was once to give way to his temper he’dbe the death of me.” Those words of hers made an impression upon me atthe time——’

‘Come, come,’ interrupted the Coroner, ‘we can’t hear anything aboutyour impressions. This isn’t evidence!’ but Mrs. Evitt’s slow speechflowed onward like a tranquil stream meandering through a valley.

‘“I’d rather have a low brute that beat me black and blue,” she said tome another time, poor dear thing, “if he was sorry for it afterwards,than a cold-hearted gentleman that can sting me to death with a word.”’

‘I want to hear facts, not assertions,’ said the Coroner, impatiently.‘Did you ever know the husband of the deceased to be guilty of any actof violence, either towards his wife or any one else?’

‘Never.’

[Pg 150]

‘Do you know if Madame Chicot had money or any other valuables in herpossession?’

‘I should say she had neither. She was a woman of extravagant habits.It wasn’t in her to save money.’

Mrs. Rawber’s evidence merely confirmed Mrs. Evitt as to the hourat which they had been aroused, and the conduct of Jack Chicot. Thetwo women agreed as to the ghastly look of his face, and the suddeneagerness with which he had caught at the idea of going to fetch apoliceman, an idea suggested by Desrolles.

Desrolles was the last witness examined. As he stood up to answer theCoroner, he caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd near thedoorway. It was the countenance of Joseph Lemuel, the stock-broker,sorely changed since Desrolles had seen it last. Close by Mr.Lemuel’s side appeared a well-known criminal lawyer. Desrolles’bistre complexion grew a shade grayer at sight of thesetwo faces, both intently watchful.

The evidence of Desrolles threw no new light upon the mystery. He hadknown Mr. Chicot and his wife intimately—rarely had passed a daywithout seeing them. They were both excellent creatures, but not suitedto each other. They did not live happily together. He had never seenJack Chicot guilty of any act of absolute violence towards his wife,but he believed that there was a good deal of bitterness in his mind;in short that they could not have gone on living together peaceablymuch longer. Mr. Chicot had absented himself from home very much oflate. He had kept late hours, and avoided his wife’s company. In aword, it was an ill-assorted marriage, and they were a very unhappycouple—much to be pitied, both.

This was all. The coroner adjourned the inquiry for a week, in thehope that further evidence would be forthcoming. There was a feelingin the court that a very strong suspicion attached to the dead woman’shusband, and that if he did not turn up speedily he would have to belooked for.

George Gerard watched the inquest from a crowded corner of the room,but he held his peace as to that discovery of the dagger in JackChicot’s colour-box.

La Chicot was buried two days afterwards, and there was a tremendouscrowd at Kensal Green to see the foreign dancing woman laid in heruntimely grave. Mr. Smolendo, with his own hands, placed a wreathof white camellias on the coffin. Desrolles stood beside the grave,decently attired in a suit of black, hired for the occasion from adealer in cast-off clothes, and ‘looking quite the gentleman,’ Mrs.Evitt said to her gossips afterwards. Mrs. Evitt and Mrs. Rawber wereboth at the funeral; indeed, it may be said that the whole of CibberStreet turned out for the occasion. There had not been such a crowdsince the burial of[Pg 151] Cardinal Wiseman. All the company from the PrinceFrederick was there, besides much more of dramatic and equestrianLondon.

Poor Mr. Smolendo was in the depth of despair. He had found anall-accomplished lady to take La Chicot’s place in the burlesque; butthe public did not believe in the all-accomplished lady—who was oldenough to have been La Chicot’s mother,—and Mr. Smolendo saw histheatre a desert of empty benches. No matter that his scenery, hisballet, his orchestra, his lime-lights were the best and most costly inLondon. The public had run after La Chicot, and her unhappy fate cast agloom over the house, not easily to be dispersed. The tide of fashionrolled away to other theatres; and the bark that carried Mr. Smolendo’sfortunes was left stranded on the shore.

The press was very vehement upon the case of La Chicot. The morepopular of the penny dailies went into convulsions of indignationagainst everybody concerned. They reviled the coroner; they denouncedthe surgeon as a simpleton; they insinuated dark things about thelandlady; they branded the witnesses as perjurers;but they reserved their most scathing denunciations for the police.

Here was an atrocious murder committed in the very heart of civilizedLondon; in the midst of a calmly slumbering household; in a house inwhich almost every room was occupied; and yet the murderer is sufferedto escape, and yet no ray of light from the combined intelligence ofScotland Yard pierces the gloom of the mystery.

The husband of the victim, against whom there is the strongestpresumptive evidence, whose own conduct is all-sufficient to condemnhim, this wretch is suffered to roam at large over the earth, a modernCain, without the brand upon his brow by which his fellow-men may knowhim. Perhaps at this very hour he is haunting our taverns, dining atour restaurants, polluting the innocent atmosphere of our theatres,a guilty creature sitting at a play—nay, even, with the hypocrite’svisage, crossing the hallowed threshold of a church! Where are thepolice? What are they doing that this scoundrel has not been found?They should be able to recognise him at a glance, even without thebrand of Cain. Are there no photographs of the monster, who has beendescribed as good-looking, and who was doubtless vain! Letters pourin to the Morning Shrieker by the bushel, every correspondentsuggesting his own particular and original method for catching amurderer.

Strange to say, Jack Chicot, although a fair subject for the camera,has had no passion for seeing what kind of picture the sun can make ofhim. At any rate, there is no portrait of him, large or small, good,bad, or indifferent, to be found in Cibber[Pg 152] Street, where the policenaturally came to look for one. Mr. Desrolles, who, throughout thecase, shows himself accommodating without being officious, gives agraphic description of his late fellow-lodger; but no verbal pictureever yet conjured up the image of a man, and the detectives leaveCibber Street possessed of the idea of a personage no more like JackChicot than Jack Chicot was like the Emperor of China. This imaginaryChicot they hunt assiduously in all the worst parts of London, andoften seem on the brink of catching him. They watch him dining at loweating-houses, they see him playing billiards in dubious taverns,they follow him on to penny steamers, and accompany him on railroadjourneys, always to find that, although sufficiently disreputable, heis not Jack Chicot.

Working thus conscientiously, it was hard to be girded at by theMorning Shrieker and an army of letter-writers.

Assuredly the evidence against the missing husband was strong enough toweave the rope that should hang him.

A letter to the Times from George Gerard describing the daggerfound in the colour-box had attracted the attention of the famoussurgeon who set La Chicot’s broken leg, and that gentleman had hurriedat once to Cibber Street to examine the wound. He afterwards saw thedagger which, with the rest of the missing man’s effects, was inthe custody of the police. He wrote to the Times next day,confirming Gerard’s statement. Such a wound could have been inflictedby just such a dagger, and hardly by any other form of knife or daggerknown to civilization. The thin flexible blade was unlike the blade ofany other dagger the surgeon had ever seen—the wound corresponded tothe form of the blade.

The leader-writers on the popular journals took up the idea. Theydepicted the whole scene as vividly as if it had been shown to themin a charmed sleep. They gushed as they described the beauty of thewife; they wept as they told of her intemperate habits. The husbandthey painted in the darkest dyes of iniquity. A man who had battened onhis wife’s earnings—a poor creature—a led captain—idle, luxurious,intemperate, since it was doubtless his example which had taught thatglorious creature to drink. They painted, in a blaze of lurid light,the scene of the murder. The husband’s midnight return from haunts ofvice—the wife’s recriminations—her natural outbreak of jealousy—hotwords on both sides. The husband brutalized by drink, stung to fury bythe wife’s well-merited reproaches, snatches the dagger from the tablewhere he had lately flung it after a desultory half-hour of labour,and plunges the blade into his wife’s bosom. The leader-writer saw thewhole thing, as in a picture. The public read, and at street cornersand on the roofs of omnibuses the public talk for the next three weekswas[Pg 153] of Jack Chicot’s crime, and the miserable stupidity of the policein not being able to find him.

Between eight and nine o’clock on the night after La Chicot’s funeralan elderly man called upon Mr. Mosheh, a diamond merchant in a smallway, who lived in one of the streets near Brunswick Square. Thegentleman was respectably clad in a long overcoat, and wore a greybeard which had been allowed to grow with a luxuriance that entirelyconcealed the lower part of his face. Under his soft felt hat he wore ablack velvet skull-cap, below which there appeared novestige of hair; whereby it might be inferred that the velvet cap wasintended to hide the baldness of the skull it covered. Under the rim ofthe cap, which was drawn low upon the brow, appeared a pair of shaggygrey eyebrows, shadowing prominent eyes. Mr. Mosheh came out of hisdining-room, whence the savoury odour of fish fried in purest olive oilfollowed him like a kind of incense, and found the stranger waiting forhim in the front room, which was half parlour, half office.

The diamond merchant had a sharp eye for character, and he saw at aglance that his visitor belonged to the hawk rather than to the pigeonfamily.

‘Wants to do me if he can,’ he said to himself.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, with oily affability.

‘You buy diamonds, I want to sell some; and as I sell them under thepressure of peculiar circ*mstances I am prepared to let you havethem a bargain,’ said the stranger, with a tone at once friendly andbusiness-like.

‘I don’t believe in bargains. I’ll give you a fair price for a goodarticle, if you came by the things honestly,’ replied Mr. Mosheh, witha suspicious look. ‘I am not a receiver of stolen goods. You have cometo the wrong shop for that.’

‘If I’d thought you were I shouldn’t have come here,’ said thegrey-bearded old man. ‘I want to deal with a gentleman. I am agentleman myself, though a decayed one. I have not come on my ownbusiness, but on that of a friend, a man you know by name and repute aswell as you know the Prince of Wales—a man carrying on one of the mostsuccessful businesses in London. I’m not going to tell you his name.I only give you the facts. My friend has bills coming due to-morrow.If they are dishonoured he must be in the Gazette next week. Inhis difficulty he went to his wife, and made a clean breast of it. Shebehaved as a good woman ought, put her arms round his neck and told himnot to be down-hearted, and then ran for her jewel-case, and gave himher diamonds.’

‘Let us have a look at these said diamonds,’ replied Mr. Mosheh,without vouchsafing any praise of the wife’s devotion.

[Pg 154]

The man took out a small parcel, and unfolded it. There, on a sheet ofcotton wool, reposed the gems, five-and-thirty large white stones, thesmallest of them as big as a pea.

‘Why, they’re unset!’ exclaimed the diamond merchant. ‘How’s that?’

‘My friend is a proud man. He didn’t want his wife’s jewels to berecognised.’

‘So he broke up the setting? Your friend was a fool, sir. What do thesestones belong to?’ speculated Mr. Mosheh, touching the gems lightlywith the tip of his fleshy forefinger, andarranging them in a circle. ‘A collet necklace, evidently, and a veryfine collet necklace it must have been. Your friend was an idiot todestroy it.’

‘I believe it was a necklace,’ assented the visitor. ‘My friendcelebrated his silver wedding last year, and the diamonds were a giftto his wife on that occasion.’

The room was dimly lighted with a single candle, which the servant hadset down upon the centre table when she admitted the stranger.

Mr. Mosheh drew down a moveable gutta-percha gas tube, and lighted anoffice lamp which stood beside his desk. By this light he examined thejewels. Not content with the closest inspection, he took a little filefrom his waistcoat pocket, and drew it across the face of one of thestones.

‘Your friend is doubly a fool, if he isn’t a knave,’ said Mr. Mosheh.‘These stones are sham.’

There came a look so ghastly over the face of the grey-bearded man thatthe aspect of death itself could hardly have been more awful.

‘It’s a lie!’ he gasped.

‘You are an impudent rascal, sir, to bring me such trumpery, and ablatant ass for thinking you could palm your paste upon BenjaminMosheh, a man who has dealt in diamonds, off and on, for nearly thirtyyears. The stones are imitation, very clever in their way, and a verygood colour. Look here, sir; do you see the mark my file leaves on thesurface? Father Abraham, how the man trembles! Do you mean to tellme that you’ve been fooled by these stones—that you’ve given moneyfor them? I don’t believe a word of your co*ck-and-a-bull story aboutyour London tradesman and his silver wedding. But do you mean to sayyou didn’t know these stones were duffers, and that I shouldn’t bejustified in giving you in charge for trying to obtain money upon falsepretences?’

‘As I am a living man, I thought them real,’ gasped the grey-beardedman, who had been seized with a convulsive trembling awful to see.

‘And you advanced money upon them?’

[Pg 155]

‘Yes.’

‘Much?’

‘All I have in the world. All! all!’ he repeated, passionately. ‘I ama ruined man. For God’s sake give me half a tumbler of brandy, if youdon’t want me to drop down dead in your house.’

The man’s condition was so dejected that Mr. Mosheh, though inclined tobelieve him a swindler, took compassion upon him. He opened the doorleading into his dining-room, and called to his wife.

‘Rachel, bring me the brandy and a tumbler.’

Mrs. Mosheh obeyed. She was a large woman, magnificently attiredin black satin and gold ornaments, like an ebony cabinet mountedin ormolu. Nobody could have believed that she had fried a largeconsignment of fish that very day before putting on her splendidraiment.

‘Is the gentleman ill?’ she asked, kindly.

‘He feels a little faint. There, my dear, that will do. You can go backto the children.’

‘They’re uncommonly clever,’ said Mr. Mosheh, fingering the stones,and testing them one by one, sometimes with his file, sometimes by thesimpler process of wetting them with the tip of his tongue, and lookingto see if they retained their fire and light while wet. ‘But there’snot a real diamond among them. If you’ve advanced money on ’em, you’vebeen had. They’re of French manufacture, I’ve no doubt. I’ll tell youwhat I’ll do for you. If you’ll leave ’em with me, I’ll try and findout where they were made, and all about them.’

‘No, no,’ answered the other, breathlessly, drawing the parcel out ofMr. Mosheh’s reach, and rolling up the cotton wool, hurriedly. ‘It’snot worth while, it’s no matter. I’ve been cheated, that’s all. Itcan’t help me to know who manufactured the stones, or where they werebought. They’re false, you say, and if you are right I’m a ruined man.Good night.’

He had drunk half a tumbler of raw brandy, and the brandy had stoppedthat convulsive trembling which affected him a few minutes before.He put his parcel in his breast pocket, pulled himself together, andwalked slowly and stiffly out of the room and out of the house, Mr.Mosheh accompanying him to the door.

‘You can show those stones to as many dealers as you like,’ said theJew; ‘you’ll find I’m right about ’em. Good night.’

‘Good night,’ the other answered, faintly, and so disappeared in thewintry fog that wrapped the street round like a veil.

‘Is the fellow a knave or a fool, I wonder?’ questioned Mr. Mosheh.

‘TO A DEEP LAWNY DELL THEY CAME.’

It was summer-time again, the beginning of June, the time whensummer is fairest and freshest, the young leaves in the woods tenderand transparent enough to let the sunlight through, the ferns justunfurling their broad feathers, the roses just opening, the patches ofcommon land and furzy corners of meadows ablaze with gold, the sky anItalian blue, the day so long that one almost forgets there is such athing as night in the world.

It was a season that Laura had always loved; and even now, gloomy aswas the outlook of her young life, she felt her spirits lightened withthe brightness of the land. Her cheerfulness astonished Celia, who wasin a state of chronic indignation against John Treverton, which was allthe more intense because she was forbidden to talk of him.

‘I never knew any one take things so lightly as you do, Laura,’ sheexclaimed one afternoon when she found Mrs. Treverton just returnedfrom a long ramble in the little wood that adjoined the Manor Housegrounds.

‘Why should I make the most of my troubles? Earth seems so full ofgladness and hope at this season that one cannot help hoping.’

‘You cannot, perhaps. Don’t say one cannot,’ Celia retorted,snappishly, ‘if you mean to include me. I left off hoping before I waseighteen. What is there to hope for in a parish where there are onlytwo eligible bachelors, one of the two as ugly as sin, and the other anincorrigible flirt, a man who seems always on the brink of proposing,yet never proposes?’

‘You have not counted your devoted admirer, Mr. Sampson. He makes athird.’

‘Sandy-haired, and village-solicitor. Thank you, Laura, I have not sunkso low as that. If I married him I should have to marry his sisterEliza, and that would be quite too dreadful. No, dear, I can manage toexist as I am, “in maiden meditation, fancy free.” When I change mysituation I shall expect to better myself. As for you, Laura, you are aperfect wonder. I never saw you looking so well. Yet in your position Iam sure I should have cried my eyes out.’

‘That wouldn’t have made the position better. I have not left offhoping, Celia, and when I feel low-spirited I set myself[Pg 157] to work toforget my own troubles. There is so much to be looked after on anestate like this—the house, the grounds, the poor people,—I canalways find something to do.’

‘You are a paragon of industry. I never saw the garden as pretty as itis this year.’

‘I like everything to look its best,’ said Laura, blushing at her ownthoughts.

The one solace of her life of late had been to preserve and beautifythe good old house and its surroundings. The secret hope that JohnTreverton would come back some day, and that life would be fair andsweet for her again, was the hidden spring of all her actions. Everymorning she said to herself, ‘He may come to-day;’ every night sheconsoled herself with the fancy that he might come to-morrow.

‘I may have to wait for years,’ she said in her graver moments, ‘butlet him come when he will, he shall find that I have been a faithfulsteward.’

She had never left the Manor House since she came back from her lonelyhoneymoon. She had received various hospitable invitations from thecounty families, who were anxious to be civil to her now that shewas firmly established among them as a landowner; but she refusedall such invitations, excusing herself because of her husband’senforced absence. When he returned to England she would be delightedto visit with him, and so on; whereby the county people were given tounderstand that there was nothing extraordinary or unwarrantable in Mr.Treverton’s non-appearance at the Manor House.

‘His wife seems to approve of his conduct, so one can only suppose thatit’s all right,’ said people; notwithstanding which the majority clungaffectionately to the supposition that it was all wrong.

Despite Laura’s hopefulness, and that sweetness of temper and gaietyof mind which preserved the youthful beauty of her face, there werehours—one hour, perhaps, in every day—when her spirits drooped, andhope seemed to sicken. She had pored over John Treverton’s last letteruntil the paper upon which it was written had grown thin and worn withfrequent handling; but at the best, dear as the letter was to her, shecould not extract much hope from it. The tone of the writer was notutterly hopeless. Yet he spoke of a parting that might be for life; ofa tie that might last for ever, a tie that bound him in honour, if notin fact, to some other woman.

He had wronged her deeply by that broken marriage—wronged her bysupposing that the possession of Jasper Treverton’s estate could inany wise compensate her for the false position in which that marriagehad placed her; and yet she could not find it in her heart to be angrywith him. She loved him too[Pg 158] well. And this letter, whatever guilt itvaguely confessed, overflowed with love for her. She forgave him allthings for the sake of that love.

When had she begun to love him? she asked herself sometimes in a sadreverie. She had questioned him closely as to the growth of his love,but had been slow to make her own confession.

How well she remembered his pale, tired face that winter night, just ayear and a half ago, when he came into the lamp-lit room and took hisseat on the opposite side of the hearth, a stranger and half an enemy.

She had liked and admired him from the very first, knowing that he wasprejudiced against her. The pale, clear-cut face, the grey eyes withtheir black lashes, which made them look black in some lights, hazelin others; the thoughtful mouth, and that all-pervading expression ofmelancholy which had at once enlisted her sympathy,—all these hadpleased her.

‘I must have been dreadfully weak-minded,’ she said to herself, ‘for Ireally think I fell in love with him at first sight.’

That little wood behind the Manor House grounds was Laura’s favouriteresort in this early summer-time. It was the most picturesque of woods,for the ground sloped steeply to a narrow river, on the further sideof which there was a rugged bank, topped by a grove of fir trees. Thestream ran brawling over a rocky bed; and the bold masses of rock, hereshining purple or changeful grey, there green with moss; the fringeof ferns upon the river brink, the old half-ruined wooden bridge thatspanned the torrent; the background of beech and oak, mingled with thedarker foliage of old Scotch firs; and towering darkly above all, thelofty ridge of moorland, made a picture that Laura fondly loved. Hereshe came when the prim gardens of the Manor House seemed too small tohold her thoughts and cares. Here she seemed to breathe a freer air.

She came to this spot one evening in June, after a day of sunny weatherwhich had seemed longer and wearier and altogether harder to bearthan the generality of her days. Celia had been with her all day, andCelia’s small-talk had been drearier than solitude. Laura was thankfulto be alone in this quiet shelter, where the indefatigable labours ofthe woodpecker and the babble of the stream were the only sounds thatstirred the summer silence.

All day long the heat had been hardly endurable; now there was a breathof coolness in the air, and nothing left of that fierce sun but a softyellow light in the western sky.

Laura had a volume of Shelley in her pocket, taken up from among thebooks on the table in her favourite room. It was one of the books sheloved best, and had been the companion of many[Pg 159] a ramble. She seatedherself on a fallen trunk of oak beside the river, and opened thevolume haphazard at ‘Rosalind and Helen,’ and she read on till she cameto those lovely lines which picture such a spot as that where she wassitting.

She read on. The scene suited the poem, and its deep melancholyharmonized but too well with her own feelings. A story of love, thefondest, truest, most unworldly, ending in hopeless sorrow. Never hadthe gloom of that poem sunk so heavily upon her spirit.

She closed the book suddenly, with a half-stifled sob. The moon wasrising, silver pale, above the dark ridge of moorland. The last streakof golden light had faded behind the red trunks of the firs. The low,melancholy cry of an owl sounded far off in the dark heart of the wood.It was indeed as if—

In such a spot a mind attuned to melancholy might easily shape spectralforms out of the evening shadows, and call up the ghosts of the lovedand lost. Laura looked up from her book with a strange uncanny feeling,as if, indeed, some ghostly presence were near. Her eyes wanderedslowly across the rocky bed of the river, and there, on the oppositebank, half in shadow, half in the tender light of the big round moon,she saw a tall figure and a pale face looking at her. She rose with ahalf-stifled cry of fear. That face looked so spectral in the mysticallight. And then she clasped her hands joyously and cried, ‘I knew youwould come back!’

This was the deserter’s welcome. No frowns, no upbraidings—a sweetface beaming with delight, a happy voice full of fondest welcome.

‘Humph!’ cries the woman-hater, ‘what fools these women are!’

John Treverton came stepping lightly across the rocks, at some risk ofmeasuring his length in the stony bed of the river, and in less than aminute was by his wife’s side.

Not a word did he say for the first moment or so. His greeting wasdumb. He took her to his heart, and kissed her as he had never kissedher yet.

[Pg 160]

‘My own one, my wife!’ he cried. ‘You are all mine now. Love, I havebeen patient. Don’t be hard with me.’

This last remonstrance was because she had drawn herself away from hisarms, and was looking at him with a smile which was no longer tender,but ironical.

‘Have you come back to Hazlehurst to spend an evening?’ she asked, ‘orcan you prolong your visit for a week?’

‘I have come back to spend my life with you—I have come back to stayfor ever! They may begin to build me a vault to-morrow in Hazlehurstchurchyard. I shall be here to occupy it when my time comes—if youwill have me. That is the question, Laura. It all depends on you. Oh,love, love, answer me quickly. If you but knew how I have longed forthis moment! Tell me, sweet, have I quite worn out your love? Has myconduct forfeited your esteem for ever?’

‘You have behaved very unkindly to me,’ she answered, slowly, gravely,her voice trembling a little. ‘You have used me in a manner which Ithink a woman with proper womanly pride could hardly forgive.’

‘Laura!’ he cried, piteously.

‘But I fear I am not possessed of proper womanly pride; for I haveforgiven you,’ she said, innocently.

‘My treasure! my delight!’

‘But it would have been so much easier to forgive if you had trustedme, if you had told me all the truth. Oh, John, husband and yet nohusband, you have treated me very cruelly.’

Here she forgot her unreasoning joy at seeing him again, and suddenlyremembered herself and her wrongs.

‘I know, love,’ he said, on his knees beside her, ‘I seem to have actedvilely, and yet, believe me, dearest, my sole motive was the desire toprotect your interests.’

‘Your conduct has put me to shame before all mankind,’ urged Laura,meaning the village of Hazlehurst. ‘You have no right to approach me,no right to look me in the face. Have you not confessed in that cruelletter that you were not free to marry me, that you belong in some wayto another woman?’

‘That other woman is dead. I am free as the air.’

‘What was she? your wife?’

There was a look of infinite pain in John Treverton’s face. His lipsmoved as if about to speak, but he was silent. There are some truthsdifficult of utterance; and it is not easy to all men to lie.

‘It is too painful a story,’ he began at last, speaking hurriedly,as if he wanted to make a speedy end of a hateful subject. ‘A goodmany years ago, when I was very young, and a most consummate fool, Igot myself entrapped into a Scotch marriage.[Pg 161] You have heard of thepeculiarities of the marriage law in Scotland.’

‘Yes, I have heard and read about them.’

‘Of course. Well, it was a marriage and no marriage—a reckless,half-jesting promise, tortured, by false witnesses, into a legalundertaking. I found myself, unawares, a married man—a millstone tiedround my neck. I will tell you no more of that wretched entanglement,dearest. It would not be good for you to hear. I will only say that Ibore my burthen more patiently than most men would have borne it, andnow I thank God with all my heart and soul for my freedom. And I cometo you, dear love, to implore your forgiveness, and to ask you to joinme, three weeks hence, in some quiet place thirty or forty miles fromhere, where no one will know us, and where we may be married again somefine summer morning; so that, if that Scotch marriage of mine werereally binding, and our former marriage illegal, we may tie the knotsecurely, and for ever.’

‘You should have trusted me at first, John,’ Laura said reproachfully.

‘I ought to have done so, love, but I so feared to lose you. Oh, mydarling, grant all I ask, and you shall never have cause to regret yourgoodness. Forgive me, and forget all that I have told you to-night. Letit be as if it had never been. The second marriage which I ask for isa precautionary act—needless, perhaps—but it will make me feel moresecure in my happiness. My beloved, will you do what I ask?’

She had dried her tears. Her heart was welling over with gladness andlove for this sinner, still kneeling by her side as she sat on theferny river bank in the brightening moonlight, holding both her handsin his, looking up pleadingly as he made his prayer. There was nothought of denying him in her mind. She only wanted to yield with goodgrace, not to humiliate herself too deeply.

‘It must be as you wish,’ she said. ‘When you have arranged this secondmarriage you can write to me and tell me where and when it is to be. Iwill come to the place you appoint with my maid. She is a good girl,and I can trust her. She can be one of the witnesses of our wedding.’

‘Are you sure she will not talk about it afterwards?’

‘I have proved her already, and I know she is trustworthy.’

‘Be it so, love. See here.’ He took a Cornish guide-book from hispocket, and opened it at the map of the county. ‘I have been thinkingthat we might go farther west, to some remote parish. Here is Camelot,for instance. I never heard of any one living at Camelot, or going toCamelot, since the time of King Arthur. Surely there we should be safefrom observation. The guide-book acknowledges that there is nothingparticular to[Pg 162] be seen at Camelot. It has not even a good word forthe inns. The place is miles away from everything. It is an anomalyin towns, for though it has a town hall and a market-place, it has nochurch that it can call its own, but hooks itself on to a brace ofoutlying churches, each a mile and a half away. Let us be married atone of those out-of-the-way churches, Laura, and I shall love Camelotall the days of my life, as one loves the plain face of a friend whohas done one a great service.’

Laura had nothing to say against Camelot; so it was finally resolvedthat John Treverton should get there as quickly as rail and coach wouldcarry him, and that he should have the banns put up at one of thechurches, and that he should meet Laura at Didford Junction three weeksfrom that day, and escort her by coach across the wild moors and underthe shadow of giant brown tors, to the little town of Camelot, wherea modest population of six or seven hundred souls seemed to have lostthemselves among the hills, and got somehow left behind in the march oftime and progress.

John Treverton and his wife lingered for a long time beside thebrawling river, walking arm in arm along the narrow woodland path, halfin moonshine, half in shadow, talking of the future; both supremelyhappy, and one of them, at least, tasting pure and perfect happinessfor the first time in his life.

‘Shall we go to Penzance after our wedding, love, and then cross to theScilly Isles for our honeymoon? It will be so sweet to inhabit a littlerock-bound world of our own, circled by the Atlantic.’

Laura assented that it would be sweet. Her world was henceforth to besmall, John Treverton its sun and centre, and all things outside himand beyond him a mere elementary universe.

He looked at his watch presently when they came out of the pinewoodinto the broad moonlight.

‘By Jove, dearest, I shall have no more than time to see you as faras the orchard gate, and then run off to catch the last train forDidford. I shall sleep at the hotel there to-night. I don’t want tobe seen within twenty miles of Hazlehurst till you and I come backfrom the Scilly Isles, sunburnt and happy, to take up our abode at thedear old Manor House. Oh, Laura, how I shall love that good, honest,respectable old home! how earnestly I shall thank God night and morningfor my blissful life! Ah, love, you can never fully understand what akicked-about waif I have been for the last seven years of my worthlessexistence. You can never fully know how thrice blessed is a tranquilhaven after stormy seas.’

They had opened their hearts and minds fully to each other in that longtalk beside the river; she withholding nothing, he[Pg 163] entering into nodetails of his life-history, but frankly admitting his unworthiness.She told him how she had borne her life at Hazlehurst after hersolitary return from a supposed honeymoon; how she had hidden the truthfrom all her little world. It would seem the most natural thing for herto go away to meet her husband on his return from abroad, and then forthem both to come home together.

They parted at the orchard gate hurriedly, for John had three miles towalk to the station, and only three-quarters of an hour for the walk.There was but one hasty kiss at parting, but oh, the blissfulness ofsuch a kiss on the threshold of so fair a future! Laura threaded herway slowly through the moonlit orchard, where the old apple trees casttheir crooked shadows on the soft deep turf, and happy tears poureddown her flushed cheeks as she went.

‘God is good to us, God is very good,’ she kept repeating inwardly.‘Oh, how can we ever be grateful enough, how can we ever be earnestenough in doing our duty?’

In all her talk with John Treverton she had not said a word about thesettlement. She had not praised him or thanked him for his generosity.All thought of Jasper Treverton’s fortune was as remote from her mindas if the old man had died a pauper, and there had been not a shillingof loss or gain contingent upon her marriage with his kinsman.

CHAPTER XX.

THE CHURCH NEAR CAMELOT.

Celia opened her eyes to their widest extent a fortnight later, whenMrs. Treverton informed her that she was going to meet her husband, andthat, after a few weeks’ holiday, they were coming home together forgood.

‘For good,’ repeated Celia, drily, after which her eyes slowly resumedtheir normal state, and her lips drew themselves tightly together. ‘Iam glad to hear that your existence as a married woman is about toassume a reasonable shape. Up to this time you have been as insoluble amystery as that horrid creature, the Man in the Iron Mask; and, pray,may I be permitted to ask, without being considered offensive, whereyou are to meet the returning wanderer?’

‘At Plymouth,’ said Laura, who had received minute instructions fromJohn as to what she was to say.

[Pg 164]

‘Why blush at the mention of Plymouth?’ asked Celia. ‘There is nothingimproper in the name of Plymouth; nothing unfit for publication. Ipresume that, as Mr. Treverton arrives at Plymouth, he comes from somedistant portion of the globe?’

‘He is coming from Buenos Ayres, where he had business that absolutelyrequired his personal attention.’

‘What an extraordinary girl you are, Laura!’ ejacul*ted Celia, her eyesagain widening.

‘Why extraordinary?’

‘Because you must have been perfectly aware that I, and I think Imay go so far as to say all the inhabitants of Hazlehurst, have beenbursting with curiosity about your husband for the last six months, andyet you could not have the good grace to enlighten us. If you had saidhe had gone to Buenos Ayres on business, we should have been satisfied.’

‘I told you he had affairs that detained him abroad.’

‘But why not have given his affairs a local habitation and a name?’

‘My husband did not wish me to talk about him.’

‘Well, you are altogether the oddest couple. However, I am very gladthings are going to be different. Would it be too much to ask if Mr.Treverton will remain at the Manor House, or if he is going to reappearonly in his usual meteoric fashion?’

‘I hope he will stay at Hazlehurst all his life.’

‘Poor fellow!’ sighed Celia. ‘If he does I’m sure I shall pity him.’

‘You need not be so absurdly literal. Of course we shall go far afieldsometimes and see the world, and all that is interesting and beautifulin it.’

‘How glibly you talk about what “we” are going to do. A week ago youcould not be induced to mention your husband’s name. And how happy youlook; I never saw such a change.’

‘It is all because I am going to see him again. I hope you do notbegrudge me my happiness?’

‘No, but I rather envy you. I only wish some benevolent old party wouldleave me a splendid estate on condition I married a handsome youngman. You would see how willingly I would obey him. There should be nomystery about my conduct, I assure you. I should not make an iron maskof myself.’

Celia wrote next day to her brother to tell him how that mostincomprehensible of husbands, John Treverton, was expected home fromBuenos Ayres, and how his wife was going to Plymouth to meet him. ‘AndI never saw any human creature look so happy in my life,’ wrote Celia.‘I have seen dogs look like it when one has given them biscuits, andcats when they sit blinking at the fire, and young pigs lying on a bankin the sunshine. Yes, I have seen those dumb things appear the[Pg 165] imageof perfect, unreasoning, unquestioning happiness, which looks neitherbehind nor before; but such an expression is rarely to be seen inhumanity.’

A nice letter for Edward Clare to get—disappointed, more or less outat elbows, with a growing sense of failure upon him, sick to death ofhis London lodging, sick of the few literary men whose acquaintance hehad contrived to make, and with whom he did not amalgamate as well ashe had anticipated. He tore his sister’s lively epistle into morselsand sent them flying over Waterloo Bridge, upon the light summer wind,and felt as if he would like to have gone over with them.

‘Yet once I thought she loved me,’ he said to himself, ‘and so shedid, before that plausible scoundrel came in her way. But I ought toremember how much she gains by loving him. If the old man had happenedto leave me his estate, perhaps she might have looked unutterably happyat the idea of my return after a long absence. Only God, who madewomen, knows what hypocrites they are;’ and then Mr. Clare went hometo his shabby lodging, and sat down in bitterest mood, and dipped hispen in the ink, and wrung out of himself a passionate page of verse forone of the magazines—not without labour and the sweat of his brow—andthen took his poem and sold it, and dined luxuriously on the proceeds,hugging his wrongs and nursing his wrath to keep it warm, as he sat ina corner of the bright little French restaurant he liked best, slowlysipping his modest half-bottle of Pomard.

That which Celia had told him was perfectly true. There never was ahappier woman than Laura, after that interview by the river. During thelast week before her departure she was full of business, preparing forher husband’s return.

‘Your master will be here in a few weeks,’ she said to the oldhousekeeper, with infinite pride, ‘and we must have everything readyfor him.’

‘So we will, ma’am, spick and span,’ answered Mrs. Trimmer. ‘It willbe happiness to have him settle down among us. It must have been asore trial to you both, to be parted so, just at the beginning of yourmarried life, too. It would have come more nat’ral afterwards.’

‘It was a sore trial, Trimmer,’ Mrs. Treverton answered, full ofconfidential friendliness. ‘But it’s all over now. I could hardly haveborne to speak about it before.’

‘No, ma’am, I noticed as you was close and silent like, and I knew myplace too well to say anything. Troubles take hold of people different.If there’s anything on my mind I must out with it, if it was but toGinger, the tortoiseshell cat; but some folks can keep their worritsscrewed up inside ’em. It hurts ’em to speak.’

[Pg 166]

‘That was my case, Trimmer. It hurt me to speak my husband’s name, orto hear it spoken, while he was forced to be far away from me. But nowit’s all different. You cannot talk of him too much to please me. Ihope you will be as fond of him as you were of the dear old man who isgone.’...

Mr. Treverton must have a sitting-room of his own, of course; a denwhere he might write his letters, and see his bailiff, where he couldsmoke and meditate at his leisure, study if he ever cared to study,read novels even, were he disposed to be lazy; and where his happywife could only come on sufferance, deeming it a vast indulgence to beallowed to sit at his feet sometimes, or even to fill his pipe for him,or, in rough winter weather, to kneel down before the blazing fire andwarm his slippers, when he had come in from a cold ride round his land,doing good wherever he went, like a benevolent fairy in the modern formof an enlightened landlord.

After much debate and perplexity, Laura decided upon giving herhusband, for his own particular sanctum, that very room in whichthey two had met for the first time, on the snowy winter night whenJohn Treverton came to see his dying kinsman. It was a good oldroom, not large, but pleasant, oak-panelled, with a fireplace in thecorner, which gave a quaintness to the room; an oak mantelpiece withhalf-a-dozen narrow shelves running in a pyramid above it, and on theseshelves an arrangement of old blue Nankin cups and saucers, crowned atthe apex with the most delightful thing in teapots. There was an oldcabinet in the room, so full of secret drawers, and mysterious boxesand recesses at the back of the drawers, that it was in itself thestudy of a lifetime.

‘Never hide anything in it, my dear,’ Jasper Treverton had said to hisadopted daughter, ‘for be sure if you do you won’t be able to find it.’

To this room Laura brought other treasures; the most comfortable easychairs in the house, the best of the small Dutch pictures, the softestof the Turkey carpets, the richest tapestry curtains, two or threefine bronzes, a lovely little Chippendale book-case. This last shefilled with all her own favourite books, robbing the book-room belowruthlessly, in the delight of enriching her husband’s study, as thisroom was henceforth to be called.

‘He shall know and feel that he is welcome,’ she said to herself,softly, as she lingered in the room, touching everything, re-arranging,polishing, whisking away invisible grains of dust with a dainty featherbrush, caressing the things that were so soon to belong to the man sheloved.

The adjoining room—the room in which Jasper Treverton had died—was tobe her own bedchamber. It was a spacious room[Pg 167] with three long windowsand deep window seats, a fireplace at which an ox, or at all eventsa baron of beef, might have been roasted—a tall four-post bed, withtwisted columns richly carved; curtains of Utrecht velvet, crimsonand amber, lined with white silk, all somewhat faded, but splendid indecay—a noble room altogether, yet Laura had rather a horror of it,dearly as she had loved him whose generous spirit seemed to haunt thechamber.

But Mrs. Trimmer told her that, as the mistress of Hazlehurst Manor,she ought to occupy this room. It always had been the Squire’sbedchamber, and it ought to be so still.

‘Nothing like old ways,’ said Mrs. Trimmer, decisively.

The room opened into John Treverton’s study. That was a reason whyLaura should like it.

If he were to sit up late at night reading or writing, she would benear him. She might see the face she loved, through the open door,bending over his papers in the lamplight.

‘We are going to be a regular Darby and Joan, Mrs. Trimmer,’ she saidto the housekeeper, as she made all her small domestic arrangements.

In such trivial work she contrived to get rid of the third week, andthen came the lovely summer noontide when she started on her journey,with the faithful Mary in attendance.

‘Mary,’ she had said, the night before, ‘I am going to trust you with agreat secret, because I believe you are staunch and true.’

‘If you could find another young woman in my capacity, mum, that wouldbe stauncherer or truerer, I’ll undertake to eat her without a grain ofsalt,’ protested Mary, sacrificing grammar to intensity.

The train from Beechampton took them across a stretch of wild moorland,where the granite cropped up in scattered boulders, as if Titans hadbeen pelting one another, to Didford Junction. At Didford they foundJohn Treverton waiting for them, and here they got on to anotherline of railway, and into a more pastoral landscape, and so on toLyonstown—pronounced Linson—where they mounted the stage-coach whichwas to take them across the moor to Camelot. It was about four o’clockin the afternoon by this time, and it would be evening before theyreached the little town among the Cornish hills. Oh, what a happy driveit was across the free open moorland, in the mild afternoon light,a thousand feet above the sea-level, above the smoke and turmoil ofcities, far away from all mankind, in a lonely world of heather andgranite. The dark brown hills, twin brothers, rose between them and thewestern sun, now blending into one dark mass of mountain, now standingfar apart, as some new turn of the narrow moorland road seemed toalter their position in the landscape. It was like a new world even toLaura,[Pg 168] though she came from the sister county, and had lived the bestpart of her life under the edge of Dartmoor.

‘I really think I should like to spend my life on these hills,’ saidLaura, as she and John Treverton sat side by side behind the sturdylittle coachman, whose quaintly comical face might have made thefortune of a low comedian. ‘It seems such a beautiful world, even inits wildness and solitude, so pure and fair, and free from the taint ofsin.’

The sunlight behind the big brown tors was fading, and the airgrowing crisp and cool, keenly biting even, at odd times, though itwas midsummer. John drew a soft woollen shawl round his companion’sshoulders, and even in this little action his heart thrilled at thethought that henceforward it was his duty to protect her from all theills of life. And so through the deepening gloom they came to Camelot,a narrow street on the slant of a hill, folded in gray twilight as in amantle.

The inn where Laura and her maid were to put up for the night wascommonplace and commercial—a house that had evidently seen betterdays, but which had plucked up its spirits and furbished up its ricketyold furniture since the establishment of the North Cornwall coach, ablessed institution, linking a wild and solitary district with railwaysand civilization.

Here Laura rested comfortably enough through the short summer night,while John Treverton endured the discomforts of a second-rate tavernover against the market-place. At eight o’clock next morning hepresented himself at the hotel where Laura and her maid were waitingfor him, and then the three went on foot to the outlying church whereJohn Treverton was to take this woman, Laura, for his wife for thesecond time within six months.

‘I could not have been happier in my choice of a locality than I wasin fixing upon Camelot,’ said John, as they walked side by side alongthe country lane, between tall banks of brier and fern, in the sweetmorning air, with the faithful Mary strolling discreetly in the rear.‘I found the most accommodating old parson, who quite entered intomy views when I told him that for certain reasons which I need notexplain, I wished my marriage to be kept altogether quiet. “I shall notspeak of it to a creature,” replied the good old soul. “No man wouldcome to Camelot to be married who did not wish to hide himself from theeye of the world. I shall respect your secret, and I’ll take care thatmy clerk does the same.”’

The old church smelt rather like a vault when they went in out of thebreezy summer day, but it was a cleanly whitewashed vault, and thesun was shining full upon the faded crimson velvet of the communiontable, above which appeared the ten commandments and the royal armsin the good old style. Steeped[Pg 169] in that sunshine stood the bride andbridegroom, gravely, earnestly repeating the solemn words of theservice; no witnesses of the act save the gray-headed clerk and thegirl Mary, who seemed to think it incumbent upon somebody to be movedto tears, and who therefore gently sniffed and faintly sobbed in thebackground. Never had Laura looked lovelier than when she stood besideher husband in the little closet of a vestry, signing her name in themouldy old register; never had she felt happier than when they walkedaway from the lonely old church, after a friendly leave-taking of thegood vicar, who blessed them and gave them God speed as heartily asif they had been born and bred in his parish. The coach was to pickthem up at the cross-roads about half a mile from the church, havingpreviously picked up their luggage in Camelot, and they were to go backacross the moor to Lyonstown, and from Lyonstown by rail to the extremewest, and thence to the Scilly Isles.

‘Can nothing happen now to part us, John?’ Laura asked, while they weresitting on a ferny bank waiting for the coach. ‘Are our lives securefrom all evil in the future?’

‘Who can be armed against all misfortune, love?’ he asked. ‘Of onething I am certain. You are my wife. Against the validity of ourmarriage of to-day no living creature can say a word.’

‘And the legality of our previous marriage might have been questioned?’

‘Yes, dearest, there would have always been that hazard.’

CHAPTER XXI.

HALCYON DAYS.

There were no bonfires or floral arches, no rejoicings of tenantryor farm labourers, when John Treverton and his wife came home toHazlehurst Manor. They came unannounced one fine July afternoon,arriving in a fly hired at Beechampton, much to the distress ofMrs. Trimmer, who declared that there was absolutely nothing in thehouse. Yet many an anxious city housekeeper would have considered thenoble array of hams, pendant from the massive beams of the kitchenceiling, the flitch of bacon, the basket of new-laid eggs, thehomely saffron-hued plum cakes, the dainty sweet biscuits, the oxtongues and silver side of beef in pickle, the chickens waiting to beplucked—worthy to count as something.

‘You might have sent me a telegram, mum, and then I might have donemyself credit,’ said Mrs. Trimmer, dolefully. ‘I don’t[Pg 170] believe there’sa bit of fish to be had in Hazlehurst. I was in the village at twelveo’clock this blessed day, and there was one sole frizzling on theslates at Trimpson’s, and I’ll warrant he’s been sold by this time.’

‘If he isn’t sold he must be pretty well baked, so we won’t haveanything to say to him,’ said John Treverton, laughing. ‘Don’t worryyourself about dinner, my good creature; we are too happy to care whatwe eat.’

And then he put his arm round his wife’s waist and led her along thecorridor that ended in the book-room, where she had left him in hisdespair seven little months ago. They went into this room together, andhe shut the door behind them.

‘Dear love, to think that I should enter this room the happiest of men.I, who sat by that table in such anguish as few men are ever calledupon to suffer. Oh, Laura, that was the darkest day in my life.’

‘Forget it,’ she said earnestly; ‘never let the past be named betweenus. There is so much of it that is still a mystery to me. You have toldme so little of your early life, John, that if I were to think of thepast I might begin to doubt you. Oh, love, I have trusted you blindly.Even when all things looked dark I went on trusting you; I clung to mybelief in your goodness. I don’t know whether it was my weakness or mystrength which made me so confident.’

‘It was your strength, dearest, the strength of innocence, the strengthof that divine charity which “thinketh no evil.” Dear love, it shall bethe business of my life to prove you right, to show myself worthy ofyour trust.’

They roamed about the house together, looking at everything, as ifeach object were new to both, happy as children. They recalled theirfirst meeting—their second—and confessed all they had felt on eachoccasion. It was delightful to them to travel backward through thehistory of their love, now that life was bright and the future seemedall secure.

So their life went on for many days, Laura initiating her husbandin his position as Squire of Hazlehurst. She took him round to allthe cottages and introduced him to their inmates, and together theyplanned improvements which were to make Hazlehurst Manor one of themost perfect estates in the country. Above all things was there to behappiness for every one. Drainage and sanitation were to be so improvedthat fever and infection would be almost an impossibility. Every farmlabourer was to have a clean and comfortable shelter, and a patch ofground where he might grow his cabbages, and, if blessed with a loveof the beautiful, rear roses and carnations that might vie with theflowers in a ducal garden. Here in this mild western world, where frostand snow were almost strangers, the labouring[Pg 171] man might clothe hiscottage wall with myrtle, and grow fuchsias as big as apple-trees.

To John Treverton, sick to the heart of cities, the novelty of thiscountry life was full of delight. He was interested in the stables, thehome farm, the gardens, even the poultry yard. He had a kindly word forthe lowest hind upon his land. It seemed as if, in the great happinessof his married life, he had opened his heart to all mankind.

‘And are you really happy, Laura?’ he asked one day, when he and hiswife were dawdling through the August afternoon beside the river wherethey had met in the June moonlight. ‘Do you honestly believe that youradopted father made the best possible provision for your future when hegave you to me?’

He asked this question in a moment of delicious idleness, lying at hiswife’s feet, she sitting in a natural easy chair formed by two blocksof granite, moss-grown, ferny, luxurious, books and work half-forgottenby her side, and by his an idle fishing-rod. He had little doubt as tothe answer to his question, or he would hardly have asked it.

‘I think dear papa must have had a prophetic power to choose what wasbest for me,’ she said, smiling down at her husband.

And then they went on in a strain which was very sweet to them both,travelling step by step over those early days when they were almoststrangers, recalling with a studious minuteness what he had felt andthought, what she had dreamed and hoped. How he had begun with a fixeddetermination to detest her; and how that gloomy resolve had slippedout of his mind at their first interview, despite his endeavour to holdit fast.

‘There is one question that I have wanted to ask you, Laura,’ he said,presently, growing suddenly grave, with a look in which there was ashadow of trouble, ‘but I have shrunk from asking it, somehow, and putit off indefinitely. And yet it is a very natural curiosity on my part,and can hardly offend you.’

Her face was even more serious than his by this time, and wore a lookof fear. She answered not a word, but sat, with lips slightly parted,waiting for him to go on.

‘You remember your interview with a gentleman whom you admitted tothe garden after dark, and whom you described to me afterwards as arelation. How is it, love, that in all our confidential talk you havenever told me anything about that man?’

‘The answer is simple enough,’ she said quietly, yet he could butwonder to see how pale she had grown. ‘In all our talk together we havespoken of things that belong to our happiness. You have never touchedupon the dark passages in your life, nor I on those in mine. Youremember what Longfellow says:—

[Pg 172]

The relation of whom you speak is one who has not done well in thisworld. My dear adopted father was prejudiced against him, or at anyrate he thought so. From time to time he has appealed to me secretlyfor aid, and I have helped him secretly. I am sorry for him, deeplysorry, and I am glad to help him, at a distance; but there are reasonswhy I have never sought, why I never should seek, to bring him nearerto me.’

‘I feel sure that whatever you have done has been wise and right,dearest. There must be a black sheep in every family. I have played thepart myself, and ought to sympathize with all such delinquents.’

Delicacy prevented his pursuing the subject further. Could he do lessthan trust her fully, who had shown such noble confidence in him?

A life so happy would have been bounded within a very narrow circlehad John Treverton and his wife consulted only their own inclination;but society expects something from a well-born country gentleman withfourteen thousand a year. The Lady Parkers and Lady Barkers, of whomCelia had spoken somewhat disparagingly, came in state, swinginglightly on C springs in their old family carriages, to call upon theyoung couple.

Invitations to ceremonious dinners followed in due course, and werereluctantly accepted, since it would have seemed ungracious to refusethem: and by-and-by Mrs. Trimmer, the housekeeper, suggested that theManor House ought to give a series of dinners, such as she rememberedwhen she was a giddy-pated young kitchen-maid in the service of JasperTreverton’s father and mother.

‘They used to send out invitations for two or three dinner parties whenthe pheasant shooting began, and get it over,’ said Mrs. Trimmer, ‘forthey were homely people, and didn’t care much for company. The oldgentleman was wrapped up in his books, and the old lady was wrapped upin her garden; but when they gave a dinner there was no mistake aboutit.’

Laura submitted to inexorable custom.

‘We have eaten people’s dinners, and I suppose we must invite themhere,’ she said, with an air of serio-comic vexation, ‘or they willconsider us dishonest. Shall I make a list of the people to be asked,Jack, and shall we give Trimmer carte blanche about the dinner?’

‘I suppose that will be best,’ assented John, whose Christian nameaffection had corrupted to Jack. ‘Trimmer is a capital cook ofthe substantial English school. Her menu may be wanting inoriginality, but it will be safe.’

‘Well, I am glad you are awaking to the necessity of living likecivilized Christians, instead of spooning all day in the[Pg 173] seclusion ofa house, compared with which Robinson Crusoe’s island must have been avortex of dissipation,’ exclaimed Celia Clare, who was present at thisdiscussion. ‘I am glad that at last, if it were only for my sake, youare going to conform to the laws of society. How am I to get a husband,I should like to know, unless I meet people here? There is no otherhouse worth visiting in the neighbourhood.’

‘We’ll take your necessities into consideration, my dear girl,’answered John, gaily, ‘and if you can suggest any eligible bachelors,we’ll ask them to dinner.’

‘That’s exactly what I cannot do,’ said Celia, with a despairing shrug.‘There are no eligible bachelors indigenous to the soil. The only planwould be to put a nota bene to your cards of invitation, “If youhave any nice young men about you, pray bring them.”’

‘Laura might give a dance at Christmas, and then we might beat up foryoung men,’ answered John. ‘I’m afraid as long as we confine ourselvesto dinner parties, we shall not be able to do much for you, my poorCelia.’

‘But are you not going to have people to stay in the house when thepheasant shooting begins?’ inquired Celia, with uplifted eyebrows. ‘Arenot your old friends going to rally round you? I thought they alwaysdid when a man came into a fortune.’

‘I believe that is one of the characteristics of friendship,’ saidJohn. ‘But I lost sight of my old friends—the friends of my soldieringdays, that is to say—nearly seven years ago, and I don’t care aboutdigging them out.’

‘I wonder they don’t come to the surface of their own accord,’ saidCelia. ‘And how about the friends you have made since you sold out? Youcan’t have existed seven years without society.’

‘I have existed quite as long as that without what you would callsociety.’

‘Ah, I see,’ assented Celia; ‘the people you have known are not peopleyou would care to bring here, or to introduce to your wife.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Poor Laura!’ thought Celia, and then there followed a pause, brief butuncomfortable.

‘Shall I write the list of invitations?’ asked Laura, who was sittingat her davenport. They were in the book-room, the fresh autumnal airblowing in across beds and borders filled with September’s gaudyflowers.

‘Yes, dear, beginning, of course, with Sir Joshua and Lady Parker, anddescending gradually in the social scale to——’

‘My father and mother,’ interrupted Celia, ‘if you mean to[Pg 174] ask them.I’m sure you can’t go lower than the parson of the parish; for he’sgenerally the poorest man in it.’

‘And often the most beloved,’ said John Treverton.

‘Do you think I should give my first dinner party without inviting yourfather and mother, Celia?’ asked Laura, reproachfully. ‘They will be mymost honoured guests.’

‘Heaven knows how the mater is to get a new gown,’ ejacul*ted Celia;‘but I’m sure she can’t come in the old one. That gray satin of hershas been to so many dinner parties that I should think it could go byitself, and would know how to behave, without having poor mother insideit. How well all the servants hereabouts must know the back of thatdress, and the dark patch on the shoulder, where Lady Barker’s butlerspilt some lobster sauce. It is like the blood-stain on Lady Macbeth’shand. All the benzine in the world won’t take it out. Oh, by-the-bye,’pursued Celia, rattling on breathlessly, ‘if you really don’t mindbeing overrun with the Clare family, would you write a card for Ted?’

‘With pleasure,’ said Laura; ‘but is he not in London?’

‘At this present moment he is; but we are expecting him daily at theVicarage. The fact is he has not made his mark, poor fellow, and he israther tired of London. I suppose there are too many young men there,all wanting to make their mark.’

CHAPTER XXII.

A VILLAGE IAGO.

Edward Clare came back to his native village a few days later, lookingsomewhat dilapidated by his campaign in the great metropolis. He hadfound the gates of literature so beset with aspirants, many of them asrichly endowed as himself, that the idea of pushing his way across thethreshold seemed almost hopeless, indeed quite hopeless, for a youngman who wanted to succeed in life without working very hard, or with atmost a little spasmodic industry. His verses, when he was lucky, hadearned him something like five pounds a month; when luck was againsthim he had earned nothing. A newspaper man, whose acquaintance he madeat the Cheshire Cheese, had advised him to learn shorthand, and tryhis fortune as a reporter, working upwards from that platform to theeditorial chair. This was an honest drudgery which might do very wellfor your dull plodders, but against which the fiery soul of EdwardClare revolted.

[Pg 175]

‘I am a poet, or I am nothing,’ he told his friend. ‘Aut Cæsar autnullus.’

‘That was a first-rate motto——for Cæsar,’ said the journalist, ‘but Ithink it’s rather misleading for fellows of average talent. The resultis so often nullus.’

Mr. Clare was on the point of asking his friend to take another brandyand soda, but at this remark he coiled up, as the Yankees say! Averagetalent, indeed. Imagine one of Mr. Swinburne’s most facile plagiaristshearing himself called a fellow of average talent!

Edward Clare would not yoke his noble mind to the newspaper plough, norwould he stoop even so low as to write prose. A wretched publisher hadtold him that if he would write children’s books there was a field openfor him; but Edward left that publisher’s office bursting with offendedpride.

‘Children’s books, forsooth!’ he muttered. ‘I suppose if Catnach hadbeen alive he would have asked me to write halfpenny ballads.’

So having failed to carve his way to fame, or to make a regular income,and having wasted the money he had earned on kid gloves and stalls atfashionable theatres, Mr. Clare conceived an intense disgust for themetropolis, which had treated him so scurvily, and turned his thoughtshomewards to woodland and moor, to trout stream and meadow. He foundthat the poetic temperament required rural scenery, blue skies, andpure air. Heine had contrived to live and write in Paris, and so hadDe Musset: but Paris is not London. Edward made up his mind that thestreets and squares of Bloomsbury were antagonistic to poetry. No birdcould sing in such a cage. True that Milton had composed ‘ParadiseLost’ within close City lanes, under the Clamorous bells of St.Bride’s, but then Milton was blind, and Edward Clare was like a popularlady novelist of the present day, who begged that she might not becompared with Dickens. He would have protested against being put on alevel with such a passionless bard as Milton.

‘I shall never achieve any great work in London,’ he told himself. ‘Formy magnum opus I must have the tranquillity of wood and moor.’

He had quite made up his mind that he was to write a great poem, thoughhe had settled neither the subject nor the form. He was waiting forthe divine breath to inspire him. The poem was to be as popular as the‘Idylls of the King,’ but as passionate as ‘Chastelard.’ He was notgoing to write in a goody-goody strain to please anybody.

Edward Clare felt himself a little like the prodigal son, when he camehome to the Vicarage after this abortive campaign in the field ofliterature. If he had not wasted his substance, it was[Pg 176] only becausehe had little substance to waste. He had spent all that his fatherhad sent him, and had received small additions to this allowance outof his mother’s scantily-supplied purse. He came home penniless anddispirited: and he felt rather offended that no fatted calf was slainto do him honour, and that his parents received him with an air ofunmistakable despondency.

‘Really, my dear Edward, you ought to begin to think of some definitecourse,’ said the father. ‘It may be too late for a profession, but theGovernment offices——’

‘Red tape and drudgery, with a salary that would scarcely afford drybread and a garret,’ interrupted Edward contemptuously. ‘No, my dearfather, as a poet I will stand or fall.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ sighed the Vicar, ‘for at present it looks likefalling.’

What Edward really meant was that he would depend upon his father untilthe public and the critics, or the critics and the public, could bebrought to acknowledge him as one of the new lights in the starry worldof imagination. Mr. Clare understood this, and felt that it was ratherhard upon him as a man of limited means.

Edward arrived at Hazlehurst only the night before Mrs. Treverton’sdinner-party.

‘Oh, yes, I’m going,’ he told Celia, when she asked him if he hadaccepted Laura’s invitation. ‘I want to see how this Treverton fellowplays the country squire.’

‘As if to the manner born,’ answered Celia. ‘The part suits himadmirably. I don’t want to wound your feelings, Ted, dear, but Mr.Treverton and Laura are the happiest couple I ever saw.’

quoted Edward, with a diabolical sneer. ‘I am not going to envy themtheir happiness, my dear. Whatever feeling I once entertained for Laurais dead and buried. A woman who could sell herself, as she has done—’

‘Sell herself! Oh, Ted, how can you say anything so dreadful? I tellyou she is devotedly attached to John Treverton.’

‘And he rewards her devotion by running away from her before the endof their honeymoon; and when he turns up again, after an interval ofsix months or so, during which nobody knows what he has been doing,she receives him with open arms. A curious couple assuredly. But anestate worth fourteen thousand pounds a year excuses a good deal ofeccentricity; and I can quite understand that Mr. and Mrs. Trevertonare immensely popular in the neighbourhood.’

‘They are,’ said Celia, warmly; ‘and they deserve to be. If[Pg 177] you knewhow good they are to their tenants, their servants, and the poor.’

‘Goodness of that kind is a very sagacious investment, myunsophisticated child. It may cost a man five per cent. of his income,and it buys him respectability.’

‘Don’t be bitter, Edward.’

‘I am a man of the world, Celia, and not to be hoodwinked by shams andappearances.’

‘Then you’ll never be a poet,’ protested his sister. ‘A man who doesn’tbelieve that good deeds come from the hearts of men—a man who looksfor an unworthy motive behind every generous action—such a man as thatwill never be a great poet. It is quite too dreadful to hear you talk,Edward. That odious London has corrupted you.’

Edward went to the dinner next day, but not with his family. He camealone, and rather late, in order to observe the effect of his entranceupon Laura Treverton. Alas, for his wounded vanity! She welcomed himwith a frank smile and a friendly grasp of the hand.

‘I am so glad you have come back in time to be with us to-night,’ shesaid.

‘I came back on purpose for to-night,’ he answered, throwing as muchtenderness as he could into a commonplace remark.

‘I think you know every one here. I need not introduce you.’

‘I know the local magnates, of course. But I dare say there are some ofyour husband’s swell friends who are strangers to me.’

‘There are none of my husband’s friends,’ answered Laura, ‘we arestrictly local.’

‘Then I’m afraid you’ll find the evening rather uphill work.’

‘I expect you to help me through it by the brilliancy of yourconversation,’ Laura answered lightly, as Edward moved aside to makeway for a new arrival.

He had contrived to make her uncomfortable for a minute or so, for thatspeech of his had set her wondering why her husband had no friendsworth summoning to his side now that fortune smiled upon him.

The dinner-party was not a very joyous festivity, but everybody felt,nevertheless, that it was a great social success. Lady Parker, in rubyvelvet and diamonds, and Lady Barker in black satin and rubies, madetwo central lights round which the lesser planets revolved. There wasthe usual county and local talk; reprobation against the farming parsonof a neighbouring parish for having treacherously trapped and slainfour cub foxes since last season; cordial approval of a magistrate whohad sent a lad of nine to jail for stealing three turnips, and who hadbeen maligned and held up to ridicule by the radical newspapers forthat[Pg 178] necessary assertion of the rights of property; a good deal ofdiscussion as to the prospects of the hunting season; a good deal oftalk about horses and dogs, and a little about the outside world, andits chances of peace or war, famine or plenty. The party was too largefor general conversation, but now and then the subdued Babel of tonguesbecame concentrated here and there into a focus, and a gentle hushdescended on a select few listening eagerly to a single talker. Thishappened oftenest at that part of the table near which Edward Clarewas sitting, next but one to John Treverton. Mr. and Mrs. Trevertonwere seated opposite each other in the middle of the long table, withall the more important guests clustered about them in a constellationof local splendour, leaving the two ends of the table for youth andobscurity. Edward Clare had got himself into the constellation by afluke; a portly justice of the peace having suddenly succumbed to gout,and sent an apology at the last moment; whereupon Laura had despatchedCelia with a message to the butler, and had contrived that there shouldbe a shuffling of cards, and that Edward Clare should be put into thisplace of honour.

She did this from a benevolent desire to soothe his wounded feeling,suspecting that there might be some soreness in his mind at this firstmeeting with her in her new character, and knowing that vanity made thelarger half of this young man’s sensibility.

Edward had rewarded her by talking remarkably well. He was freshfrom London, and well posted in all that is most interesting in thebutterfly life of a London season. He told them all about the picturesof the year, let fly some sharp arrows of ridicule against the newschool of painting, described the belle of the season, and let hishearers into the secret of her popularity.

‘The curious part of the story’ he said, in conclusion, ‘is that nobodyever considered the lady pretty till she burst all at once upon societyas the one perfect creature that the world had seen since the Venuswas dug up at Milo. She never was thought so in her own world. No onewas more surprised than her own family when she was elected queenof beauty, unless it was herself. Her mother never suspected it. Atschool she was considered rather plain than otherwise. They say shewas married off early because she was the dowdy of the family, and nowshe cannot take her drive in the park without all London craning itsneck and straining its eyes to get a look at her. When she goes intosociety the women stand upon chairs to stare at her over other people’sshoulders. I suppose they want to find out how it’s done. This kind ofpopularity may seem very pleasant in the abstract, but I think it’srather hard upon the lady.’

‘Why hard upon her?’ inquired John Treverton.

‘Because there’s no salary goes with the situation. The belle[Pg 179] of theseason ought to get something to lighten the expenses of her year ofoffice like the Lord Mayor. See what is expected of her! Every eyeis upon her. Every woman in London looks to her as a model of tasteand elegance, and eagerly strives to dress after her. How is she toput a limit upon her milliner’s bill, when she knows that all thesociety journals are lying in wait to describe her last gown, toeulogise her newest bonnet, to write an epigram upon her parasol, tobe ecstatic about her boots. Can she ride in a hired carriage? No. Canshe be absent from Goodwood, or missing at Cowes? No. She must diestanding. I say that since she furnishes the public with interest andamusem*nt—much better than the Lord Mayor does, by the way—she oughtto get a handsome allowance out of the public purse.’

When he had exhausted pictures, and reigning beauties, and the winnerof the Leger, Edward began to talk about crime.

‘People in London have a knack of wearing a subject to tatters,’ hesaid. ‘I thought neither the newspapers nor the public would ever gettired of talking about the Chicot murder.’

‘The Chicot murder. Ah, that was the ballet dancer, was it not?’inquired Lady Barker, who was so interested in this vivacious youngman on her right hand, that she had hardly given due attention to Mr.Treverton, who was on her left. ‘I remember feeling rather interestedin that mystery. A diabolical murder, certainly. And how stupid thepolice must have been not to find the murderer.’

‘Or how clever the murderer to sink his identity so completely as togive the police the slip,’ suggested Edward.

‘Oh, but he must have got away to the Colonies, or somewhere, surely,’cried Lady Barker. ‘There are so many vessels leaving Englandnow-a-days. You don’t imagine for a moment that the murderer of thatwretched woman remained in England?’

‘I think it highly probable that he did, discreetly hidden under someouter shell of intense respectability.’

‘I suppose you think it was the husband?’ put in Sir Joshua Parker,from his place at Laura’s right hand.

‘I don’t see any ground for doubt,’ replied Edward. ‘If the husbandwas not guilty, why should he disappear the moment the crime wasdiscovered?’

‘He may have had reasons of his own for wishing to get away, reasonsunconnected with the mode and manner of his wife’s death,’ hazardedJohn Treverton.

‘What reasons could he have had strong enough to induce him to run therisk of being thought a murderer?’ asked Edward, incredulously. ‘Noinnocent man would place himself in such a position as that.’

[Pg 180]

‘Not knowingly,’ said John, ‘but this man may have acted on impulse,without reckoning the consequences of his act.’

‘To admit that would be to consider him a fool,’ retorted Edward; ‘andfrom all I have heard of the fellow, he belonged to the other half ofhumanity.’

‘You mean that he was a knave?’

‘I mean that he was a fellow who knew the ropes. He was not the sort ofman to find his wife’s throat cut, and to make a bolt, leaving everynewspaper in London free to brand him as a coward and a murderer,’ saidEdward, decisively.

John Treverton pursued the subject no further. Lady Parker, who sat athis left, had just begun to question him about a late importation ofJersey cows, in which she was deeply interested; whereupon he favouredher with a detailed account of their graces and merits. Laura happenedto look up at Edward Clare as he finished speaking, and the expressionof his countenance startled and shocked her. Never had she seen sokeen a look of malice in any living face. Only in the face of Judas inan old Italian picture had she ever beheld such craft and such venom.And that malignant look—brief as a flash of lightning—glanced at herunconscious husband, whose face was gravely courteous as he bent hishandsome head a little to tell Lady Parker about the Jersey cows.

‘Good heavens!’ thought Laura, with a sense of absolute fear. ‘Isit possible that this young man can be so bitter against my husbandbecause I loved him best? What could the love be like that couldengender such malice?’

Later in the evening when Edward came and hung over the ottoman whereLaura was sitting, she turned from him with an involuntary movement ofdisgust.

‘Have I offended you?’ he asked, in a low voice.

‘Yes. I saw a look in your face at dinner that told me you dislike myhusband.’

‘Do you expect me to love him—very dearly—at first? You must at leastgive me time to get accustomed to the idea that he is your husband.Time cures most wounds. Give me time, Laura, and do not judge me toohardly. I possess the poet’s curse, a mind more sensitive than theminds of ordinary men—dowered with the love of love, the hate of hate,the scorn of scorn.’

‘I hope you will leave your dowry outside when you come across thisthreshold,’ said Laura, with a smile that was more contemptuous thanrelenting. ‘I can accept friendship from no one who does not like myhusband.’

‘Then I will struggle with the original man within me, and try to likeJohn Treverton. Believe me, Laura, I want to be your friend—in honestand unequivocal friendship.’

[Pg 181]

‘That is the kind of friendship I expect from your father’s son,’ saidLaura, in a gentler tone.

She was too happy, too secure in her own happiness to be unforgiving.She reasoned with herself—arguing against instinct and conviction—andtold herself that Edward Clare’s malevolent look had meant less than itseemed to mean.

Edward looked on, and saw John Treverton play his part as host andmaster in a manner that he was compelled to admit was irreproachable.The new squire showed none of the pride in himself and his surroundingswhich might have been anticipated in a man unexpectedly raised to thepossession of a large fortune. He did not brag of his wine, or hishorses, his pictures, or his farm. He accepted his position as quietly,and filled it as naturally, as if he had been born heir to an entailed,unalienable estate.

‘Upon my word, they are a charming couple,’ said Sir Joshua Parker, inhis fat voice, ‘and an acquisition to our county families.’

Sir Joshua was very fond of talking about our county families,although his own establishment in that galaxy had been but recent, hisfather and grandfather having made their fortunes in the soap-boilingbusiness, amidst the slums of Lambeth. Lady Barker, the dowager, was ofthe vieille roche, having been a Trefusis and an heiress whenshe married the late General Sir Rodney Barker, K.C.B.

After that one little flash of anger on the night of the dinner-party,Edward Clare was all friendliness. Celia spent a large portion of herlife at the Manor House, where she was always welcome; and it seemedonly natural that her brother Edward should drop in frequently, almostas he had done in the old days when Jasper Treverton was alive. Therewere so many reasons for his coming. The library at the Manor Housewas much larger and better than the vicar’s modest collection ofold-fashioned books. The gardens were a delight to the young man’spoetic soul. John Treverton showed no dislike to him. He appeared toconsider the poet a poor creature, whose going or coming could make nodifference.

‘I confess that I have a contempt for that kind of man,’ he told hiswife, candidly. ‘An effeminate, white-handed mortal, who sets up as awit and a poet on the most limited stock-in-trade—all his best goodsin his windows, and nothing but empty shelves inside the shop. But, ofcourse, as long as you like him, Laura, he will be welcome here.’

‘I like him for the sake of his father and mother, who are my oldestand best friends,’ answered Laura.

‘Which means in plain English that you only tolerate him?’ said John,carelessly. ‘Well, he is harmless, and sometimes amusing. Let himcome.’

[Pg 182]

Edward came, and seemed at home and happy in the small family circle.He lounged beside the fire in the snug book-room, and joined in theeasy familiar talk, when the autumn dusk was deepening, and Laura madetea at her pretty little table, with her husband by her side, whileCelia, who had a fancy for eccentric positions and attitudes, sat onthe hearthrug.

One November evening, about a month after the dinner party, theconversation happened to light upon the county magnates who had adornedthat banquet.

‘Did anybody ever see such a funny little figure as Lady Barker,surmounted by that wig!’ cried Celia. ‘I really think her dressmakermust be very clever to make any kind of gown that will hold togetherupon her. I don’t complain of her being fat. A woman may weigh sixteenstone and carry herself like a duch*ess. But Lady Barker is such anundecided figure. There’s no consistency in her. When she sinks on asofa one expects to see her collapse, like a mould of jelly that hasn’tcooled properly. Oh, Edward, you should see Mr. Treverton’s portrait ofher—the most delicious caricature.’

‘Caricature!’ echoed Edward. ‘Why, that is another new talent. IfTreverton goes on in this way we shall have to call him the admirableCrichton. It was only last week that I found out he could paint; andnow you say he is a caricaturist. What next?’

‘I believe you have come to the end of my small stock ofaccomplishments,’ said John Treverton, laughing. ‘I used once to amusemyself by an attempt to illustrate the absurdities of human nature inpen and ink. It pleased my brother officers, and helped to keep usalive sometimes in the dulness of country quarters.’

‘Talking of caricature, by the way,’ said Edward, lazily, as he slowlystirred his cup of tea, ‘did you ever see “Folly as it Flies?”’

‘The comic newspaper? Yes, often.’

‘Ah, then you must have noticed the things done by that fellowChicot—the man who murdered his wife. They were extraordinarilyclever—out and away the best things I have ever seen since the days ofGavarni; rather too French, perhaps, but remarkably good.’

‘It was natural the style should be French, since the man was French.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Edward, ‘he was as English as you or I.’

Celia had risen from the floor and lighted a pair of candles on Laura’sopen davenport, near which Edward was sitting. She selected a sheetof paper from a heap of loose sheets lying there and showed it to herbrother, candle in hand.

[Pg 183]

‘Isn’t that too lovely?’ she asked.

Edward examined the sketch with a critical air.

‘I don’t want you to suppose I’m trying to flatter you,’ he said atlast, ‘but, upon my word, this little sketch is as good as anything ofChicot’s, and very much in his style.’

‘It is the only accomplishment of my husband’s that I cannot praise,’said Laura, with gentlest reproof, ‘for it cannot be exercised withoutunkindness to the subject of the caricature.’

‘“He that is robbed not wanting what is stolen, let him not know it,and he is not robbed,”’ quoted Celia, who had resumed her lowly placeat Laura’s feet. ‘Shakespeare’s ineffable wisdom found that out; andmay not the same thing be said of caricature? If Lady Barker neverknows what a lifelike portrait you have drawn of her, with half-a-dozenscratches of a Hindoo pen, the faithfulness of the picture can’t hurther.’

‘But isn’t it the usual course to show that kind of thing to all thelady’s particular friends, till the knowledge of it percolates to thelady herself?’ inquired Edward with his lazy sneer.

‘I had rather cut off my right hand than make a harmless good-naturedold lady unhappy,’ said Laura, warmly.

‘Turn up your cuff, Mr. Treverton, and prepare your wrist for thechopper,’ cried Celia. ‘But really now, if Lady Barker’s figure islike a dilapidated mould of jelly, she ought to know it. Did not oneof those seven old plagues of Greece, whose names nobody ever couldremember, resolve all the wisdom of his life into that one precept,“Know thyself”?’

Celia rattled on gaily; Laura and Edward both joined in her carelesstalk; but John Treverton sat grave and silent, looking at the fire.

CHAPTER XXIII.

‘IN THE MEANWHILE THE SKIES ’GAN RUMBLE SORE.’

After that portrait of Lady Barker, John Treverton drew no morecaricatures. It seemed as if he had laid aside the pen of thecaricaturist in deference to his wife’s dislike of that somewhatill-natured art. But he had not abandoned the higher walks of art,for he had made himself a studio out of one of the spare bedroomsthat looked northward, and was engaged on a portrait of his wife, analtogether fanciful and ideal picture, which he worked at for an houror two daily with infinite delight. He had many pleasant labours andoccupations at this period of his life. The farm, the hunting field,the business details of a[Pg 184] large property, which he wished to conductin an orderly manner, not hiding his talents in a napkin, but improvingthe estate, which Jasper Treverton had considerably increased duringhis long life, but upon which the old man had been somewhat lothto spend money. It was altogether a full and happy life which JohnTreverton led with his wife in this first year of their union, and itseemed to both that nothing was wanting to perfect their happiness. Andyet, by-and-by, when there came the prospect of a child being born inthe grave old house which had so long been undisturbed by the patter ofchildish feet, the fulfilment of this sweet hope seemed the one thingneeded to fill their cup of joy.

While at the Manor House all was bliss, life dawdled on comfortablyenough at the Vicarage, where the good, easy-tempered, hard-workingVicar had begun to be reconciled to the idea that his only son was tobe an idler all his life; until perchance this seemingly barren plantshould some day put forth the glorious flower of genius. And then thefather’s patience, the mother’s love, would be rewarded all at once forweary days of waiting and despondency.

Edward had contrived to make himself particularly agreeable since hisreturn to the family roof tree. He was less cynical than of old; lessapt to rail against fate for not having set his lines in pleasanterplaces.

Even Celia was beguiled into the belief that her brother was completelycured of his attachment to Laura.

‘I suppose his passion was like that poor sentimental old Petrarch’s,’mused Celia, who had read about half-a-dozen sonnets of the illustriousItalian’s in the whole course of her life, ‘and he will go on spinningverses about the lady of his love for the next twenty years, withoutfeeling any the worse for his platonic affection. He seems to enjoybeing at the Manor House; and he and John Treverton get on very welltogether, considering how different they are in character.’

Edward made himself very comfortable in his rural home. He had triedLondon life, and had grown heartily sick of it; and he was now lessdisposed than of old to grumble at the dulness of a Devonshire village.What though he saw the same stolid bovine faces every day? Were theynot better and fairer to look at than the herd of strange faces—keenand sharpened as if the desire for gain was an absolute physicalhunger—that had passed him by in the smoke-tainted streets of London?These faces knew him. Here hats were touched as he passed by. Peoplenoticed whether he looked well or ill. Here, at least, he was somebody,an important figure in the sum of village life. His death would cause asensation, his absence would make a blank. Edward did not care a strawabout these simple villagers; but it pleased him that they should carefor him. He settled[Pg 185] himself down in his old home—the good substantialold Vicarage, a roomy house with stone walls, high gables, and heavychimney stacks, shut in from the road by a holly hedge of a century’sgrowth, sheltered at the back by the steep slope of the moor, while itsfront windows faced undulating pastures and distant woods.

Here Edward made himself a study, or den, where he could work athis magnum opus, and where his solitude was undisturbed byintrusion. It was understood that his labours in this sanctuary ofgenius were of the hardest. Here he gave up his soul to convulsivethroes and struggles, as of Pythoness on her tripod. The chamber wasat the end of a long passage, and had a lattice overlooking the moor.Here tobacco was not forbidden, although the Vicar was no smoker, andhad an old-fashioned detestation of cigars. Edward found a good dealof smoke necessary to relax the tension of his nerves, during themanufacture of his poem. If the door was suddenly opened by Celia orMrs. Clare, the poet was apt to be discovered reclining in his rockingchair, with a cigar between his lips, and his eyes fixed dreamily uponthe topmost ridge of moorland. At such times he told his mother andsister he was doing his thinking. The scored and blotted manuscripton his writing-table testified to the severity of his labours; butthe sharp-eyed Celia perceived that the work progressed but slowly.There was a good deal of meditation and cigar smoke necessary to itselaboration. Once or twice Edward had been discovered reading a Frenchnovel.

‘One so soon forgets a language if one doesn’t read a thoroughlyidiomatic work now and then,’ he said, explaining this seemingfrivolity.

He kept up his connection with the popular magazines, sending them asmany trifles in the drawing-room style as they could expect from him;and by this means he contrived to be well dressed and provided withpocket-money, without sponging on his father.

‘All I want is the run of my teeth for the next year or so, till I havemade a name,’ he told his mother; ‘that is not much for an only son toask of his father.’

The Vicar agreed that the demand was modest. He would have preferreda son of a more active and eager temperament—a son who would havetaken to the church, or law, or medicine, or even soldiering. But itwas not for him to complain if Heaven had given him a genius, insteadof a commonplace plodder. It was the old story of the ugly duck, nodoubt. By-and-by, the snow-white wings would unfold themselves for anoble flight, and the admiring world would acknowledge the beauty ofthe swan. Mrs. Clare, who adored her only son, after the manner ofweak-minded mothers, was delighted to have him at home, for good, asshe said, delightedly. She made his den as luxurious as her small[Pg 186]means would allow; put up bookshelves wherever he wanted them, coveredhis mantleboard with velvet, and draped it with point lace of herown working, bought him cigar stands and ash trays, tobacco jars andfusee boxes, blotting books, slippers, down pillows for his hours oflassitude, soft fluffy rugs to cover his feet when he sank on his snuglittle couch, prostrate after lengthened wrestling with an unpropitiousmuse. All that a doting mother can do to spoil a young man, Mrs. Claredid for her son; and it happened, unfortunately, that he was not madeof that strong stuff which the sweet flatteries of love cannot corrupt.

There were certain hours when the poet was approachable. At fiveo’clock on those evenings when the brother and sister were not at theManor House, Celia used to bring him a cup of coffee, and the smallstock of gossip which she had been able to collect in the course of herfrivolous day. She would seat herself on a hassock beside the fire, oreven on the edge of the fender, and chatter gaily, while Edward layback in his easy chair, sipping his coffee, and listening with an airof condescending indulgence.

A good deal of Celia’s talk was naturally about her friends at theManor House. She had got over her prejudice against John Treverton, andwas even enthusiastic in her praise of him. He was ‘quite too lovely.’As a husband she declared him ‘perfect.’ She wished that Heaven hadmade her such a man.

‘I really think Laura is the luckiest girl in creation!’ she exclaimed.‘Such a husband, such a house, such a stable, such gardens, sucha rent-roll! It is almost provoking to see her take everything soquietly. I believe she is grateful to Providence, because she isdreadfully religious, you know. But her placidity almost enrages me. IfI had half such good fortune I should want to jump over the moon!’

‘Laura is thoroughly good style, my dear. Well-bred people never wantto jump over the moon,’ Edward remarked, languidly.

‘Strictly fraternal,’ ejacul*ted Celia, with a shrug.

‘I am very glad to hear she is so happy,’ pursued Edward, with an airof ineffable good nature. ‘Thank heaven, I have quite got over my oldweakness about her, and can contemplate her happiness without a twingeof jealousy. But at the same time I do rather wonder that she can bethoroughly happy with a man of whose antecedents she knows nothing.’

‘How can you say that, Ted? She knows who he is, and what he is. Sheknows that he was a lieutenant in a crack regiment, and sold outbecause he had run through his money——’

‘Sold out just seven years ago,’ interrupted Edward. ‘What has he beendoing with himself in the meantime?’

‘Knocking about London.’

‘That is a very vague phrase. Seven years! He must have earned hisliving somehow during the greater part of that time.[Pg 187] The money he gotfor his commission would not last him long. He must have had his ownparticular circle of acquaintances during that interval. Why are noneof them forthcoming? Why is he so silent about the experiences of thoseseven years? Man is an egotistical animal, my dear Celia. Be sure thatthere is always something to be ashamed of when a man keeps silenceabout himself.’

‘There is something rather odd about that, certainly,’ assented Celia,in a musing tone. ‘John Treverton never talks of his past life, or,at any rate, of the time that has gone by since he left the army. Isuppose he has been in London all the time, for he talks as if he wereawfully disgusted with London life. If I were Laura I should insistupon knowing all about it.’

‘There can be no happiness between man and wife without perfectconfidence,’ said Edward. ‘No enduring happiness, at least.’

‘Poor, dear Laura,’ sighed Celia. ‘I always said it was an ill-omenedmarriage; but lately I have thought that I was going to turn out afalse prophet.’

‘Has she ever told you what took her husband away after their marriage?’

‘No, on that point she has been as silent as the grave. She told meonce that he had been to Buenos Ayres, called away on business. I havenever been able to extort anything more out of her.’

‘It must have been a curious kind of business which called a man awayfrom his newly-wedded wife,’ said Edward.

Celia nodded significantly, and looked at the fire. She loved Laurawell, but she loved scandal better.

Edward gave a short, impatient sigh, and turned his head fretfullyupon the cushion which maternal hands had worked in softest wool. Thatmovement, expressive of disgust with life in general, did not escapethe sharp eyes of his sister.

‘Ted, dear, I’m afraid you have not left off being unhappy aboutLaura,’ she murmured, sympathetically.

‘I am only unhappy about her when I think she is married to ascoundrel.’

‘Oh, Ted, how can you say such a thing?’

‘Celia, a man who can give no account of seven years of his life mustbe a scoundrel,’ Edward Clare said decisively. ‘Say nothing to alarmLaura, I beg you. I am talking to you to-day as if you were a man, andto be trusted. Wait and watch. Wait and watch, as I shall.’

‘Edward, how you frighten me! You make me feel as if we were living inone of those villages at the foot of Vesuvius, with a fiery mountaingetting itself ready to explode and destroy us.’

‘There will be an explosion some day, Celia, depend upon it;[Pg 188] anexplosion that will blow up the Manor House as surely as Kirk o’ Fieldwas blown up the night Darnley was slain.’

He said no more, though Celia did not willingly let the subject drop.Indeed, he was inclined to be angry with himself for having said somuch, though he had not given his sister his confidence without amotive. He wanted to know all that could be known about John Treverton,and Celia was in a position to learn much that he could not discoverfor himself.

‘I really thought you were beginning to like Mr. Treverton,’ the girlsaid, presently. ‘You and he seem to get on so well together.’

‘I am civil to him for Laura’s sake. I would be guilty of a worsehypocrisy if I thought it would serve her interests.’

Edward sighed, and gave his head another angry jerk upon the cushion.He wanted to do John Treverton deadly harm; and yet he knew that theworst he could do to his rival would bring about no good result tohimself. There was nothing to be gained by it. The injury would beirrevocable, deadly; a blight upon name and fortune—perchance thegallows—a shame so deep that a loving wife would scarcely survive theblow. All this was in Edward Clare’s mind as a not impossible revenge.And unhappily there was no smaller revenge possible. He felt himselfpossessed of a deadly power; but of no power to wound without slaying.He was like the cobra, whose poisonous fangs are provided with aningenious mechanism which keeps them in reserve until the creaturewants to use them. Two hinged teeth lie back against the roof of thesnake’s mouth. When he attacks his victim the hinge moves, the fangsdescend, the poison gland is pressed, and the deadly poison runs downa groove in the tooth, and drops into the puncture prepared to receiveit. Lop off the wounded limb ere the shadow on the dial has markedthe passage of twenty seconds, or the venom will have done its work.Medicine has yet to discover the antidote that can save the life of thevictim.

CHAPTER XXIV.

‘AND PURPLE LIGHT SHONE OVER ALL.’

Christmas was at hand, the first Christmas in Laura’s married life,and to her happy fancy it seemed the most wonderful season that hadever been marked on the calendar of the ages. How could she and JohnTreverton be thankful enough for the blessings Providence had giventhem? How could they do enough to make other people happy? Abouta fortnight before the sacred festival she carried Celia off toBeechampton in the pony carriage, to buy a tremendous stock of blanketsand flannel petticoats for the old women, and comfortable homespuncoats for the rheumatic old men.

[Pg 189]

‘Have you any idea as to the amount you are spending, Laura?’ asked thepractical Celia.

‘No, dear; but I have one fixed idea, and that is that no one nearHazlehurst shall be cold and wretched this Christmas, if I can help it.’

‘I’m afraid you are encouraging pauperism,’ said Celia.

‘No, Celia; I am waging war against rheumatism.’

‘I hope you don’t expect gratitude.’

‘I only expect the blankets to keep out Jack Frost. And now for thegrocer’s.’

She shook the reins gaily, and drove on to the chief grocer ofBeechampton, in whose plate-glass windows a pair of tall Japanese jarsannounced the superior character of the trade transacted inside. HereMrs. Treverton ordered a hundred parcels of plums, currants, sugar,spice, and candied peel, each parcel containing an ample supply for afamily Christmas pudding. The shopman rejoiced as he booked the order,and was eloquent in his praise of ‘our new fruit.’

From the grocer’s they drove to the confectioner’s, and there Lauraordered such a supply of plum cake and buns, muffins and tea cakes, allto be delivered at the Manor House on Christmas Eve, that Celia beganto be seriously alarmed for her friend’s sanity.

‘What can you want with all that indigestible rubbish?’ she exclaimed.‘Are you going to open a pastrycook’s shop?’

‘No, dear. These things are for my juvenile party.’

‘A juvenile party—already! I can’t understand your motive, unless itis to get your hand in for the future. Who are you going to have? AllLady Parker’s nursery, of course—and Lady Barker’s grandchildren, andMrs. Pendarvis’s seven boys, the Briggses, and the Dropmores, and theSeymours. You’ll want dissolving views, and a conjuror; and you mighthave tableaux vivants, as you don’t seem to care how much moneyyou waste. People expect so much at juvenile parties now-a-days.’

‘I think my guests will be quite happy without tableaux vivants,or even a conjuror.’

‘I doubt it. Those little Barkers are intensely old for their age.’

‘The little Barkers are not coming to my party.’

‘And the Pendarvis boys give themselves as many airs as undergraduatesafter their first term.’

‘But I have not invited the Pendarvis boys.’

‘Then what children, in goodness’ name, are to eat all those cakes?’cried Celia.

‘My party is for the children of the cottagers. All your father’sinfant school will be there.’

[Pg 190]

‘Then all I can say is, I hope you have arranged for the ventilationof your rooms; for if you expect me to spend Christmas Eve in anatmosphere at all resembling that of our infant schoolroom you arereckoning without your host.’

‘I am not reckoning without a knowledge of Celia Clare’s good nature.I shall expect you to help me with all your heart and soul. Evenyour brother might do something for us. He could give us a comicreading—“Mrs. Brown at the play,” or something of that kind.’

‘Picture to yourself Algernon Swinburne reading “Mrs. Brown” to aherd of charity children,’ exclaimed Celia, laughingly. ‘I assure youmy brother Edward thinks himself quite as important a person as Mr.Swinburne. Would you have him lay aside his magnum opus to study“Mrs. Brown at the play”?’

‘I am sure he won’t mind helping us,’ said Laura. ‘I shall have aChristmas tree loaded with gifts, a good many of them useful ones. Ishall hire a magic lantern from London; and for the rest we can haveall the old-fashioned games—Blind Man’s Buff, Oranges and Lemons,Thread my Needle—all the noisiest, wildest rompswe can think of. I am going to have the servants’ hall cleared out anddecorated for the occasion; so there will be no fear of any of the dearold furniture coming to grief.’

‘If poor old Mr. Treverton could come to life again, and see suchgoings on!’ ejacul*ted Celia.

‘I am sure he would be glad to know that his wealth was employed inmaking other people happy. Think of all those poor little children,Celia, who hardly know the meaning of the word pleasure, as rich peopleunderstand it.’

‘All the happier for them,’ said Celia, philosophically. ‘The pleasuresof the rich are dreadfully hollow; as sickly-sweet and crumbly as ameringue from an inferior pastry-cook, with the cream gone sour inside.Well, Laura, you are a good soul, and I will do my very best to helpyou through your juvenile muddle. I wonder if fourteen thousand a yearwould make me benevolent. I’m afraid my expenses would increase at sucha rate that I should have no margin for charity.’

Before Christmas Eve came a shadow had fallen upon Laura’s life, whichmade complete happiness impossible, even for one who was bent upongiving joy to others. John Treverton fell ill of a low fever. He wasnot dangerously ill. Mr. Morton, the local doctor, who had attendedJasper Treverton for twenty years, and who was a general practitionerof skill and experience, made very light of the malady. The patienthad got a chill riding a tired horse a long way home through the rain,after his last hunt, and the chill had resulted in slightly feverishsymptoms, and Mr. Treverton was a little below par. That was all. Theonly remedies wanted were rest and good nursing, and for a man in JohnTreverton’s position both were easy.

[Pg 191]

‘Ought I to put off my children’s party?’ Laura asked, anxiously, theday before Christmas Eve. ‘I should be very sorry to disappoint thepoor little things, but,’ here her voice faltered, ‘if I thought Johnwas going to be worse——’

‘My dear Mrs. Treverton, he is not going to be worse; in fact, he israpidly mending. Didn’t I tell you the pulse was stronger this morning?He will be well in a few days, I hope; but I shall keep him in his roomto the end of the week, and I shall not allow him to take part in anyChristmas festivities. As for your children’s party, if you can preventthe noise of it reaching him, there is no reason in the world why itshould be postponed.’

‘The servants’ hall is quite on the other side of the house,’ saidLaura. ‘I don’t think the noise can possibly reach the next room.’

This conversation between Mrs. Treverton and the doctor had taken placein John Treverton’s study—the panelled room adjoining his bedroom—theroom in which he and Laura had first met.

‘Then that’s all you need care about,’ replied Mr. Morton.

Laura had been her husband’s only nurse throughout his illness. Shehad sat with him all day, and watched him through the night, takingsnatches of slumber at intervals on the comfortable old sofa at thefoot of the big old-fashioned four-post bed. In vain had John Trevertonurged the danger of injury to her own health from the fatigue involvedin this tender care of him. She told him she had never felt better orstronger, and never enjoyed more refreshing sleep than on the roomy oldsofa.

They had been happy together, even in this time of anxiety. It wasLaura’s delight to read aloud to the invalid, to write his letters,to pour out his medicine, to minister to all the trivial wants ofan illness that caused at its most only a sense of languor andhelplessness. Her only regret with regard to the children’s party wasthat for this one evening she must be for the most part absent from thesick room. Instead of reading aloud to her husband, she must give hermind to ‘Blind Man’s Buff,’ and all her energies to ‘Thread my Needle.’

The winter twilight came gently down, bringing a light snow shower withit, and at four o’clock Laura was seated at the little Chippendaletable by her husband’s bed, drinking tea with him for the first timesince the beginning of his illness. He had been sitting up for a fewhours in the middle of the day, and was now lying outside the bed,wrapped warmly in his long fur-bordered dressing-gown.

He was intensely interested in the children’s party, and asked Lauraall about her arrangements for entertaining her guests.

‘I should think the great point was to give them enough to eat,’ hesaid, meditatively. ‘The nearest approach to perfect[Pg 192] happiness I everbeheld is a child eating something it considers nice. For the momentthe mind of that infant is in a state of complete beatitude. It livesin the present, and the present only. Its little life is roundedinto the narrow circle of NOW. Slowly, thoughtfully, it smacks itslips, and gloats upon the savour it loves. Hardly an earthquake woulddisturb it from that deep and tranquil delight. With the last mouthful,its gladness departs, and the child learns that earthly pleasure isfleeting. Let your children stuff themselves all the evening and stufftheir pockets before they go home, Laura, and they will realise theperfection of bliss.’

‘And to-morrow the poor little creatures would be ill and miserable.No, Jack, they shall enjoy themselves a little more rationally than youpropose; and every one of them shall have something to take back to theperson they love best at home, so that even a child’s idea of enjoymentshall not be utterly selfish. But I shall be so sorry to be away fromyou all the evening Jack.’

‘And I shall be still more sorry to lose you, love. I shall try tosleep away the hours of your absence. Could you not give me a good doseof chloral now, Laura?’

‘Not for the world, dear. I have a horror of opiates, except in extremecases. I shall contrive to be with you for an odd half hour or two inthe course of the evening. Celia is to be my lieutenant.’

‘Then I hope you will let her do a good deal of your work, and that Ishall see the sweet face I love, very often. Who is coming, besides thechildren?’

‘Only Mr. Sampson and his sister, and Edward Clare. Edward is going toread an Ingoldsby legend. I suggested “Mrs. Brown at the play;” buthe would not hear of her. I am afraid the children won’t understandIngoldsby.’

‘You and Celia must start all the laughter.’

‘I don’t think I could laugh while you are a prisoner here.’

‘It has been a very short imprisonment and your sweet society has madeit very happy.’

CHAPTER XXV.

THE CHILDREN’S PARTY.

The servants’ hall was one of the finest rooms in the Manor House. Itwas at the back of the house, remote from all the reception rooms, andhad been part of a much older building than the Carolian mansion towhich it now belonged. It was lighted by two square latticed windowswith stone mullions, looking into the stable yard. There was alsoa door opening[Pg 193] directly into the same stable yard, and offering aconvenient approach for the wandering tribes of tramps, hawkers, andgipsies, who boldly defied the canine guardians of the yard, knowingthat the stoutest mastiff that ever thundered forth his abhorrence ofrags and beggary is only formidable within the circle described by thelength of his chain.

On this Christmas Eve the servants’ hall looked as cheerful a room asone could choose for a night’s revelry. Huge logs flamed and crackledin the wide old fireplace, and shone and sparkled on the whitewashedwall, which was glorified with garlands of holly and ivy, and lightedwith numerous candles in tin sconces made for the occasion by thevillage blacksmith. Two long tables on trestles were spread with sucha meal as a rustic child might see in some happy dream, but couldscarcely hope to behold in sober reality. Such mountains of plum cake,such mighty piles of buns, such stacks of buttered toast, such crystaljars of ruby jam and amber marmalade! The guests had been invited forthe hour of six, and, as the clock struck, they all came trooping in,with shining faces, and cheeks and noses cherry red, after their runthrough the lightly falling snow. It was not often that snow fellin this western world, and a snowstorm at Christmas was consideredaltogether pleasant and seasonable, an event for the children torejoice at.

Laura was ready to receive her young visitors, supported by Mr. Sampsonand his sister, Celia Clare, and all the servants. Edward had promisedto drop in later. He had no objection to distinguish himself by acomic reading, but he had no idea of sharing all the fatigue of theentertainment. Mr. and Mrs. Clare were to come in the course of theevening to see their small parishioners enjoying themselves.

The tea party was a great success. Celia worked nobly. While Mrs.Treverton and Miss Sampson poured out the tea, this vivacious damselflew hither and thither with plates of cake, spread innumerable slicesof bread and jam, tied the strings of a score of pinafores, filledevery plate the instant it was empty, and provided at every turn forthe pleasure of the revellers, who sat in a happy silence—stolid,emotionless, stuffing automatically.

‘You’d hardly think they were enjoying themselves intensely, wouldyou?’ whispered Celia, coming to Laura for a fresh supply of tea,‘but I know they are, because they all breathe so hard. If this was agathering of the county families, you might think it a failure; butsilence in this case means ecstasy.’

At the stroke of seven the tables were being cleared, while Celia, inwild spirits, ran about after the smiling housemaids, crying, ‘morelight, ye knaves, and turn the tables up.’ Then came a merry hour at‘Blind Man’s Buff’ and ‘Thread my Needle,’ and the silent tea partygrew clamorous as a flight[Pg 194] of rooks at sunset. At eight Mr. and Mrs.Clare arrived, followed a little later by Edward, who sauntered in witha somewhat languid air, as if he had not quite made up his mind that heought to be there.

He came straight to Laura, who had just returned from a stolenhalf-hour by her husband’s bedside.

‘What an uproar!’ he said. ‘I’ve come to keep my promise; but doyou really think these little animals will care for the “Jackdaw ofRheims”?’

‘I think they will be glad to sit still for a little while after theirromp, and I’ve no doubt they’ll laugh at the “Jackdaw.” It’s very goodof you to come.’

‘Is it? If you knew how I detest infant school children you might sayso, but if you knew how I——’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘How isTreverton?’ he asked.

‘Much better. Mr. Morton says he will be well in a day or two.’

‘I passed a curious-looking fellow in the road just outside yourgates, a regular London Bohemian; a man whose very walk recalled themost disreputable quarters of that extraordinary city. I have no ideawho the fellow is; but I’ll swear he’s a Londoner, a swindler, and anadventurer; and I have a lurking idea that I have seen him before.’

‘Indeed! Was it that which attracted your notice?’

‘No, it was the man’s style and manner altogether. He was loiteringnear the gate, as if with some intention; possibly not the mosthonourable. You’ve heard perhaps of a kind of robbery known as theportico dodge?’

‘No. I am not learned in such distinctions.’

‘It is a common crime now-a-days. A country house with a portico isa fine field for the display of genius in burglary. One of the gangscales the portico after dusk, most likely at the family dinner-hour,gets from the roof of the portico through a convenient window, andthen quietly admits his accomplices. In all such robberies there isgenerally one member of the gang, the cleverest and best educated, whohas no active part in the crime. He does all the intellectual work,schemes and directs the whole business; but though the police know himand would give their eyes to catch him tripping, he never tumbles intotheir trap. The fellow I saw at your gates to-night seemed to me justthis sort of man.’

Laura looked very serious, as if she were alarmed at the idea ofrobbery.

‘Was this man young or old?’ she asked thoughtfully.

‘Neither. He is middle-aged, perhaps even elderly, but certainly notold. He is as straight as a dart, spare but broad-shouldered, and withsomething of a military air.’

[Pg 195]

‘What made you fancy he had some evil design upon this house?’ askedLaura, her face clouded with anxious thought.

‘I did not like the way in which he loitered by the gate. He seemedto be looking for some one or something, watching his opportunity. Idon’t want to scare you, Laura. I only want to put you on your guard,so that you may have all the doors and shutters looked after with extracare to-night. After all, the man may be perfectly harmless—some seedyacquaintance of your husband, perhaps. A man cannot live in the worldof London without that kind of burr sticking to his coat.’

‘You do not flatter my husband by such a supposition,’ said Laura, withan offended look.

‘My dear Laura, do you think a man can live his life without makingacquaintance he would not care to exhibit in the glare of noonday? Youknow the old adage about poverty and strange bedfellows. I hope thereis no treason in reminding you that Mr. Treverton was not always rich.’

‘No. I am not ashamed of his having been poor; but it would shame me ifI thought he had any acquaintance in his poverty whom he would blushto own now he is rich. Will you begin your reading? The children areready.’

The infants, flushed and towzled by their sports, had been ranged onbenches by the joint efforts of Tom Sampson, his sister, and CeliaClare, and were now being regaled with cake and negus. Celia had placeda small table, with a pair of candles and a glass of water, at the endof the room, for the accommodation of the reader.

‘Silence!’ commanded Mr. Sampson, as Edward walked to his place, gavea little preparatory cough, and opened his book. ‘Silence for “TheJackdaw of Rheims.”’

began Edward.

A loud peal of the front-door bell startled him. He stopped for amoment, and looked at Laura, who was sitting with the Vicar and hiswife in a little group near the fireplace at the other end of the room.At the sound of the bell she looked up quickly, and, with an agitatedair, kept her eyes fixed on the door, as if she expected some one toenter.

He had no excuse for leaving off reading, curious as he felt about thatbell, and Laura’s evident concern. He went on mechanically, full ofwondering speculations as to what was going on in the entrance hall,hating the open-mouthed and open-eyed infants who were hanging on hiswords; while Celia,[Pg 196] seated at the end of the front row, started allthe laughter and applause.

‘Where did I meet that man?’ he asked himself over and over again whilehe read on.

The answer flashed upon him in the middle of a sentence.

‘It is the man I saw with Chicot in Drury Lane; the man I talked to inthe public-house.’

The door opened, and the slow and portly Trimmer came in, and softlymade his way to the place where his mistress was seated. He whisperedto her, and then she whispered to Mrs. Clare—doubtless an apology forleaving her—and anon followed Trimmer out of the room.

‘What can that man—if it is that man who rang the bell—want withher?’ wondered Edward, so deeply moved that he could scarcelygo on reading. ‘Is the secret going to be told to-night? Are the cardsgoing to be taken out of my hands?’

CHAPTER XXVI.

A DISINTERESTED PARENT.

‘A person has called to see you, ma’am. He begs to apologise for comingso late, but he has travelled a long way, and will be very thankful ifyou can see him.’

This is what the butler had whispered in Mrs. Treverton’s ear, handingher at the same time a card on which there was a name written—

‘Colonel Mansfield.’

At sight of this name Laura rose, whispered her excuse to Mrs. Clare,and glided quietly from the room.

‘Where have you left this gentleman?’ she asked the butler.

‘I left him in the hall, ma’am. I did not feel sure you would see him.’

‘He is related to my family,’ said Laura, faltering a little; ‘I cannotrefuse to see him.’

This brief conversation occurred in the corridor leading from theservants’ hall to the front of the house. A tall man, wrapped in aloose, rough great-coat, was standing just inside the hall door, whileTrimmer’s subordinate, a rustic youth in a dark-brown livery, stood atease near the fireplace, evidently placed there to protect the mansionfrom any evil designs on the part of the unknown intruder.

Laura went to the stranger and gave him her hand, without[Pg 197] a word. Shewas very pale, and it was evident the visitor was as unwelcome as hewas unexpected.

‘You had better come to my study,’ she said. ‘There is a good firethere. Trimmer, take candles to the study and some wine.’

‘I’d rather have brandy,’ said the stranger. ‘I am chilled to the bone.An eight hours’ journey in a cattle truck is enough to freeze theyoungest blood. For a man of my age, and with chronic neuralgia, itmeans martyrdom.’

‘I am very sorry,’ murmured Laura, with a look in which compassionstruggled against disgust. ‘Come this way. We can talk quietly in myroom.’

She went upstairs, the stranger following close at her heels, to thegallery out of which John Treverton’s study, which was also her ownfavourite sitting-room, opened. It was the room where she and herhusband had met for the first time, two years ago, on just such anight as this. It adjoined the bedroom where John Treverton was nowlying. She had no desire that he should be a witness to her interviewwith this visitor of to-night; but she had a sense of protection inthe knowledge that her husband would be within call. Hitherto, on therare occasions when she had been constrained to meet this man, shehad confronted him alone, defenceless; and she had never felt herloneliness so keenly as at those times.

‘I ought to have told John the whole truth,’ she said to herself; ‘buthow could I—how could I bear to acknowledge——’

She glanced backward, with a suppressed shudder, at the man followingher. They were at the door of the study by this time. She opened it,and he went in after her and shut the door behind him.

A fire was burning cheerily on the pretty, bright-looking hearth,antique in its quaint ornamentation, modern in the artistic beautyof its painted tiles and low brass fender. There were candles on themantelpiece and on the table, where an old-fashioned spirit bottle ona silver tray cheered the soul of the wayfarer. He filled a glass ofbrandy and drained it without a word.

He gave a deep sigh of contentment or relief as he set down the glass.

‘That’s a little bit better,’ he said, and then he threw off hisovercoat and scarf, and planted himself with his back to the fire, andthe face which he turned to the light was the face of Mr. Desrolles.

The man had aged within the last six months. Every line in his face haddeepened. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes haggard and bloodshot. Thesands of life run fast for a man whose chief nourishment is brandy.

[Pg 198]

‘Well,’ he exclaimed, in a hard, husky voice. ‘You do not welcome mevery warmly, my child.’

‘I did not expect you.’

‘The surprise should be all the pleasanter. Picture to yourself, now,our meeting as it would be represented in a novel or a stage play. Youwould throw your arms wide apart, shriek, and rush to my breast. Doyou remember Julia in the “Hunchback”? With what a yell of rapture sheflings herself into Master Walter’s arms!’

‘Do you remember what Master Walter had been to Julia?’ asked Laura,looking steadily into the haggard eyes, which shifted their gaze as shelooked.

‘Real life is flat and tame compared with a stage play,’ saidDesrolles. ‘For my part I am heartily sick of it.’

‘I am sorry to see you looking so ill.’

‘I am a perambulating bundle of aches. There is not a muscle in my bodythat has not its particular pain.’

‘Can you find no relief for this complaint? Are there not baths inGermany that might cure you?’

‘I understand,’ interrupted Desrolles. ‘You would be glad to get me outof the way.’

‘I should be glad to lessen your suffering. When I last wrote to youI sent you a much larger remittance than I had ever done before, andI told you that I should allow you six hundred a year, to be paidquarterly. I thought that would be enough for all your requirements. Iam grieved to hear that you have been obliged to ride in a third-classcarriage in cold weather.’

‘I have been unlucky,’ answered Desrolles. ‘I have been at Boulogne; apleasant place, but peopled with knaves. I fell among thieves, and gotcleaned out. You must give me fifty or a hundred to-night, and you mustnot deduct it from your next quarterly payment. You are now a lady offortune, and could afford to do three times as much as you are doingfor me. Why did you not tell me you were married? Pretty treatment thatfrom a daughter!’

‘Father,’ exclaimed Laura, looking at him with the same calm gaze whichhis shifting eyes had refused to meet just now, ‘do you want me to tellyou the truth?’

‘Of course. Whatever else do you suppose I want?’

‘Even if it seems hard and cruel, as the truth often is?’

‘Speak away, girl. My poor old bones have been too long battered aboutin this world for hard words to break them.’

‘How can you ask me for a daughter’s dutiful love?’ asked Laura, inlow, earnest tones. ‘How can you expect it from me? What of a father’saffection or a father’s care have you ever given to me? What do I knowof your life except fraud and mystery?[Pg 199] Have you ever approached meexcept in secret, and as an applicant for money?’

‘It’s a true bill,’ ejacul*ted Desrolles, with a laugh that ended in agroan.

‘When I was a little motherless child you gave me to the one truefriend of your youth. He took me as his adopted daughter, leaving youdying, as he supposed. Years passed, and you let him believe you dead.For ten years you made no sign. Your daughter, your only child, wasbeing reared in a stranger’s house, and you did not trouble yourself tomake one inquiry about her welfare.’

‘Not directly. How do you know what measures I may have taken to getinformation indirectly, without compromising your future? It was foryour advantage that I kept myself dark, Laura; it was for your sakethat I let my old friend believe me dead. As his adopted daughter yourprosperity was assured. What would your life have been with me? To saveyou I lent myself to a lie.’

‘I am sorry for it,’ said Laura coldly. ‘In my mind all lies arehateful. I cannot conceive that good can ever come of them.’

‘In this case good has come of my innocent deception. You are mistressof a fine estate, wife of a husband whom, as I hear, you love.’

‘With all my heart and soul.’

‘Is it too much to ask for a ray of your sunshine—a little benefitfrom your large wealth?’

‘I will do anything in reason,’ answered Laura, ‘but not even formy own father—had you been all that a father should be to hischild—would I suffer Jasper Treverton’s wealth to be turned to eviluses. You told me that you stood alone in the world, with no onedependent on you. Surely six hundred a year is an income that shouldenable you to live in comfort and respectability?’

‘It will, when I have got myself clear of past liabilities. Rememberthat until six months ago the help you gave me amounted only to ahundred a year, except when I appealed to you, under the pressure ofcirc*mstances, for an extra trifle. A hundred a year in London, to aman in bad health, hardly served to keep the wolf from the door. I haddebts to pay. I have been unfortunate in a speculation that promisedwell.’

‘In future you will have no occasion to speculate.’

‘True,’ said Desrolles, with a sigh, as he filled himself another glassof brandy.

Laura watched him with a face full of pain. Was this a father she couldacknowledge to the husband she loved? Only with deepest shame could sheconfess her close kindred with a creature so sunk in degradation.

[Pg 200]

Desrolles drank the brandy at a gulp, and then flung himself into thechair by the hearth.

‘And pray how long have you been married?’ he asked.

Laura’s face crimsoned at the question. It was just the one inquirycalculated to give her acutest pain; for it recalled all that waspainful in the circ*mstances of her marriage.

‘We were married on the last day of last year,’ she said.

‘You have been a year married, and I only learn the fact to-night fromthe village gossips at the inn where I stopped to eat a crust of breadand cheese on my way here!’

‘You might have seen the announcement in the Times.’

‘I might, but did not. Well, I suppose I surrendered a father’s rightswhen I gave my child to another man’s keeping; but it seems hard.’

‘Why pain yourself and me with useless reproaches? I am prepared to doall that duty can dictate. I am deeply anxious that your future lifeshould be comfortable and respected. Tell me where you intend to live,and how I can best assure your happiness.’

‘Happiness!’ cried Desrolles, with a derisive shrug. ‘I have neverknown that since I was five-and-twenty. Where am I going to live,do you ask? Who knows? Not I, you may be sure. I am a wanderer byhabit and inclination. Do you think I am going to shut myself in aspeculative builder’s brick and mortar box—a semi-detached villa inCamden Town or Islington—and live the monotonous life of a respectableannuitant? That kind of vegetation may suit a retired tradesman, whohas spent three-fourths of his life behind the same counter. It wouldbe living death to a man with a mind—a man who has travelled and livedamong his fellow-men. No, my dear; you must not attempt to limit mymovements by the inch-measure of middle-class respectability. Give memy pittance unfettered by conditions of any kind. Let me receive itquarterly from your London agent, and, since you repudiate my claimto your affection, I pledge myself never again to trouble you with mypresence after to-night.’

‘I do not ask that,’ said Laura thoughtfully. ‘It is only right that weshould see each other sometimes. By the deception which you practisedupon my benefactor, you have made it impossible that I should ever ownyou as my father before the world. Everybody in Hazlehurst believesthat my father died when Jasper Treverton adopted me. But to myhusband, at least, I can own the truth: I have shrunk from doing sohitherto, but to-night, while we have been sitting here, I have beenthinking that I have acted weakly and foolishly. John Treverton willrespect your secret for my sake, and he ought to know it.’

‘Stop,’ cried Desrolles, starting to his feet, and speaking in a[Pg 201]louder tone than he had used hitherto. ‘I forbid you to breathe a wordof me or my business to your husband. When I revealed myself to you Ipledged you to secrecy. I insist——’

He stopped and stood facing the doorway between the two rooms, staringaghast, horror-stricken, as if he had seen a ghost.

‘Great heaven!’ he exclaimed, ‘what brings you here?’

John Treverton stood in the open doorway, a tall, dark figure, in along velvet dressing-gown. Laura flew to his side.

‘Dearest, why did you get up?’ she cried. ‘How imprudent of you!’

‘I heard a voice raised as if threateningly. What has brought this manhere—with you?’

‘He is the relation about whom you once questioned me, John,’ Lauraanswered, falteringly. ‘You have not forgotten?’

‘This man related to you?’ cried Treverton. ‘This man?’

‘Yes. You know each other?’

‘We have met before,’ answered Treverton, who had never taken hiseyes from the other man’s face. ‘We last met under very painfulcirc*mstances. It is a surprise to find a relation of yours in Mr.——’

‘Mansfield,’ interrupted Desrolles. ‘I have changed the name of Malcolmfor Mansfield—a name in my mother’s family—for Laura’s sake. It mightbe disadvantageous for her to own kindred with a man whom the world hasplayed football with for the last ten years.’

Desrolles had grown ashy pale since the entrance of Laura’s husband,and the hand with which he poured out his third glass of brandy shooklike a leaf.

‘Highly considerate on your part, Mr. Mansfield,’ replied JohnTreverton. ‘May I ask for what reason you have favoured my wife withthis late visit?’

‘The usual motive that brings a poor relation to a rich man’s house. Iwant money, and Laura can afford to give it. Why beat about the bush?’

‘Why indeed! Plain dealing will be best in this case. I think, as it isa simple matter of business, you had better let me arrange it with you.Laura, will you leave your kinsman’s claims for me to settle? You maytrust me to take a liberal view of his position.’

‘I will trust you, dearest, now and always,’ answered his wife, givinghim her hand, and then she went to Desrolles, and offered him the samefrank hand, looking at him with tender earnestness. ‘Good night,’ shesaid, ‘and good-bye. I beg you to trust my husband, as I trust him.Believe me, it will be the best for all of us. He will be as ready torecognise your claim as I am, if you will only confide in him. If Ihave trusted him with my life, cannot you trust him with your secret?’

[Pg 202]

‘Good night,’ said Desrolles curtly. ‘I haven’t got over myastonishment yet.’

‘At what?’

‘At finding you married.’

‘Good night,’ she said again, on the threshold of the door, and thenshe came back to tell her husband not to fatigue or excite himself. ‘Ican only give you a quarter of an hour,’ she said to Desrolles. ‘Prayremember that my husband is an invalid, and ought to be in bed.’

‘Go to your school children, dearest,’ said Treverton, smiling at heranxiety. ‘I shall be careful.’

The door closed behind Laura, and the two men—fellow-lodgers a yearago in Cibber Street—stood face to face with each other.

‘So you are John Treverton?’ said Desrolles, wiping his lips with thattremulous hand of his, and looking with a hungry eye at the half-emptydecanter, looking anywhere rather than straight into the eyes of hisfellow-man.

‘And you claim relationship with my wife?’

‘Nearer, perhaps, than you would care to hear; so near that I havesome right to know how you, Jack Chicot, came to be her husband—howit was that you married her a year ago, at which period the lovely andaccomplished Madame Chicot, whom I had the honour to know, was stillliving? Either that charming woman was not your wife, or your marriagewith Laura Malcolm is invalid.’

‘Laura is my wife, and her marriage as valid as law can make it,’answered John Treverton. ‘That is enough for you to know. And now begood enough to explain your degree of kindred with Mrs. Treverton. Yousay your real name is Malcolm. What was your relationship with Laura’sfather?’

‘Laura urged me to trust you with my secret,’ muttered Desrolles,throwing himself into his former seat by the fire, and speaking like aman who is calculating the chances of a certain line of policy. ‘Whyshould I not be frank with you, Jack—Treverton? How much handier theold name comes! Had you been the punctilious piece of respectabilityI expected to meet in the heir of my old friend Jasper Treverton, Imight have shrank from telling you a secret that hardly redounds tomy credit, from the churchgoer and ratepayer’s point of view. But toyou—Jack—the artist and Bohemian, the man who has tumbled on everyplatform and acted in every show at the world’s fair—to you I mayconfide my secret without a blush. Come, fill me another glass, like agood fellow; my hand shakes as if I had the scrivener’s palsy. You knowthe history of Jasper Treverton’s adopted daughter?’

‘I have heard it, naturally.’

[Pg 203]

‘You have heard how Treverton, who had quarrelled with his friendStephen Malcolm about a foolish love affair, was summoned many yearsafter to that friend’s sick bed—found him dying, as every onesupposed—then and there adopted Malcolm’s only child, and carried heroff with him, leaving a fifty-pound note to comfort his old friend’slast moments and pay the undertaker?’

‘Yes, I have heard all this.’

‘But not what follows. When a doctor gives a patient up for dead, heis sometimes on the high road to recovery. Stephen Malcolm contrivedto cheat the doctor. Perhaps it was the comfort provided by thatfifty-pound note, perhaps it was the knowledge that his only child’sfuture was provided for,—anyhow, it seemed as if a burden had beenlifted from the sick man’s shoulders, for from the time JasperTreverton left him he mended, got a new lease of life, and went outinto the world again—a lonely wayfarer, happy in the knowledge thathis daughter’s fate was no longer allied with his, that whatever evilmight befall him her lines were set in pleasant places.’

‘Do you mean to tell me that Stephen Malcolm recovered—lived foryears—and allowed his daughter to suppose herself an orphan, and hisfriend to believe him dead?’

‘To tell the truth would have been to hazard his daughter’s goodfortune. As an orphan, and the adopted child of a rich bachelor, herlot was secure. What would it have been if she had been flung back uponher actual father, to share his precarious existence? I consideredthis, and took the unselfish view of the question. I might have claimedmy daughter back; I might have sponged on Jasper. I did neither—I wentmy solitary way, along the stony highway of life, uncheered, unloved.’

‘You!’ cried John Treverton. ‘You!’

‘Yes. In me you behold the wreck of Stephen Malcolm.’

‘You Laura’s father! Great heaven! Why, you have not a feature, not alook in common with her! Her father! This is indeed a revelation.’

‘Your astonishment is not flattering to me. My child resembles hermother, who was one of the loveliest women I ever saw. Yet I canassure you, Mr. Treverton, that at your age, Stephen Malcolm had somepretension to good looks.’

‘I am not disputing that, man. You may have been as handsome as Adonis;but my Laura’s father should have at least something of her look andair; a smile, a glance, a turn of the head, a something that wouldreveal the mystic link between parent and child. Does she know this?Does she recognise you as her father?’

‘She does, poor child. It is at her wish I have revealed myself to you.’

‘How long has she known?’

[Pg 204]

‘It is a little more than five years since I told her. I had justreturned from the Continent, where I had spent seven years of mylife in self-imposed exile. Suddenly I was seized with the outcast’syearning to tread his native soil again, and look upon the scenesof youth once more before death closes his eyes for ever. I cameback—could not resist the impulse that drew me to my daughter—putmyself one day in her pathway, and told her my story. From that time Ihave seen her at intervals.’

‘And have received money from her,’ put in John Treverton.

‘She is rich and I am poor. She has helped me to live.’

‘You might have lived upon the money she gave you a little morereputably than you were living in Cibber Street, when we werefellow-lodgers.’

‘What were my vices in Cibber Street? My life was inoffensive.’

‘Late hours and the brandy bottle—the ruin of body and soul.’

‘I have a chronic malady which makes brandy a necessity for me.’

‘Would it not be more exact to say that brandy is your chronic malady?Well, Mr. Mansfield, I shall make a proposition to you in the characterof your son-in-law.’

‘I have a few words to say to you before you make it. I have told youmy secret, which all the world may know, and welcome. I have committedno crime in allowing my old friend to suppose me dead. I have onlysacrificed my own interests to the advantage of my daughter; but you,Mr. Treverton, have your secret, and one which I think you would hardlylike to lay bare to the world in which you are now such an importantpersonage. The master of Hazlehurst Manor would scarcely care to beidentified with Jack Chicot, the caricaturist, and husband—at least bycommon repute—of the dancer whose name used to adorn all the walls ofLondon.’

‘No,’ said Treverton, ‘that is a dark page in my life which I wouldwillingly tear out of the book; but I have always known the probabilityof my finding myself identified with the past, sooner or later. Thisworld of ours is monstrous big when a man tries to make a figure in it;but it’s very small when he wants to hide himself from his fellow-men.I have told my wife all I can tell her without stripping the veil fromthat past life of mine. To reveal more would be to make her unhappy.You can have no motive for telling her more than I have told her. I canrely on your honour in this matter?’

‘You can,’ answered Desrolles, looking at him curiously; ‘but I shallexpect you to treat me handsomely—as a son-in-law, whose wealth hascome to him through his marriage, should treat his wife’s father.’

[Pg 205]

‘What would you call handsome treatment?’ asked Treverton.

‘I’ll tell you. My daughter, who has a woman’s petty notions aboutmoney, has offered me six hundred a year. I want a thousand.’

‘Do you?’ asked Treverton, with half-concealed contempt. ‘Well, livea respectable life, and neither your daughter nor I will grudge you athousand a year.’

‘I shall live the life of a gentleman. Not in England. My daughterwants to get me out of the country. She said as much just now; or, atany rate, what she did say implied as much. A continental life wouldsuit my humour, and perhaps mend my health. Annuitants are long-lived.’

‘Not when they drink a bottle of brandy a day.’

‘In a milder climate I may diminish the quantity. Give me a hundredin ready money to begin with, and I’ll go back to London by the firsttrain to-morrow morning, and start for Paris at night. I ask for nofather’s place at your Christmas table. I don’t want you to kill thefatted calf for me.’

‘I understand,’ said Treverton, with an involuntary sneer, ‘you onlywant money. You shall have it.’

He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and unlocked a despatch box,in which he was in the habit of keeping money received from his stewardbefore he sent it off to the bank. There was a little over a hundredpounds in the box, in notes and gold. John Treverton counted a hundred;the crisp notes, the bright gold, lay in a tempting heap on the tablebefore him, but he kept his hand upon the money for a minute or two,while he sat looking at it with a meditative countenance.

‘By the way, Mr. —— Mansfield,’ he began after that thoughtfulsilence, ‘when, after a lapse of so many years, you presented yourselfto your daughter, what credentials did you bring with you?’

‘Credentials?’

‘Yes. In other words, how did you prove your identity? You had partedwith her when she was a child of six years old. Did her memory recallyour features when she met you as a girl of seventeen, or did she takeyour word for the fact that you were the father she had believed to bein his grave?’

‘She remembered me when I recalled myself to her. At first her memorywas naturally vague. She had a dim recollection of my face, but nocertainty as to when and where she had last seen it, until I recalledto her the circ*mstances of her childhood, the last days we spenttogether before my serious illness, her mother, the baby brother thatdied when she was three years old. John Treverton, you libel natureif you suppose that a daughter’s instinct can fail her when a fatherappeals to it. Had material[Pg 206] proofs been wanted to convince my childthat her father stood before her, I had those proofs, and I showedthem to her—old letters, the certificate of her birth, her mother’spicture. The portrait I gave to Laura. I have the documents about meto-night. I have never parted with them.’

He produced a bloated pocket-book, the leather worn greasy with longusage, the silk lining frayed and ragged, and from this receptaclebrought forth half-a-dozen papers, yellow with age.

One was the certificate of Laura Malcolm’s birth. The other five wereletters addressed to Stephen Malcolm, Esq., Ivy Cottage, Chiswick. Oneof these, the latest in date, was from Jasper Treverton.

‘I am deeply grieved to hear of your serious illness, my poor friend,’he wrote; ‘your letter followed me to Germany, where I have beenspending the autumn at one of the famous mineral baths. I started forEngland immediately, and landed here half-an-hour ago. I shall come onas fast as rail and cabs can bring me, and indeed hope to be with youbefore you get this letter.

‘Yours in all friendship,
‘Jasper Treverton.

‘The Ship Hotel, Dover,

‘October 15th, 185—.’

The other letters were from friends of the past, like Jasper. Onehad enclosed aid in the shape of a post-office order. The restwere sympathetic and regretful refusals to assist a broken-downacquaintance. The writers offered their impecunious friend everygood wish, and benevolently commended him to Providence. In everycase the respectability and the respectful tone of Stephen Malcolm’scorrespondents went far to testify to the fact that he had once beena gentleman. There was a deep descent from the position of the man towhom these letters were written to the status of Mr. Desrolles, thesecond-floor lodger in Cibber Street.

So far as they went his credentials were undeniable. Laura hadrecognised him as her father. What justification could John Trevertonfind for repudiating his claim? For the money the man demanded he carednot a jot; but it pained him unspeakably to accept this dissipatedwaif, soaked in alcohol, as the father of the woman he loved.

‘There is your hundred pounds, Mr. Mansfield,’ he said, ‘and sinceyou have taught the little world of Hazlehurst to consider my wifean orphan, the less you show yourself here the better for all of us.Villages are given to scandal. If you were to be seen at this house,people would want to know who you are and all about you.’

‘I told you I should start for Paris to-morrow night,’ answeredDesrolles, strapping his pocket-book, which was now distended to itsuttermost with notes and gold. ‘I shan’t change my mind.[Pg 207] I’m fondof Paris and Parisian ways, and know my way about that glorious cityalmost as well as you, though I never married a French wife.’

John Treverton sat silent, with his thoughtful gaze bent on the fire,apparently unconscious of the other man’s sneer.

‘Ta ta, Jack. Any message for your old friends in the Quartier Latin?No? Ah, I suppose the Squire of Hazlehurst has turned his back on thecompanions of Jack Chicot; just as King Harry the Fifth threw off thejoyous comrades of the Prince of Wales. The desertion broke poor oldFalstaff’s heart; but that’s a detail. Good night, Jack.’

Laura re-entered the room at this moment, and drew back startled athearing her father address her husband with such friendly familiarity.

‘I have told Mr. Treverton everything, my dear,’ said Desrolles.

‘I am so glad of that,’ answered Laura, and then she laid her hand uponthe old man’s shoulder, with more affection than she had ever yet shownhim, and said, with grave gentleness, ‘Try to lead a good life, my dearfather, and let us hear from you sometimes, and let us think of eachother kindly, though Fate has separated us.’

‘A good life,’ he muttered, turning his bloodshot eyes upon her fora moment with a look that thrilled her with a sudden horror. ‘Themoney should have come sooner, my girl. I’ve travelled too far on thewrong road. There, good-bye, my dear. Don’t trouble yourself aboutan old scapegrace like me. Jack, send me my money quarterly to thataddress,’—he threw down a dingy-looking card—‘and I’ll never worryyou again. You can blot me out of your mind, if you like; and you neednever fear that my tongue will say an evil word of you, go where I may.’

‘I will trust you for that,’ answered John Treverton, holding out hishand.

Desrolles either did not see the gesture, or did not care to take thehand. He snatched up his greasy-looking hat and hurried from the room.

‘Dearest, do you think any worse of me now you know that man is myfather?’ asked Laura, when the door had closed upon Desrolles, and thebell had been rung to warn Trimmer of the guest’s departure.

‘Do I think any worse of a pearl because it comes out of an oyster?’said her husband, smiling at her. ‘Dear love, if the parish workhousewere peopled with your relations, not one of them more reputable thanMr. Mansfield, my love and reverence for you would not be lessened by atittle.’

‘You don’t believe in hereditary genius, then. You don’t think that wederive our characters mainly from our fathers and mothers?’

[Pg 208]

‘If I did I should believe that your mother was an angel, and that youinherited her disposition.’

‘My poor father,’ said Laura, with something between a sigh and ashudder. ‘He was once a gentleman.’

‘No doubt, love. There is no saying how low a man may descend when heonce takes to travelling down-hill.’

‘If he had not been a gentleman my adopted father could never have beenhis friend,’ mused Laura. ‘It would not have been possible for JasperTreverton to associate with anything base.’

‘No, love. And now tell me, when first your father presented himself toyou, was not his revelation a great surprise, a shock to your feelings?’

‘It was indeed.’

‘Tell me, dear, how it happened. Tell me all the circ*mstances, if itdoes not pain you.’

‘No, dear. It pained me for you to know that my father had fallen solow, but now that you know the worst, I feel easier in my mind. It isa relief to me to be able to speak of him freely. Remember, Jack, hehad bound me solemnly to secrecy. I would not break my promise, even toyou.’

‘I understand all, dear.’

‘The first time I saw my father,’ Laura began falteringly, as if evento speak of him by that sacred name were painful to her, ‘it was summertime, a lovely August evening, and I had strolled out after dinner intothe orchard. You know the gate that opens from the orchard into thefield. I saw a man standing outside it smoking, with his arms restingon the top of the gate. Seeing a stranger there, I turned away to avoidhim, but before I had gone three steps he stopped me. “Miss Malcolm,for God’s sake let me speak to you,” he said. “I am an old friend whomyou must remember.” I went up to him and looked him full in the face;for there was such earnestness in his manner that it never occurred tome that he might be an impostor. “Indeed, I do not remember you,” Isaid. “When have I ever seen you?” Then he called me by my Christianname. “Laura,” he said, “you were six years old when Mr. Trevertonbrought you here. Have you quite forgotten the life that went beforethat time?”’

She paused, and her husband drew her to the low chair by the fire, andseated himself beside her, letting her head rest on his shoulder.

‘Go on, love,’ he said gently, ‘but not if these memories agitate you.’

‘No, dear. It is a relief to confide in you. I told him that I didremember the time before I came to the Manor House. Some events Icould remember distinctly, others faintly, like the shadows in adream. I remembered being in France, by the sea,[Pg 209] in a place wherethe fisherwomen wore bright-coloured petticoats and high caps, whereI had children of my own age to play with, and where the sun seemedalways shining. And then that life had changed to dull gray days in aplace near a river, a place where there were narrow lanes, and countryroads and fields; and yet there was a town close by with tall chimneysand busy streets. I remembered that here my mother was ill, lying ina darkened room for many weeks; and then one day my father took me toLondon in the omnibus, and left me in a large, cold-looking house in agreat square—a house where all the rooms were big and lofty, and hadan awful look after our little parlour at home, and where I used tosit in a drawing-room all day with an old lady in black satin, who letme amuse myself as best I could. My father had told me that the oldlady was his aunt, and that I was to call her aunt, but I was too muchafraid of her to call her anything. I think I must have stayed thereabout a week, but it seemed ages, for I was very unhappy, and used tocry myself to sleep every night, when the maid had put me to bed in alarge, bleak room at the top of the house; and then my father came andtook me home again in the red omnibus. I could see that he was veryunhappy, and while we were walking in the lane that led to our house hetold me that my dear mamma had gone away, and that I should never seeher again in this world. I had loved her passionately, Jack, and theloss almost broke my heart. I am telling you much more than I told thestranger. I only said enough to him to prove that I remembered my oldlife.’

‘And how did he reply?’

‘He took a morocco case from his pocket and gave it into my hand,telling me to look at the portrait inside it. Oh, how well I rememberedthat sweet face! The memory of it flashed upon me like a dream one hasforgotten and tried vainly to recall, till it comes back suddenly in abreath. Yes, it was my mother’s face. I could remember her looking justlike that as she sat at work on the rocks by the sands where I playedwith the other children, at that happy place in France. I rememberedher sitting by my cot every night before I fell asleep. I asked thestranger how he came to possess this picture. “I would give all themoney I have in the world for it,” I said. “You shall do nothing of thekind,” he answered. “I give it you as a free gift, but I should nothave done that if you had not remembered your mother’s face. And now,Laura, look at me and tell me if you have ever seen me before?”’

‘You looked and could not remember him,’ said John Treverton.

‘No. Yet there was something in the face that seemed familiar to me.When he spoke I knew that I had heard the[Pg 210] voice before. It seemedkind and friendly, like the voice of some one I had known long ago. Hetold me to try and realize what change ten years of evil fortune wouldmake in a man’s looks. It was not time only which had altered him, hetold me, but the world’s ill-usage, bad health, hard work, corrodingsorrow. “Make allowance for all this,” he said, “and look at me withindulgent eyes, and then try to send your thoughts back to that oldlife at Chiswick, and say what part I had in it.” I did look at himvery earnestly, and the more I looked the more familiar the face grew.“I think you must be a friend of my father’s,” I said at last. “Povertyhas no friends,” he answered; “at the time you remember your father wasfriendless. Oh, child, child, can ten years blot out a father’s image?I am your father.”’

Laura paused, with quickened breathing, recalling the agitation of thatmoment.

‘I cannot tell you how I felt when he said this,’ she continued,presently. ‘I thought I was going to fall fainting at his feet. Mybrain clouded over; I could understand nothing; and then, when mysenses came slowly back, I asked him how this could be true? Did not myfather die a few hours after I was taken away by Jasper Treverton? Mybenefactor had told me that it was so. Then he—my father—said that hehad allowed Jasper Treverton to suppose him dead, for my sake; in orderthat I might be the adopted child of a rich man, and well placed inlife, while he—my real father—was a waif and stray, and a pauper. Mr.Treverton had received a letter announcing his old friend’s death—aletter written in a feigned hand by my father himself and had nevertaken the trouble to inquire into the particulars of the death andburial. He felt that he had done enough in leaving money for the sickman’s use, and in relieving him of all care about his daughter. This iswhat my father told me. How could I reproach him, Jack, or despise himfor this deception, for a falsehood which so degraded him? It was formy sake he had sinned.’

‘And you had no doubt as to his identity? You were fully assured thathe was that very father whom you had supposed dead and buried ten yearsbefore?’

‘How could I doubt? He showed me papers—letters—that could havebelonged to no one but my father. He gave me my mother’s portrait; andthen, through the mist of years, his face came back to me as a facethat had been very familiar; his voice had the sound of long ago.’

‘Did you give him money on this first meeting?’

‘He told me that he was poor, a broken-down gentleman, without aprofession, with bad health, and no means of earning his living.Could I, his daughter, living in luxury, refrain[Pg 211] from offering himall the help in my power? I begged him to reveal himself to Mr.Treverton—papa, as you know I always called him—but he shrank, notunnaturally, from acknowledging a deception that placed him in sucha false position. “No,” he said, “I told a lie for your sake, I muststick to it for my own.” I could not urge him to alter his resolutionupon this point, for I felt how hard it would be for him to stand faceto face with his old friend under such degrading circ*mstances. Ipromised to keep his secret, and I told him that I would send him allthe money I could possibly spare out of my income, if he would give mean address to which I might send it.’

‘How often did you see him after this?’ asked John Treverton.

‘Before to-night, only three times. One of those occasions was thenight on which you saw me admit him at the garden-door.’

‘True,’ said Treverton, blushing as he remembered the cruel suspicionsthat had been awakened in his mind by that secret interview. ‘And younever told my cousin anything about your father?’

‘Never. He made me promise to keep his existence a secret from all theworld; and even if I had not been so bound I should have shrunk fromtelling Mr. Treverton the cheat that had been practised upon him; forI felt that it was a cheat, however disinterested and generous themotive.’

‘A purposeless cheat, I should imagine,’ said John musingly, ‘for oncehaving promised to take care of you, I should hardly think that mycousin Jasper would have flung you back upon poverty and gloomy days.No, love, once knowing your sweetness, your truthful, loving nature, itwould not have been human to give you up.’

‘My poor father thought otherwise, unhappily.’

‘Dearest love, do not let this error of your father’s cast a shadowupon your life. I, who have known the shifts and straits to whichpoverty may bring a man, can pity and in some measure understand him.We will do all that liberality can do to make the remnant of his daysrespectable and happy.’

CHAPTER XXVII.

DESROLLES IS NOT COMMUNICATIVE.

Mr. Desrolles left the Manor House a new man. He held his head erect,and bore himself with a lofty air even before the butler who showed himout. He was respectabilised by a full purse. There was nothing leftin him of the shabby, downcast stranger who had approached the housewith an air of mingled[Pg 212] mystery and apprehension. Trimmer hardly knewhim. The man’s seedy overcoat hung with the reckless grace of artisticindifference to attire, and not with the forlorn droop of beggary. Hishat was set on with a debonair slant. He looked a Bohemian, a painter,an actor, a popular parson gone to the bad: anything rather than anundistinguished pauper. He flung Trimmer half-a-crown with the loftyelegance of a Lauzun or a Richelieu, nodded a condescending good-night,and walked slowly along the gravel drive, humming La Donna emobile, with not an unskilful mimicry of him who, of all men thatever walked the boards of Covent Garden, looked and moved like a princeof the blood royal, and the thinnest thread of whose fading voice senta thrill through every heart in the vast opera-house.

The snow was no longer falling. It lay in patches here and there uponthe grass, and whitened the topmost edge of the moor, but there wasan end of the brief snowstorm. The stars were shining in a deep bluesky, calm and clear as at midsummer. The moon was rising behind thedark ridge of moor. It was a scene that might have stirred the heartof a man fresh from the life of cities; but the thoughts of Desrolleswere occupied in considering the new aspect given to affairs by hisdiscovery of Jack Chicot in the young squire of Hazlehurst, and incalculating how he might best turn the occasion to his own peculiarprofit.

‘A good, easy-going fellow,’ he reflected, ‘and he seems inclined to beopen-handed. But if the dancer was his legal wife, and if he marriedLaura a year ago, that poor girl is no more his wife than I am. Awkwardfor me to wink at such a position as that, in my paternal character;yet it might be dangerous for me to interfere.’

‘Good evening, Mr. Desrolles,’ said a voice close behind him.

He had been so deeply absorbed in self-interested speculations thathe had not heard footsteps on the gravel. He turned sharply round,surprised at the familiar mention of his name, and encountered EdwardClare.

In that dim light he failed to recognise the man whom he had met inLong Acre, and talked with for about ten minutes, nearly a year ago.

‘You seem to have forgotten me,’ said Clare pleasantly; ‘yet we havemet before. Do you remember meeting me in Long Acre one afternoon andour talking together of your fellow-lodger, Mr. Chicot?’

‘Your face and voice are both familiar to me,’ said Desrollesthoughtfully. ‘Yes, you are the gentleman with whom I conversed forsome minutes in the bar of the Rose Tavern. I remember your speaking ofHazlehurst. You belong to this part of the world, I presume?’

[Pg 213]

‘I do; but I am rather surprised to see you in such an out-of-the-waynook and corner of the universe—on Christmas Eve, too——’

‘When I ought to be hanging up holly in my ancestral mansion, andkissing my grandchildren under the mistletoe,’ interjected Desrolles,with a harsh laugh. ‘Sir, I am a floating weed upon the river of life,and you need never be surprised to see me anywhere. I have no cableto moor me to any harbour, no dock but the hospital, no haven but thegrave.’

Desrolles uttered this dismal speech with positive relish. He had ahundred pounds in his pocket, and the world before him where to choose.What did he want with dock or haven? He was by nature a rover.

‘I am very glad we have met,’ said Edward gravely; ‘I have somethingserious to say to you—so serious that I would rather say it withinfour walls. Can you come with me to my house for half-an-hour, and letme talk to you over a tumbler of toddy?’

Toddy had but little temptation for the brandy drinker; it was almostas if some one had offered him milk and water.

‘I want to get away by the mail,’ said Desrolles doubtfully; ‘and whatthe deuce can you have to say to me?’

‘Something of the utmost importance. Something that may put money inyour purse.’

‘The suggestion provokes my curiosity. Suppose I forego the idea of themail? It’s a cold night, and I’ve had a good deal of travelling sincemorning. Does your village boast an inn where a man can get a decentbed?’

‘Yes, they will make you comfortable at the George. You had better comehome with me, and hear what I have to say. It’s a quarter past nine,and the mail goes at ten thirty. You could hardly do it, if you tried.’

‘Well, let the mail go without this Cæsar and his fortunes; I’ll hearwhat you have to say.’

They walked together to the Vicarage. Mr. and Mrs. Clare and Celia werestill at the Manor House, where the Christmas-tree was being strippedby the tumultuous infants, with shouts of rapture and shrill screams ofdelight. Edward had slipped out directly he had finished the ‘Jackdaw,’under the pretence of smoking a cigar, and had gone round to the frontof the house to watch for the unknown visitor’s departure.

The Vicarage was wrapped in darkness, save in the servants’ quarters,where some mild rejoicings were in progress. Edward let himself inat the hall door, and went up to his den, followed by Mr. Desrolles.The fire had burnt low, but there was a basket of wood by thehearth. Edward flung on a log, and lighted the candles on thetable. Then he opened a cosy little[Pg 214] corner cupboard inthe panelling, and took out a black bottle, a couple of tumblers, and asugar basin.

‘If your whisky’s good, don’t trouble to mix it,’ said Desrolles; ‘I’drather taste it neat.’

He settled himself comfortably in the chair beside the hearth, thepoet’s own particular rocking-chair, in which he was wont to cradle hisfine fancies, and sometimes hush his genius to placid slumber.

‘A tidy little crib,’ said Desrolles, looking curiously round the room,with all its masculine luxuries and feminine frivolities. ‘I wonder youshould speak so disparagingly of a village in which you’ve such snugquarters.’

‘The grub is snug in his cocoon,’ retorted Edward, ‘but that isn’tlife.’

‘No. Life is to be a butterfly, at the mercy of every wind that blows.I think on the whole the grub has the best of it.’

‘Help yourself,’ said Edward, pushing the whisky bottle across thetable to his visitor.

Desrolles filled a glass and emptied it at a draught. ‘New and raw,’ hesaid, disapprovingly. ‘Well, Mr. ——. By the way, you did not favourme with your card when last we met.’

‘My name is Clare.’

‘Well, Mr. Clare, here I am. I have gone out of my own way to putmyself at your disposal. What is this wondrous communication you haveto make to me?’

‘First, let us discuss your own position.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ exclaimed Desrolles, rising and taking up hishat. ‘I did not come here to talk about that. If you’ve set a trap forme you’ll find you’ve got the wrong customer. I belong to the ferrettribe.’

‘My dear fellow, don’t be in such a hurry,’ said Edward, putting up hiswhite, womanish hand in languid entreaty; ‘as a prelude to what I havegot to say I am obliged to speak of your own position with reference toLaura Treverton and her husband, John Treverton, otherwise Jack Chicot.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Simply what I say. John Treverton, squire of Hazlehurst, and JackChicot—Bohemian, adventurer, artist in black and white, unsuccessfulpainter in oils, what you will—are one and the same. It may suit Mr.Treverton to forget that he was ever Jack Chicot; but the story of hispast life is not blotted out because he is ashamed of it. You know, andI know, that the present lord of Hazlehurst Manor is Mrs. Evitt’s oldlodger.’

‘You must be crazy to suggest such a thing,’ said Desrolles, looking atthe other with an air of half stupefied inquiry, as a man in whom hedid verily perceive indications of insanity. ‘The two men have not oneattribute in common.’

[Pg 215]

‘If the man I saw talking to you in Long Acre was Chicot, thecaricaturist, then Chicot and Treverton are one.’

‘My dear fellow, your eyes played you false. Possibly there may be akind of likeness, as far as height, figure, complexion, go.’

‘I saw the man’s face at the magazine office, and I’ll swear it wasTreverton’s face.’

Desrolles shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, ‘Here is a poorhalf-cracked fellow labouring under a harmless delusion. I must indulgehim.’

‘Well, my dear sir,’ he said presently, stretching his well-worn bootsbefore the hearth, and luxuriating in the warmth of the blazing wood,‘if this is all you have to say, you might as well have let me get awayby the mail.’

‘You deny the identity of John Treverton and Chicot, the caricaturist?’

‘Most emphatically. I have the honour to know both men, andam in a position to state that they are totally distinctindividuals—bearing a kind of resemblance to each other in certainbroad characteristics—height, figure, complexion—a resemblance thatmight mislead a man seeing one of the two for a few moments, as you sawChicot——’

‘How do you know how often I saw Chicot?’

‘I draw my inference from your own conduct. If you had seen himoften—if you had seen him more than once—you could not possiblymistake him for Mr. Treverton, or Mr. Treverton for him.’

Edward Clare shrugged his shoulders, and sat looking frowningly at thefire for some moments. Whatever this man Desrolles knew, or whatever hethought, it was evident that there was very little to be got out of him.

‘You are very positive,’ Edward said presently, ‘so I suppose you areright. After all, I can have no desire to identify the husband of awoman I highly esteem with such a fellow as this Chicot. I want only toprotect her interests. Married to a scoundrel, what might not be herfate? Perhaps as terrible as that of the dancer.’

Desrolles answered nothing. He was lying back in the rocking chair,resting, his eyes half closed.

‘Have you seen Chicot since his wife was murdered?’ asked Edward, aftera pause.

‘No one has seen him. It is my belief that he made straight for one ofthe bridges, and drowned himself.’

‘In that case his body would have been found, and his death made knownto the police.’

‘You would not say that if you were a Londoner. How many namelesscorpses do you think are fished out of the Thames[Pg 216] every week—how manyunrecognised corpses lie in the East-end dead-houses waiting for someone to claim them, and are never claimed or identified, and go to thepaupers’ burial-ground without a name? The police did not know Chicot.They had only his description to guide them in their search for him. Iam very clear in my mind that the poor devil put himself out of theirway in the most effectual manner.’

‘You think he murdered his wife?’

Desrolles shrugged his shoulders dubiously.

‘I think nothing,’ he answered. ‘Why should I think the very worst of aman who was my friend? But I know he bolted. The inference is againsthis innocence.’

‘If he is alive it shall be my business to find him,’ said Edwardsavagely. ‘The crime was brutal—unprovoked—inexcusable—and if it isin my power to bring it home to him he shall suffer for it.’

‘You speak as if you had a personal animosity,’ said Desrolles. ‘Icould understand the detectives being savage with him, for he hasled them a pretty dance, and they have been held up to ridicule fortheir failure in catching him. But why you—a gentleman living at easehere—should feel thus strongly——’

‘I have my reasons,’ said Edward.

‘Well, I’ll wish you good night. It’s getting late, and I suppose theGeorge is an early house. Au revoir, Mr. Clare. By the way, whenyou told me your name just now I forgot to ask you how you came to beso familiar with mine.’

‘I saw it in the newspapers, in the report of the inquest on MadameChicot.’

‘True. I had told you that I was Jack Chicot’s fellow-lodger. I hadforgotten that. Good night.’

‘You are still living in Cibber Street, I suppose?’

‘No, the house became hateful to me after that terrible event. Mrs.Evitt lost both her lodgers. Mrs. Rawber, the tragédienne, moved twodoors off. My address is at the Poste Restante all over Europe. But forthe next week or so I may be found at Paris.’

‘Good night,’ said Edward. ‘I must come downstairs and let you out. Mypeople ought to be home by this time, and perhaps you may not care tomeet them.’

‘It is indifferent to me,’ Desrolles answered loftily.

They did not encounter the Vicar or his wife on the stairs. Thechildren’s party had been kept up till the desperate hour of half-pastten, and Mr. and Mrs. Clare were now on their road home, leaving Celiabehind them to spend Christmas Day with the Trevertons.

EDWARD CLARE GOES ON A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY.

To sit beside a man’s hearth, drink his wine, shoot his pheasants andride his horses, would in a savage community be incompatible with theendurance of a deadly hatred against that man. The thoroughbred savagehates only his enemy and the intruding stranger. Mr. Stanley tells usthat if he could once get close enough to a tribe to hold a parley withthem, he and his followers were safe. The difficulty was that they hadto encounter a shower of arrows before they could get within range forconversation. When the noble African found that the explorer meantkindly, he no longer thirsted for the white man’s blood. His savageryfor the most part meant self-defence.

The ways of civilization are not as the ways of the desert. There aremen and women whose animosity is not to be appeased by kindness—whowill take all they can get from a man, and go on detesting himcordially to the end. Edward Clare, the sleek, white-handed poet,possessed this constancy in hatred. John Treverton had done him nodirect injury; for the poet’s love for Laura had never been strongenough to outweigh prudence. He had wanted Laura and Hazlehurst Manor:not Laura with her modest income of two hundred and fifty pounds ayear. He was angry with fate and Jasper Treverton for the will whichhad made Laura’s wealth dependent on her marriage with the heir; hehated John Treverton for the good fortune which had fallen into hislap. And this hatred wore such a noble aspect in the man’s own mind.It was no base envy of another’s prosperity; it was not even jealousanger against a rival, Edward told himself. No, it was a chivalrousardour in the defence of the woman he had loved; it was a generousdesire to serve her which urged him to pluck the mask from this smoothhypocrite’s face. If this man was indeed, as Edward believed, thehusband of Zaïre Chicot, the dancer, then his marriage with Laura wasno marriage, and the conditions of the will had not been fulfilled.The estate, the possession of which could only be secured by a legalmarriage within the year following Jasper Treverton’s death, had beenobtained by an audacious fraud.

Was this great wrong to pass undetected and unpunished? Was Laura,whose love had been so easily won by this scoundrel, to go on blindlytrusting him, until some day an accident should reveal his infamy andher dishonour? No, Edward believed that it was his duty to let in thelight upon this iniquitous secret; and he determined to leave no stoneunturned in the fulfilment of his mission.

This fellow Desrolles was evidently a creature of John[Pg 218] Treverton’s.His denial of the identity between the two men went for nothing inEdward’s mind. There must be plenty of people in the neighbourhood ofCibber Street able to identify the missing Chicot, if they could onlybe brought face to face with him.

‘I wonder you and Mrs. Treverton have not been photographed sinceyour marriage,’ Edward said one afternoon in the Christmas week, whenJohn Treverton was well enough to join the kettledrum party in thebook-room, and they four, Mr. and Mrs. Treverton, Celia, and Edward,were sitting round a glorious fire.

He had been looking over a volume of photographs by the light of theblazing wood, so the question seemed natural enough.

‘Ah, by-the-by, Jack, I really must have you photographed,’ saidLaura gaily. ‘Lady Barker was very particular in her request for ourphotographs the other day. She has a very fine collection, she tellsme.’

‘About a hundred and fifty of her bosom friends, I suppose,’ retortedJohn Treverton, ‘all simpering in the highest style of art, and tryingto look unconscious of the photographer’s iron collar gripping them bythe scruff of the neck. No, Laura, I am not going to let the sun makea correct map of my wrinkles in order that I may join the simperersin Lady Barker’s photograph album, that fashionable refuge for thedestitute in brains, after a dull dinner.’

‘Do you mean to say that you have never been photographed?’ askedEdward.

‘No, I do not. I had my photograph taken by Nadar a good many yearsago, when I was young and frivolous.’

‘Oh, Jack, how I should like to have a picture of what you were yearsago!’ exclaimed Laura. ‘What has become of all the photographs?’

‘Heaven knows,’ answered John carelessly; ‘given to Tom, Dick, andHarry—scattered to the four winds. I have not kept one of them.’

‘Nadar,’ repeated Edward musingly; ‘you are talking of the man inParis, I suppose?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know Paris well?’

‘Every Englishman who has spent a fortnight there would say as muchas that,’ answered John Treverton carelessly. ‘I know my way from theLouvre to the Palais Royal, and I know two or three famous restaurants,where a man may get an excellent dinner if he likes to pay for it withits weight in gold.’

Nothing more was said upon the subject of photographs.Edward Clare left Hazlehurst next day for London. He was not going tobe long away, he told his father and mother, but he[Pg 219] wanted to seea manager who had made overtures to him for a legitimate historicaldrama, in blank verse.

‘He was struck by a dramatic fragment I wrote for one of themagazines,’ said Edward, ‘and he has taken it into his head that Icould write as good a play as the “Hunchback” or the “Lady of Lyons.”’

‘Oh, do go and see him, Ted,’ cried Celia, with enthusiasm. ‘It wouldbe awfully jolly if you were to write a play. We should all have to goup to town to see the first performance.’

‘Should we?’ interrupted the Vicar, without looking up from his JohnBull, ‘and pray who would find the money for our railway fare, andour hotel bill?’

‘Why, you, of course,’ cried Celia. ‘That would be a mere bagatelle. IfEdward were to burst upon the world as a successful dramatic author hewould be on the high road to fortune, and we could all afford a littleextravagance. But who is your manager, Ted, and who are the actors whoare to act in your play?’ inquired Celia, anxious for details.

‘I shall say nothing about that till my play is written and accepted,’answered Edward. ‘The whole affair is in the clouds at present.’

Celia gave a short impatient sigh. So many of her brother’s literaryschemes had begun and ended in the clouds.

‘I suppose I am to take care of your den while you are away,’ she said,presently, ‘and dust your books and papers?’

‘I shall be glad if you will preserve them from the profane hand ofmy mother’s last domestic treasure in the shape of a new housemaid,’answered Edward.

Before any one could ask him any more questions the ’bus from the‘George’ was at the Vicarage gate, waiting to take him to the stationat Beechampton, in company with two obese farmers, and a rosy-cheekedgirl going out to service, and carrying a nosegay of winter flowers, abandbox, and an umbrella.

How sweet and fresh the air was in the clear December morning, almostthe last of the year! How picturesque the winding lane, the wide sweepof cultivated valley and distant belt of hill and moor.

Edward Clare’s eyes roamed across the familiar scene, and saw nothingof its tranquil beauty. His mind was absorbed in the business that laybefore him. His heart was full of rancour. He was tormented by thatworst of all foes to a man’s peace—an envious mind. The image of JohnTreverton’s good fortune haunted him like a wicked conscience. He couldnot go his own way, and forget that his neighbour was luckier thanhimself. Had Fate smiled upon his poetic efforts, had some sudden andstartling success whisked him up into the seventh heaven of literaryfame, at the same time filling his pockets, he might possibly[Pg 220] haveforgiven John Treverton; but with the sense of failure goading him, hisangry feelings were perpetually intensifying.

He was in the London streets just as dusk was falling, after a cold,uncomfortable journey. He took his travelling bag in his hand, and setout on foot to find a lodging, for his funds were scanty, as he had notventured to ask his father for money since his return to the Vicarage.It was an understood thing that he was to have the run of his teeth atHazlehurst, and that his muse was to supply all other wants.

He did not go to the street where he had lodged before—a narrow,dismal street, between Holborn and the British Museum. He went to themore crowded quarter, bounded on one side by Leicester Square, on theother by St. Martin’s Lane, and betook himself straight to CibberStreet. He had made up his mind to get a room in that uninviting spot,if any decent shelter were available there.

Before seeking for this accommodation elsewhere, he went to look at thehouse to which La Chicot’s murder had given such an awful notoriety.He found it more reputable of aspect than when he had last seen it,a few days after the murder. A new wire blind shaded the lower partof the parlour window; new red curtains drooped gracefully over theupper panes. The window itself looked cleaner and brighter than it hadever looked during the stately Mrs. Rawber’s occupation of the groundfloor. A new brass plate on the door bore the inscription, ‘Mr. Gerard,surgeon.’

Edward Clare contemplated this shining brass plate with the blankgaze of disappointment. He concluded, not unnaturally, that the wholehouse had passed into the possession of Mr. Gerard, surgeon, and thatMrs. Evitt had gone forth into the wilderness of London, where shewould be more difficult to find than poor Hagar and her son in thesandy wastes of the great desert. While he stood ruminating upon thisapparent change in the aspect of affairs, his eye wandered to a windowlooking upon the area beneath the parlour, from which there came acomfortable glow of light. The occupant of the basem*nt had not drawndown the illuminated blind which generally shaded her domesticity fromthe vulgar eye; and, seated by her kitchen fire, indulging in theinexpensive luxury of slumber, Edward beheld that very Mrs. Evitt whomhe had supposed lost in the metropolitan labyrinth. He had no doubt asto those corkscrew curls, that vinegar visage. This was the woman withwhom he had talked for half-an-hour one bleak March morning, when hehad inspected the scene of the murder, under the pretence of lookingfor lodgings.

He went up the steps to the door. There were two bells, one labelled‘Surgery,’ the other ‘House.’ Edward rang thelatter,[Pg 221] which was answered after an interval by the landlady, lookingcross and sleepy.

At the sight of Mr. Clare, with his travelling bag in his hand, shescented a lodger, and brightened.

‘Have you a decent bedroom to let, on your second floor?’ he asked,for although he was no believer in the influences of the spirit world,he would have preferred spending the December night upon the bleakestand windiest of the bridges to lying down to rest in the room where LaChicot had been slain.

‘I’ve got my first floor empty,’ said Mrs. Evitt, ‘beautiful rooms, allnew papered and painted.’

‘I’d rather go higher up,’ answered Edward. ‘You had a lodger namedDesrolles. What has become of him?’

‘Gone to travel in foreign parts,’ replied the landlady. ‘Ibelieve he had money left him. He was quite a gentleman when hestarted—everything new, from his portmanchew to his railway rug.’

‘Can I have his rooms for a few nights? I am only in town as a bird ofpassage, but I don’t want to go to an hotel.’

‘Their charges are so ’igh, and there’s no privacy in ’em,’ said Mrs.Evitt, with a sympathetic air, as if she divined his inmost feelings.‘You can have Mr. Desrolles’ rooms, sir, and we shan’t quarrel aboutthe rent.’

‘The rooms are clean, I suppose?’ Edward hazarded.

‘Clean!’ exclaimed Mrs. Evitt, lifting up her eyebrows with theindignation of outraged innocence. ‘Nobody that has ever lodged with mewould ask that question. Clean! No house of mine ever ’arboured dirt.’

‘I should like to see the bedroom,’ said Edward. ‘The sitting-roommatters very little. I shall be out all the day.’

‘If you’ll wait while I fetch a candle, I’ll show you both rooms,’replied the landlady. ‘I suppose you want to come in at once?’

‘Yes. I have just come from the country, and have no more luggage thanthis bag. I can pay you for the rooms in advance, if you like.’

‘Money comes uncommonly handy now that provisions have rose to sucha heighth,’ returned Mrs. Evitt, with an insinuating air. ‘Not thatI could ever feel an instant’s doubt respecting a young gent of yourappearance.’

‘Money down is the best reference,’ said Edward. ‘I’m a stranger inLondon. Here’s a sovereign. I suppose that’ll square us if I only keepthe rooms a week?’

‘There’ll be a trifle for boot-cleaning,’ insinuated Mrs. Evitt.

‘Oh, very well.’

‘And half-a-crown for kitching fire.’

‘Oh, come now, I won’t stand kitchen fire. You don’t suppose[Pg 222] I’m goingto dine here. If you bring me up a cup of tea of a morning it is all Ishall want, and the fire that boils your kettle will boil mine.’

‘A trifle for attendance, then.’

‘I’ll promise nothing. If you make me comfortable, I shall not forgetyou at parting.’

‘Very well, sir,’ sighed the landlady. ‘I suppose it will come to thesame in the end, but I always think it best for all parties to putthings clear.’

She retired into the darkness at the end of the narrow passage, thedark brown wainscot of which was dimly lighted by an old-fashionedoil lamp, and returned in a minute or two with a tallow candle in acapacious tin candlestick. With this light she preceded Mr. Clare upthe staircase, whose shallow, uneven steps and heavy balustrade gaveevidence of its age.

On the first-floor landing Mrs. Evitt paused to recover her breath, andEdward felt an icy thrill of horror as he found himself opposite thebedroom door.

‘Is that the room where that poor woman was murdered?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mrs. Evitt, with a deprecating sigh, ‘it is theroom, and I won’t deceive you. But it has been done up so nice thatnobody as ever knew it before would be able to recognise it. Mylandlord acted very liberal; “anything that paint and paper can do toset you right with your lodgers, Mrs. Evitt, shall be done,” says he.“You’ve been a good tenant,” says he, “always punctual to the minutewith your rent,” he says, “and I should take it to heart if you was tosuffer.” Come in and look at the room, sir, and you’ll see that thereisn’t a more cheerful bedroom in this part of London.’

Mrs. Evitt flung open the door with a flourish of pride, and led theway into the room with uplifted candlestick.

‘That’s a brand new bedstead,’ she said, ‘which cost me two pound tenwithout the curtains. And there ain’t a inch of carpet or a bit ofbedding that was in the room when—when—what you mentioned took place.’

Mrs. Evitt had pinned her faith upon vivid colour as a charm toexorcise poor Zaïre’s ghost. A sixpenny chintz of all the colours inthe rainbow draped window and bed. A painted drugget of correspondingviolence hid the worm-eaten old boards, upon which soap, sand, and sodahad been vainly expended in the endeavour to remove the dark traces ofthat awful stream which had travelled from the bed to the threshold.The dressing-table was draped with white muslin and rose-colouredcalico. The chimney-piece was resplendent with a pair of Bohemian glassvases, and a gilded clock. Coloured lithographs in the vilest Germanart brightened the walls.

[Pg 223]

‘Don’t it look cheerful?’ asked Mrs. Evitt.

‘Is that the little room where the husband used to work?’ inquiredEdward, pointing to the door.

‘Yea, but that doesn’t go with the drawing-room floor. I’ve let it toMr. Gerard for a room to put his books in. He’s such a man for books.They overrun the place.’

‘Who is Mr. Gerard? Oh, by the way, that is the surgeon downstairs. Howlong has he been lodging with you?’

‘It was about a month after poor Madame Chicot’s death when he come.“I’m going to set up in business for myself, Mrs. Evitt,” he says.“I ain’t rich enough to buy a practice,” says he, “so I must tryand make one for myself, somehow,” he says. “Now yours is a crowdedneighbourhood, and I think I might do pretty well here, if you let meyour ground floor cheap. It would be for a permanency,” says he, “sothat ought to make a difference.” “I’ll do my best to meet you,” saysI, “but my rent is high, and I never was a hour behind with it yet,and I never will be.” Well, sir, I let him have the rooms very low,considering their value, for I was that depressed in my sperrits itwasn’t in me to ’aggle. That ungrateful viper, Mrs. Rawber—a womanI’d waited on hand and foot, and fried onions for her until I’ve manya time turned faint over the frying pan—and she’s gone and turned herback upon me in my trouble, and took a first floor over a bootmaker’s,where the smell of the leather must be enough to poison a female of anyrefinement!’

‘Has Mr. Gerard succeeded in getting a practice?’ asked Edward.

‘Well, he do have patients,’ answered the landlady, dubiously; ‘gratisones a many, between the hours of eight and nine every morning. He’svery steady and quiet in his ’abits, and that moderate that he couldlive where another would starve. He’s a wonderful clever young man,too; it was him—much more than the grand doctor—that pulled MadameChicot through, after her accident.’

‘Indeed!’ said Edward, becoming suddenly interested; ‘then Mr. Gerardknew the Chicots?’

‘Knew ’em! I should think he did, indeed, poor young man! He attendedMadame Chicot night and day for months, and if it hadn’t been for him Ibelieve she’d have died. There never was a doctor so devoted, and allfor love. He didn’t take a penny for his attendance.’

‘A most extraordinary young man,’ said Edward.

They went up to the second-floor, and Mr. Clare was introduced to theapartments upon which Desrolles had turned his back for ever. Thefurniture was of the shabbiest, but the rooms looked tolerably clean,much cleaner than they had appeared during the occupation of Mr.Desrolles. Edward flung[Pg 224] down his travelling bag, and expressed himselfcontented with the accommodation.

‘Don’t put me into damp sheets,’ he said, whereupon Mrs. Evitt threwup her hands in horror, and almost wept as she protested against soheartless an imputation.

‘There isn’t a carefuller woman than me about airing linen in allLondon,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m over-particular. I’ve scorched many a goodpiller-case in my carefulness; but I’m the only loser by that, and Idon’t mind.’

‘I must go and get some dinner,’ said Edward. ‘And then I think I’lldrop in at a theatre. I suppose you can give me a latch-key?’

‘You can have the very key that Mr. Desrolles had,’ replied Mrs. Evittgraciously, as if according a peculiar privilege.

‘I don’t care whose key it is as long as it will open the door,’answered the unappreciative poet; and then he put the key in hispocket, and went out to regale himself cheaply at a French restaurant,and then to the pit of a popular theatre. He had come to London on aparticular errand, but he meant to get as much pleasure out of hisvisit as he could.

From the moment that Edward Clare heard of George Gerard’s attendanceupon Madame Chicot he became desirous of making Mr. Gerard’sacquaintance. Here was a man who could help him in the business he hadto carry through. Here was a man who must know the dancer’s husbandintimately—a man who could identify Jack Chicot in the present Squireof Hazlehurst. This was the man of men whom it was valuable for EdwardClare to know. Having once made up his mind upon this point, Mr. Claredid not lose any time in making use of his opportunities. He calledupon Mr. Gerard on the morning after his arrival in town. It was onlyhalf-past eight when he presented himself at the surgeon’s door, soanxious was he to secure an interview before Mr. Gerard left home.

He found George Gerard sitting at his modest breakfast of bread andbutter and coffee, an open book beside him as he ate. Edward’s eyesmarked the neatness of the surgeon’s attire, marked also that hiscoat had been worn to the last stage of shabbiness at all compatiblewith respectability. A month’s wear more and the wearer would be outat elbows. He observed also the thick slices of bread and butter—thedoubtful-looking coffee, with an odour suggestive of horse-beans. Here,evidently, was a man for whom the struggle of life was hard. Such a manwould naturally be easy to deal with.

George Gerard rose to receive his guest with a pleasant smile.

‘Mrs. Evitt told me that you wanted to see me,’ he said, waving hishand to a chair beside his somewhat pinched fire.

A scientific arrangement of firebrick had been adapted to[Pg 225] the roomyold grate since Mrs. Rawber’s tenancy, and it now held a minimum offuel.

‘Yes, Mr. Gerard, I very much want half-an-hour’s talk with you.’

‘I can give you just half-an-hour before I start for my day’s work,’answered Gerard, with a business-like air and a glance at the neatlittle clock on the chimney-piece.

The room was curiously changed since Mrs. Rawber’s occupation. It hadthen appeared the model of the vulgar lodging-house parlour. It nowlooked the room of a student. George Gerard had been able to spend verylittle money on the decoration of his apartments, but he had lined thewalls with deal shelves, and the shelves were filled with books; suchvolumes as your genuine book-hunter collects with loving toil in thelanes and by-ways of London. He had put a substantial, old-fashionedwriting table in the window, a pair of comfortable arm-chairs by thehearth, a skeleton clock, and a couple of bronze figures—picked up inone of the back slums of Covent Garden for a song—on the mantelpiece.The general effect was of a room which a gentleman might occupy withouta blush.

Edward Clare saw all this, not without a sharp pang of envy. Herecognised, in the capacity to endure such an existence, the power toclimb the rugged hill of fame.

‘This is the kind of fellow to succeed in life,’ he thought. ‘But onecan’t expect this dogged endurance in a man of poetic temperament.’

‘Do you wish to consult me professionally?’ asked Gerard.

‘No. What I have to say relates to a very serious matter, but it isneither a professional question for you, nor a personal affair of mine.You knew the Chicots.’

It was Gerard’s turn to be interested. He looked at the speaker withsudden intensity, which brightened every feature in his face.

‘Yes. What of them? Did you know them? I never saw you here when shewas ill. You knew them in Paris, perhaps?’

‘No; I never saw Madame Chicot off the stage. But I am deeplyinterested in the discovery of her murderer: not for my own sake, butfor the protection of some one I esteem. Have you seen John Chicotsince the murder?’

‘No. If I had——’

George Gerard stopped suddenly, and left his sentence unfinished.

‘If you had you would have given him up to the police, as his wife’smurderer. Is that what you were going to say?’

‘Something very near it. I have strong reason to believe that he killedher; and yet there is ground for doubt. If he were the murderer, whyshould he alarm the house? He might[Pg 226] have gone quietly away, and thecrime would not have been discovered for hours afterwards.’

‘An excess of caution, no doubt. Murderers often over-act their parts.Yet, if you look at the thing, you will see he was obliged to givethe alarm. Had he not done so, had he gone away and left his wifelying dead, it would have been obvious that he, and he alone, was herassassin. By rousing the household he put on at least the semblance ofinnocence, however his flight might belie it afterwards.’

‘It is a profound mystery,’ said Gerard.

‘A mystery only to those who refuse to accept the natural solution ofthe enigma. Here was a man with a drunken wife. It is an acknowledgedfact, I believe, that Madame Chicot was a drunkard?’

‘Yes, poor soul. He might have let her kill herself with a brandybottle. He would not have had long to wait.’

‘A man so fettered may get desperate. Suppose that I could prove to youthat this Chicot had the strongest possible temptation to rid himselfof his wife by any means, fair or foul. Suppose I could tell you thathis inheritance of a large estate was contingent upon his marriage withanother woman, that he had already, in order to secure that estate,contracted a bigamous marriage with that other woman—she innocent asan angel, poor girl, throughout the plot. Suppose I could prove allthis, what would you say of Jack Chicot then?’

‘Most assuredly I would say that he did the deed. Only show me thathe had a motive strong enough to urge him to crime—I know of myown experience that he was tired of his wife—and I will accept theevidence that points to him as the murderer.’

‘Do you think that evidence strong enough to convict him?’

‘On that point I am doubtful. His flight is damning evidence againsthim; and then there is the fact that at the bottom of his colour-boxthere lay a dagger which corresponded in form to the gash upon thatpoor creature’s throat. I found that dagger, and it is now in thepossession of the police. It bears the dark tarnished stain that bloodleaves upon steel, and I have no doubt in my own mind that it was withthat dagger La Chicot was killed. But these two points comprise thewhole evidence against the husband. They are strong enough to afforda presumption against his innocence; but I doubt if they are strongenough to hang him.’

‘Let it be so. I don’t want to hang him. But I do want to rescue thewoman I once fondly loved—for whom I still care more than for anyother woman on earth—from a marriage that may end in her misery anduntimely death. What must be the fate of such a man as this Chicot, ifhe is, as you believe, and as I[Pg 227] believe, guilty? Either remorse willdrive him mad, or he will go on from crime to crime, sinking lowerin the scale of humanity. Let me but strip the mask from his face,separate him for ever from his innocent wife, and I am content. To dothis I want your aid. Jack Chicot has disappeared from the ken of allwho knew him. The man who bore that name is now a gentleman of landedestate, respected and respectable. Will you be disinterested enough towaste a couple of days, and travel over three hundred miles, in orderto help me to identify the late adventurer in the present lord of themanor? Your journey shall not cost you sixpence.’

‘If I go at all, I shall go at my own expense,’ answered Gerard curtly;‘but you must first show me an adequate reason for doing what you ask.’

‘To do that I must tell you a long story,’ answered Edward.

And then, without mentioning the names of people or of places, he toldthe story of Jasper Treverton’s will, and of Laura Malcolm’s marriage.The facts, as he stated them, went far to show John Treverton ascheming scoundrel, capable of committing a crime of the darkest kindto further his own interest.

‘The case against him looks black, I admit,’ said Gerard, when Clarehad finished. ‘But there is one difficult point in the story. You saythat in order to secure the fortune Chicot married the young lady inthe January before Madame Chicot’s death. Now if he had made up hismind to get rid of his lawful wife by foul means, why did he not do itbefore he contracted that marriage instead of afterwards? The crimewould have been the same, the danger of detection no greater. Themurder committed after the second marriage was an anachronism.’

‘Who can fathom his motives? He may have had no design against hiswife’s life when he married the lady I know. He may have believed itpossible to so arrange his life that no one would ever recognise JackChicot in the country squire. He may have thought that he could buy hisfreedom from Madame Chicot. Perhaps it was only when he found that herlove, or her jealousy, was not to be hoodwinked that he conceived theidea of murder! No man—assuredly no man of decent antecedents—reachesthe lowest depth of iniquity all at once.’

‘Well,’ sighed Gerard, after a pause, ‘I will go with you and see thisman. I had a curious interest in that poor creature’s career. I wouldhave done much to save her from the consequence of her own folly, hadit been possible. Yes, I will go with you; I should like to know theend of the story.’

It was agreed between the two young men that they were to go toDevonshire together in the first week of the new year, Edward Clareremaining only a week in London. Gerard was to accompany Clare as hisfriend, and to stay at the Vicarage as his guest.

GEORGE GERARD.

John Treverton was out of the doctor’s hands before Christmas was over,and able to appear on his mare, Black Bess, with his wife, mounted onthe gentlest of gray Arabs, at the lawn meet which was held at theManor House on New Year’s Day. It was the first time the hounds hadmet there since the death of old John Treverton, Jasper’s father, whohad been a hunting man. Jasper had never cared for field sports, andhad subscribed to the hounds as a duty. But now, John Treverton, theyounger, who loved horses and hounds, as it is natural to an Englishmanto love them, meant that things should be as they had been in the daysof his great-uncle, generally known among the elder section of thecommunity as ‘the old Squire.’ He had bought a couple of hunters and afirst-rate hack for himself, an Arabian and a smart cob for his wife;and Laura and he had ridden for many a mile over the moor in the mildafternoons of early autumn, getting into good form for the work theywere to do in the winter.

Laura took kindly to the cob, and petted the Arab to a distractingdegree. After a month’s experience on the moors, and a good manystanding jumps over furze and water, she began to ride really well, andher husband looked forward to the delight of piloting her across thecountry in pursuit of the red deer before the hunting season was over.But he meant, if he erred at all, to err on the side of caution, andon this New Year’s Day he had declared that he should only take Lauraquietly through the lanes, and let her have a peep at the hounds froma distance. Celia, in the shortest of habits, a mere petticoat, andthe most coquettish of hats, was mounted on her father’s steady-goingroadster, a stalwart animal of prodigious girth, which contemplated thehounds with unvarying equanimity.

‘What has become of your brother?’ Laura asked, as she and Celia waitedabout, side by side, watching the assembling of the field. ‘I haven’tseen him since my children’s party.’

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? He is in London, making arrangements abouta play that he is to write for one of the big theatres. Mother hada letter from him this morning. He is coming home the day afterto-morrow, and he is going to bring a London acquaintance to stay twoor three days at the Vicarage. A young doctor, good-looking, clever, abachelor. Now, Laura, don’t you really think the world must be comingto an end very soon?’

[Pg 229]

‘No, dear; but I congratulate you on the bachelor. He will be anacquisition. You must bring him to us.’

‘Oh, but Edward says he can only stay two or three days. He has hispractice to attend to. He is only coming for a breath of country air.’

‘Poor fellow! What is his name?’

‘Edward did not tell us that. Something horrid, I dare say. Smith, orJones, or Johnson—a name to dispel all pleasant illusions.’

‘Here comes Mr. Sampson.’

‘Yes, on the horse he drives in his dogcart. Could you believe, Laura,that a horse could support existence with so much bone and so littleflesh?’

This was all Laura heard about the expected guest at the Vicarage, butpoor Celia was in a flutter of wondering anticipation for the next twodays. She took particular pains to make her brother’s den attractive,yet sighed as she reflected how much of the stranger’s brief visitwould be spent within the closed doors of that masculine snuggery.

‘I wonder whether he is fond of tea?’ she mused, when she had given thelast heightening touch to the multifarious frivolities of the poet’sstudy; ‘and whether I shall be allowed to join them at kettledrum. Verylikely he is one of those dreadfully mannish men who hate to talk togirls, and look glum whenever they’re forced to endure women’s society.A doctor? scientific, perhaps, and devoted to dry bones. Edward callshim handsome; but I dare say that was only said in order to prepossessus in his favour, and secure a civil reception for him.’

Thus, in maiden meditation, mused the damsel on that January eveningwhen her brother and her brother’s friend were expected. The omnibusfrom the ‘George’ was to bring them from the station, and that omnibuswould be due at a quarter past seven. It was now striking seven by thedeep-toned church clock; a solemn chime that had counted out Celia’shours ever since she could remember. She hardly knew time or herselfout of earshot of that grave old clock.

‘Seven,’ she exclaimed, ‘and my hair anyhow.’

She slipped off to her room, lighted her dressing-table candles, andtook up her hand mirror, the better to survey the edifice of frizzylittle curls which crowned her small, neatly-shaped head.

‘Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,’ she sang gaily,smiling at herself in the glass, as she put her pet ringlets in theirproper places, and smoothed the corner of an eyebrow with her littlefinger.

‘What a blessing not to be obliged to powder, and to have lips that arenaturally red!’ she said to herself. ‘It might almost reconcile one tobe buried alive in a village.’

[Pg 230]

She put on her prettiest gown in honour of the visitor. It was by nomeans an elaborate costume. There were no intricacies of style, noartistic combinations of material. Celia’s best indoor gown was only adark-green French merino, brightened by a good deal of ribbon, artfullydisposed in unexpected bows and knots, and floating sash-ends. Happily,the colour suited Celia’s complexion, and the soft fabric fell ingraceful folds upon her slender figure. Altogether Celia felt herselflooking nice when she put out her candles and ran downstairs.

A substantial tea-dinner was waiting for the travellers in thedining-room, to the sore discomfort of the Vicar, who hated atea-dinner, and was accustomed to dine at a punctual half-past six.

‘Why must we have a makeshift meal of this kind?’ he asked fretfully.‘Why couldn’t these young men be here in time for our regular dinner?’

‘Why, because there was no train to bring them, you dear, stupid oldpater,’ retorted the flippant Celia. ‘I’m sure the table looks quitetoo lovely.’

A fine piece of cold roast beef at the end opposite the urn andtea-tray, a pigeon pie, a salad, an apple pasty, a home-made cake ortwo, diamond-cut jars of marmalade and jam, and a noble glass bowl ofjunket, did not promise badly for two hungry young men; but the Vicarlooked across the board, from Dan even to Beer-sheba, and found it allbarren.

‘I suppose nobody has thought of ordering anything hot for me?’ heremarked with an injured air.

It was a tradition in the family that the Vicar could not eat a colddinner. It was not that he would not, but that he could not. Theconsequences were too awful. No one but himself knew the agonies whichhe suffered if he was forced to dine on cold beef or mutton. His systemcould accommodate lobster, he could even reconcile nature to coldchicken, but his internal economy would have nothing to do with coldmutton or beef.

‘Dearest creature,’ said Celia, raising herself on tiptoe in order tocaress her father’s iron-gray beard, ‘there is a particular dish ofcutlets for you, with the mushroom sauce your soul loveth.’

The Vicar gave a sigh of satisfaction, and just at that moment thewheels of the omnibus sounded on the road outside, the Vicarage gatefell back with a clang, and Mr. Clare and his daughter went out toreceive the travellers, while Mrs. Clare, who had been indulgingherself with a nap by the drawing-room fire, opened her eyes, and beganto wonder vaguely whether it was night or morning.

What sort of man did Celia behold when she went into the lamp-lithall, sheltering herself shyly under her father’s wing, to welcome herbrother and his guest? Not at all the kind of young man she expected tosee, yet his appearance impressed her[Pg 231] favourably, notwithstanding. Hewas strikingly original, she told Laura afterwards, and that in an ageof humdrum was much. She saw a tall, broad-shouldered man, with markedfeatures, well shaped yet somewhat rugged, a pale complexion slightlypitted with small-pox, black hair and beard, dark gray eyes, with awonderful power and light in them, under thick black brows.

‘The idea of calling this stern-looking creature handsome!’ thoughtCelia, while her father and Mr. Gerard were shaking hands, and then inthe next instant the stern-looking creature smiled, and Celia admittedto herself that his smile was nice.

‘You must be desperately hungry,’ said the Vicar, ‘unless you’ve dinedon the way.’

‘Dined on the way!’ echoed Edward peevishly. ‘We’ve travelledthird-class, and we’ve had nothing but a split soda and a couple ofAbernethy biscuits since nine this morning.’

‘Poor dear things!’ cried Celia, with intense pity; ‘but I can’t helpbeing rather glad, for you will so enjoy your tea.’

Edward had introduced his friend to his father and sister, and nowpresented him to Mrs. Clare, who came out of the drawing-room smilingblandly, and trying not to look sleepy.

They all went into the dining-room, where the table which the Vicar haddespised seemed to the two young men a land of promise. The urn hissed,and Celia made the tea, while Mrs. Clare sat at the other end of theboard and carved the beef with a liberal, motherly hand. It was quitea merry party, for George Gerard had plenty to say for himself, andthe Vicar was pleased to get hold of an intelligent young man, freshfrom London, and steeped to the lips in the knowledge of metropolitanpolitics, which are about a month ahead of rural politics. They sat attable for an hour and a half, and the three-quarters of an hour duringwhich Gerard leaned back in his chair, talking to Celia on one side andthe Vicar on the other, and consuming numerous cups of tea, was in thatyoung man’s estimation the pleasantest part of the time.

It was long, very long, since Gerard had found himself in sobright a room, or in such agreeable company. The homelike air ofhis surroundings warmed his heart, which had been chilled by longhomelessness. The family history that lay behind his hard career wasnot a happy one. A profligate father wasting his opportunities andsquandering his resources, a mother struggling nobly against adversity,trying against all disadvantages to maintain, by her own efforts inart and literature, a home for her unworthy husband and her idolisedson. A boyhood at a cheap Scotch university, and, just on the thresholdof manhood, the loss of this patient, dearly loved mother, some yearsa widow. And then the young man had found himself face to[Pg 232] face withstern necessity, and in a hard, indifferent world, that knew nothing ofhim and cared nothing for him.

He had begun the battle of life with a determination to place himselfamongst those who conquer. His ambition was hard and bitter. He hadnone of those incentives to effort that sweeten toil, where a man knowsthat he is working for mother, or wife, or children. There was nocreature of his own race to rejoice in his success, or to compassionatehis ill-fortune. If nature had not made him of strong stuff he wouldmost likely have drifted to the gutter. For a weaker soul the unaidedstruggle would have been too dreary.

Happily for George Gerard he loved his profession for its own sake.That love stood him in the stead of human sympathy and human affection.A word of commendation from one of the famous men at the hospital, aword of gratitude from one of his own patients, the knowledge that hehad managed a case well, these things cheered and sustained him, and hetramped along the difficult road with a bold front and a lofty heart,sure of success at the end of it, if he but lived to reach the end.

To-night he abandoned himself to the new delight of pleasant society.A bright room, furnished with that heterogeneous comfort which marksthe gradual growth of a family dwelling; dark crimson curtains drawnacross the broad bay window; family portraits on the walls; lamps onthe table, candles on the mantelpiece and sideboard; a fire heaped highwith wood and coal; the Vicar’s favourite collie stretched luxuriouslyon the hearthrug.

‘I don’t think I will go into the drawing-room to-night, said theVicar, wheeling his chair round to the fire when the table had beencleared. ‘I’m sure you haven’t so good a fire as this in there.’

Mrs. Clare admitted that the drawing-room fire was not so good as itmight be.

‘Very well, then, we’ll finish the evening here. If these two young menwant to smoke, they can go to Ted’s room.’

Mr. Gerard declared that he did not want to smoke. He was much toocomfortable where he was. And then the Vicar began to question himabout his profession, what such and such men were doing, and what thesenew men were like who had won reputation lately. Gerard talked bestwhen he talked of his own calling, and Celia, working point lace ina corner by the fire, thought that he looked really handsome when hewas animated. It was a face so different from all those prosperous,fresh-coloured, country-bred faces that her daily life had shown her;a face marked with the strongest determination, vivified by a powerfulintellect. The girl’s observant eye noted every characteristic in thatinteresting countenance. She saw, too,[Pg 233] that the young man’s blackfrock coat had undergone harder wear than any garment she had ever seenworn by her brother; that his boots were of a thick and useful kind,and lacked the style of a fashionable maker; that he wore a silverwatch-chain, and exhibited none of the trinkets affected by prosperousyouth.

Now Celia Clare was not fond of poverty. She considered it a necessaryevil, but liked to give it as wide a berth as possible. Any visitingshe did amongst her father’s poor went sorely against the grain; andshe always wondered how it was that Laura got on so well with thedistressed classes. Yet she felt warmly interested in this youngdoctor, who was evidently most uninterestingly poor.

CHAPTER XXX.

THOU ART THE MAN.

The next day was Sunday. George Gerard was up as soon as it was light,and off for a ramble on the moor before the nine o’clock breakfast.This glimpse of the country was sweet to him, even in the bleak Januaryweather, and he wanted to make the most of his brief opportunity. Whenhe came back to the Vicarage after his walk, he found Edward Claresmoking a cigar in the shrubbery.

‘What a fellow you are to be rambling about in such wintry weather!’cried Edward, by way of salutation. ‘I want a few minutes’ talkbefore we go in to breakfast. We may not get a chance of being aloneafterwards. Celia is so fussy on Sunday mornings. I should like you togo to church with us, if you don’t object?’

‘I had made up my mind to go. I hope you don’t suppose I have anantipathy to churches?’

‘One never knows how that may be. I don’t imagine there’s muchchurch-going among young professional men in London.’

‘I used to escort my mother to church every Sunday morning when I wasa little boy, and those were my happiest days. If I didn’t like theSunday morning service for its own sake, I should like it because itputs me in mind of her.’

‘Ah,’ sighed Edward, ‘I dare say when a fellow loses his mother earlyin life he feels sentimental about her ever afterwards. But when amother gets to the elderly and twaddly age, one may be fond of her, butone can’t feel poetical about her. I’ll tell you why I want you to goto church with us, Gerard. John Treverton is sure to be there. It willbe a capital opportunity for you to take stock of him. Our pew is justopposite the Manor House pew. You’ll have him in full view all throughthe service.’

[Pg 234]

‘Very good,’ assented Gerard. ‘If this Mr. Treverton and Jack Chicotare the same, I shall know him wherever I see him.’

Celia was in excellent spirits all breakfast-time, and poured outtea and coffee with a vivacity and a grace worthy of French comedy.The presence of a strange young man had a wonderfully brighteninginfluence. Celia felt grateful to her brother for having afforded thisunaccustomed variety in the monotonous course of rural life. She tookmore pains than usual in putting on her bonnet for church, though thatwas an operation which she always performed carefully; and she happenedsomehow to be walking by Mr. Gerard’s side for the few hundred yardsbetween the Vicarage and the lych-gate.

The Vicarage party were amongst the first arrivals. There were onlythe charity children in the gallery, and a few gaffers and goodies inthe free seats. The gentry dropped in slowly. Here was Mr. Sampson,the lawyer, looking his sandiest, accompanied by Miss Sampson, in adistinctly new bonnet. Here was Lady Barker, short and fat and puffy,in an ancient velvet mantle, bordered with brown fur, like a commoncouncillor’s cloak on Lord Mayor’s Day, and with a bonnet that reachedthe climax of dowdiness—but when one is Lady Barker, and has lived inthe same house for five-and-thirty years, it matters very little whatone wears.

Here came the Pugsleys, the retired ironmonger and his wife, fromBeechampton, Mrs. Pugsley positively gorgeous in velvet and sable, andwith a bird of many colours in her bonnet. Next arrived Mrs. Daracott,the rich widow, whose husband was the largest tenant farmer in thedistrict, and who looked as if all Hazlehurst belonged to her; andhere, after a sprinkling of nobodies, came John Treverton and his wife.

The Vicar gave out a New Year’s hymn two minutes after this lastarrival, and the congregation rose.

‘The man is marvellously changed,’ George Gerard said to himself as hestood face to face with John Treverton, ‘but he is the man I knew inCibber Street, and no other.’

Yes, it was Jack Chicot. Happiness had given new life and colour tothe face, prosperity had softened the harshness of its outline. Thehollow cheeks had filled, the haggard eyes had recovered the glory andgladness of youth. But the man was there—the same man in whose faceGerard had looked a year and a half ago, reading the secret of hisloveless marriage.

Did he look like an undetected murderer? Did he look like a mantormented by remorse, weighed down with the burden of a guilty secret?Assuredly not. He had the straight outlook of one whose conscience isclear, whose heart is free from guile. If he were verily guilty, hemust be the prince of hypocrites.

His wife was at his side, and George Gerard looked at her[Pg 235] with painfulinterest. What a lovely, trustful face, radiant with innocence andcontentment! And was this guileless creature to be made wretched by theknowledge of her husband’s deceit? Was her heart to be broken in orderthat John Treverton should be punished?

Edward Clare had said that it was for her sake he wanted to know thetruth about her husband, it was that she might be rescued from adegrading alliance, protected from a man who was at heart a villain.

George Gerard watched the husband and wife at intervals during theservice. He could see nothing but placid content, a mind at ease, inthe face of John Treverton. The idea of this freedom from care on thepart of him who had been La Chicot’s husband embittered Gerard.

‘Had that woman been my wife I should have been sorry for her cruelfate; I should have mourned for her honestly, in spite of herdegradation. But had she been my wife, she would never have sunk solow. I would have made it the business of my life to have saved her.’

Thus argued the man who had passionately loved the beautiful, soullesswoman, and who had never comprehended the emptiness of her mind andheart.

Once in the progress of the service John Treverton looked across theaisle, and saw the stern gray eyes watching him. In that one glanceGerard saw that he was recognised.

‘What will he do if we meet presently?’ Gerard asked himself. ‘He’llcut me dead, no doubt.’

They did meet, for in leaving the church porch Laura stopped to talk toMrs. Clare and Celia. Edward and his friend were close behind.

‘Is it the man?’ Edward asked, in a whisper.

‘Yes,’ answered Gerard.

They went along the churchyard path together, and at the gates therewas a pause. Laura wanted the Vicarage party to go to luncheon at theManor House, but Mrs. Clare declined. Of course the children could dowhat they liked, she said; as if her children had ever done anythingelse since they had emerged from the helplessness of infancy. Even intheir cradles they had had wills of their own.

Celia looked at her brother, and saw by a warning twitch of hiseyebrows that she was to say no.

‘I think we had better go home to luncheon,’ she said meekly. ‘Papalikes us to be at home on Sundays.’

Then she gave her brother’s sleeve a little tug.

‘You haven’t introduced Mr. Gerard,’ she whispered.

‘Ah, to be sure. Mr. Gerard, Mrs. Treverton, Mr. Treverton.’

‘Mr. Gerard and I have met before, under circ*mstances[Pg 236] that made medeeply indebted to him,’ said John Treverton, holding out his hand.

Gerard lifted his hat, but appeared not to see the offered hand. Thisunexpected frankness took him by surprise. He had been prepared foranything rather than for John Treverton’s acknowledgment of their pastacquaintance.

It was a bold stroke if the man were guilty; but Gerard’s experiencehad taught him that guilt is generally bold.

‘I should be glad of ten minutes’ talk with you, Mr. Gerard,’ saidTreverton. ‘Will you walk my way?’

‘We’ll all walk as far as the Manor House,’ said Celia. ‘We need not behome till two, need we, mother?’

‘No, dear, but be sure you are punctual,’ answered the good-naturedmother. ‘I shall say good-bye, Laura, my dear.’

While Laura lingered a little to take leave of Mrs. Clare, Trevertonand Gerard walked on in front of Celia and her brother, along thefrost-bound road, under the leafless elms.

‘The world is much smaller than I took it to be,’ John Trevertonbegan, after a pause, ‘or you and I would hardly meet in such anout-of-the-way corner of it as this.’

Gerard said nothing.

‘Were you not surprised to see me in so altered a position?’ the otherasked, after an uncomfortable pause.

‘Yes, I was certainly surprised.’

‘I am going to appeal to your kind feeling—nay, to your honour. Mywife knows nothing of my past life, save that it was wild and foolish.You know too well what degradation there was for me in my firstmarriage. I am not going to speak ill of the dead——’

‘Pray do not,’ interposed Gerard, very pale.

‘But I must speak plainly. When you knew me I was a most miserable man.I have stood upon one of the bridges many a night, and thought thatthe best thing I could do with myself was to drop quietly over. Well,Providence cut the knot for me—in a terrible manner—but still theknot was cut. I have profited by my release. Fate has been very kind tome. My wife is the dearest and noblest of women. To pluck the veil frommy past history would be to give her infinite pain. I ask you, then, asa gentleman, as a man of honour, to keep my secret and to spare her andme.’

‘And you,’ said Gerard bitterly. ‘Yes, it is doubtless of yourself youthink when you ask me to be silent. To spare you? Did you pity or sparethe wretched creature who loved you fondly even in her degradation?As for your secret, as you call it, it is no secret. Mr. Clare, theVicar’s son, knows as well as I do that John Chicot and John Trevertonare one and the same.’

‘He knows it? Edward Clare?’

[Pg 237]

‘Yes.’

‘Since when?’

‘Positively, since this morning in church. He had his suspicionsbefore. This morning I was able to confirm them.’

‘I am sorry for it,’ said John Treverton, after they had walked a fewpaces in silence. ‘I am sorry for it. I had hoped that part of my lifewas dead and buried—that no phantom from that hateful past would everarise to haunt my innocent young wife. It is very hard upon me; it isharder upon her.’

‘There are some ghosts not easily laid,’ returned Gerard. ‘I shouldthink the ghost of a murdered wife was one of them.’

‘Edward Clare is no friend to me,’ pursued Treverton, hardly hearingGerard’s remark. ‘He will make the most malicious use of this knowledgethat he can. He will tell my wife.’

‘Might he not do something worse than that?’

‘What?’

‘What if he were to tell the police where Chicot, the wife-murderer, isto be found?’

‘My God!’ cried Treverton, turning upon the speaker with a look ofhorror. ‘You do not think me that?’

‘Unhappily, I do.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘First, on the strength of your cowardly conduct that night. Why shouldyou shirk the responsibility of your position if you were not guilty?Your flight was damning evidence against you. Surely you must haveknown that when you fled?’

‘I ought to have known it, perhaps; but I thought of nothing except howbest and quickest to escape from the entanglement which had been thebane and blight of my manhood. My wife was dead. Those glassy eyes,with their awful look of horror—that marble hand—told me that lifehad been gone for hours. What good could I do by remaining? Attendan inquest at which the story of my life would be ripped up for thedelight of every gossip-monger in the kingdom; until I, John Treverton,alias Chicot, stood face to face with the world, so tainted andinfected that no innocent woman could own me as her husband? What goodto me, to that poor dead woman, or to society at large, could have comeof my cross-examination at the inquest?’

‘This much good, at least: your innocence—if you are innocent—mighthave been made manifest. As it is, the inferences are all in favour ofyour guilt.’

‘How could I have proved my innocence? I could have offered no strongerproof at the inquest than I offer you now—my own word, the word ofa man who at his worst never stooped to dishonour. I tell you faceto face, as man to man, that I never lifted my hand against my wife:never, even when words were bitter between us, and of late we had manybitter[Pg 238] words. I tried, honestly, to save her from her own weakness.The day had been when I was fond of her, in a reckless way, neverlooking forward to the future, or thinking what kind of a couple sheand I would be when age had sobered us, and life had grown real andserious. No, Mr. Gerard, I am not a cruel man; and though the fettershung heavily upon me I should never have striven to set myself free.When I saw those people—Desrolles and the two women—standing round methat night, it flashed upon me all at once that in their eyes I mightlook like a murderer. And then I foresaw suspicion, difficulties of allkinds, and above all that which I most dreaded, a hideous notoriety. IfI stayed all this was inevitable. I might escape everything if I couldget away. At that moment I considered only my own interest. I saw as itwere a gate standing open leading into a new world. Was I very much toblame if I took advantage of my chance, and left my old life behind me?’

‘No man can leave his past life behind him,’ answered Gerard. ‘If youare innocent I am sorry for you; as I should be sorry for any innocentman who had acted so as to seem guilty. I am still more sorry for yourwife.’

‘Yes, you have need to be sorry for her,’ said Treverton, with a quietanguish that touched even the man who thought him guilty. ‘God helpher, poor girl! We have been very happy together: but if Edward Clareholds our happiness in his hand our peaceful days are at an end.’

They were at the Manor House gate by this time, and here they stoppedand waited in silence for the others to join them. Celia and Laura hadbeen talking together merrily, while Edward walked beside them, silentand thoughtful.

John Treverton shook hands with Celia, but he only gave Edward a curtnod of adieu.

‘Good morning, Mr. Gerard,’ he said, with cold courtesy. ‘Come, Laura,if Celia has made up her mind to go home to luncheon we mustn’t detainher.’

‘Duty prevails over inclination,’ said Celia laughingly. ‘If I were tocome to the Manor House I should forget my Sunday school work. Fromthree to four o’clock I have to give my mind to Scripture history. Howdreadfully absorbed you look, Mr. Gerard!’ she exclaimed, struck by thesurgeon’s thoughtful aspect. ‘Have you any serious case in London thatis preying upon your mind?’

‘I have plenty of serious cases, Miss Clare, but I was not thinkingof them just then,’ he answered, smiling at her piquant little face,turned to him interrogatively. ‘My patients are mostly sufferers froman incurable malady.’

‘Good gracious, poor things! Is it an epidemic?’

‘No, a chronic disorder—poverty.’

[Pg 239]

‘Oh, poor souls, then I’m sure I pity them. I’ve been subject tooccasional attacks towards the end of the quarter ever since I’ve beenan independent being with a fixed allowance.’

They were walking homewards by this time, Edward in the rear.

‘Now, do you seriously think, Miss Clare, that a young lady, living inher father’s house, with every want provided for, can know the meaningof the word poverty?’

‘Certainly I do, Mr. Gerard. But I must tell you that you start uponfalse premises. Young ladies living in their fathers’ houses havenot always every want provided for. I have known what it is to bedesperately in want of six-button gloves, and not to be able to getthem.’

‘You have never known what it is to want bread.’

‘I’m not particularly fond of bread,’ said Celia, ‘but I have often hadto complain of the disgusting staleness of the loaf they give us atluncheon.’

‘Ah, Miss Clare, when I was a student at Marischal College, Aberdeen, Ihave seen many a young fellow walking the street in his scarlet gown,gaunt and hungry-eyed, to whom a hunch of your stale loaf would havebeen a luxury. When a Scotch parson sends his son to the University heis not always able to give him the price of a daily dinner. Well forthe lad if he can be sure of a bowl of porridge for his breakfast andsupper.’

‘Poor dear creatures!’ cried Celia. ‘I’m afraid Edward spends as muchmoney on gloves and cigars as would keep an economical young man at aScotch University—but then he is a poet.’

‘Is a poet necessarily a spendthrift?’

‘Upon my word I don’t know, but poets seem generally given that way,don’t they? One can hardly expect them to be very careful about pounds,shillings, and pence. Their heads are in the clouds, and they have noeyes for the small transactions of daily life.’

After this they walked on for a little while in silence, George Gerardthoughtfully contemplative of the fair young face, with its mignonprettiness and frivolous expression.

‘It would be a misfortune, as well as a folly, for a man of my stamp toadmire such a girl as that,’ he told himself; ‘but I may allow myselfto be amused by her.’

A minute afterwards Edward Clare came up to him, and took him by thearm.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘what passed between you and Treverton?’

‘A good deal, yet it amounts to very little. I am sorry for him.’

‘Then you do not believe that he killed his wife?’

‘I don’t know. It is a profound mystery. I should advise you to letthings take their own course. What good will it do[Pg 240] for you to makethat poor wife of his miserable? If he is guilty, punishment will comesooner or later. If he is innocent, it would be a hard thing for you topersecute him.’

‘What, do you suppose I am such a milksop as to let him go on his wayunquestioned? I, who have loved Laura, and lost her? Suppose him eveninnocent of the murder—which is more than I am ready to believe,—heis guilty of a cruel fraud upon his present wife, of an impudent fraudupon the trustees to Jasper Treverton’s estate, of whom my fatheris one. He has no more right to yonder Manor House than I have. Hismarriage with Laura Malcolm is no marriage. Am I to hold my peace,knowing all this?’

‘To reveal what you know will be to break Mrs. Treverton’s heart, andto reduce her to beggary. Hardly the act of a friend.’

‘I may give her pain, but I shall not reduce her to beggary. She has asmall income of her own.’

‘And the Manor House estate will be devoted to the creation of anhospital.’

‘Those are the conditions of Jasper Treverton’s will.’

‘As a professional man I am bound to rejoice; but as a mere human beingI can’t help feeling sorry, for Mrs. Treverton. She seems devoted toher husband.’

‘Yes,’ answered Edward, ‘he has contrived to hoodwink her; but perhapswhen she knows that John Treverton is Jack Chicot, the ballet-dancer’shusband, she will be disenchanted.’

Gerard made no reply. He began to understand that personal malignitywas the mainspring of Edward’s anxiety to let in the light upon JohnTreverton’s secret. He was almost sorry that he had lent his aid to thediscovery; yet he had ardently desired that justice should be done uponLa Chicot’s murderer. It was only since his recent conversation withJohn Treverton that his opinion as to the husband’s guilt had begun towaver.

He was haunted all the rest of the day by uncomfortable thoughts aboutthe master of Hazlehurst Manor and his fair young wife; thoughts souncomfortable as to prevent his enjoyment of Celia’s lively company,which had all the charm of novelty to a man whose youth had not beenbrightened by girlish society, and whose way of life had been dull, andhard, and laborious. He was to go back to London next morning by thefirst train, and although the Vicar pressed him to remain, and evenCelia put in a kindly word, he stuck to his intention.

‘My practice is not of a kind that will bear being trifled with,’ hesaid when he had thanked Mr. Clare for his proffered hospitality. ‘Thefew remunerative patients I have would be quick to take offence if theyfancied I neglected them.’

‘But you give yourself a holiday sometimes, I suppose?’ said[Pg 241] Mrs.Clare, whose large maternal heart had a kindly feeling for all youngmen, simply because her son belonged to that section of society. ‘Yougo to stay with your relations now and then, don’t you?’

‘No, my dear Mrs. Clare, I do not; and for the best of all reasons—Ihave no relations. I am the last twig of a withered tree.’

‘How sad!’ replied the Vicar’s wife.

Celia echoed the sigh, and looked compassionately at the surgeon, andcompassion in Celia’s blue eyes was a sentiment no man could afford todespise.

‘If you will let me come again some day, when I have made a littleprogress in my profession, you will be giving me something pleasant tolook forward to,’ said Gerard.

‘My dear fellow, we shall always be glad to see you,’ the Vicaranswered heartily. ‘It strikes me you are the kind of friend my sonwants.’

CHAPTER XXXI.

WHY DON’T YOU TRUST ME?

That winter Sabbath was a dreary day for John Treverton. He walkedhome almost in silence, Laura wondering at his thoughtfulness, andspeculating anxiously upon the possible reasons for this sudden changein his mood. Had this friend of the Clares brought him bad news? Yethow could that be? Must it not rather be that this meeting with an oldacquaintance had recalled some painful period in that past life ofwhich she knew so little?

‘That is my misfortune,’ she thought. ‘I am only half a wife while I amignorant of all his old sorrows.’

She did not disturb her husband by questions of any kind, but walkedquietly by his side through the wintry shrubberies, where the hollyberries were gleaming in the mid-day sun, and the fearless robinsfluttered from hawthorn to laurel.

‘I won’t come in to luncheon, dear,’ said John when they came to thehall door. ‘I feel a little dull and headachy, and I think it might dome good to lie down for an hour or two.’

‘Shall I come and read you to sleep, Jack?’

‘No, dear, I shall be better alone.’

‘Oh, Jack, why are you not frank with me?’ exclaimed his wifepiteously. ‘I know there is something on your mind. Why don’t you trustme?’

‘Not yet, dear. You will know everything that can be known[Pg 242] about mevery soon, I dare say. But we need not anticipate the revelation. Itwill not be too pleasant for either of us.’

‘Do you think that anything I can ever learn about you will change me?’she asked, with her hand upon his arm, looking up at him intently.‘Have I not trusted you, and loved you, blindly?’

‘Yes, dearest, blindly. But how can I tell how you may feel when youreyes are opened?’

She looked at him for some moments in silence, trying to read his face;and then, with most pathetic earnestness, she said:—

‘John, if there is anything to be told to your discredit, if there isany act of your past life that you are ashamed to remember—ashamed toacknowledge—an act known to others, for pity’s sake let me hear itfrom you, and not from the lips of an enemy. Am I so severe a judgethat you should fear to stand before me? Have I not been weakly fond,blindly trustful? Can you doubt my power to excuse and to pardon, whereall the rest of mankind might be inexorable?’

‘No,’ he answered quickly, ‘I will not doubt you. No, dear love, it isnot because I feared to trust you that I have tried to keep my secret.I wished to spare you pain; for I knew that it would pain you to knowhow low I had sunk before your influence, your love, came to lift meout of the slough into which I had fallen. But it seems the pain mustcome. Good and pure as you are, there are those who will not spare youthat bitter knowledge. Yes, dear, it is best that you should learn thetruth first from my lips. Whatever garbled version of this story may betold you afterwards, you shall have the truth from me.’

He put his arm round her, and they went up the broad old staircaseside by side to the room that had been Jasper Treverton’s study, andwhich Laura had beautified for her husband. Here they were secure fromintrusion. John Treverton drew his wife’s favourite chair to the fire,and sat down by her side, as they had sat on the night when Laura toldher husband the story of Mr. Desrolles.

They sat for some minutes in silence, John Treverton looking at thefire, meditating how best to begin his confession.

‘Oh, Laura, I wonder whether you will hate me when you have heard whatmy past life was like?’ he said at last. ‘I will not spare myself;but even at this last moment I shrink from uttering the words thatmay destroy our happiness, and part us for ever. You shall be freeto decide our fate. If, when you have heard all, you should say toyourself, “This man is unworthy of my love,” and if you should recoilfrom me—as you may—with disgust and abhorrence, I will bow my head toyour decree, and disappear out of your life for ever.’

His wife turned her stricken face to him, pale as death.

[Pg 243]

‘What crime have you committed, that you can think it possible that Ishould withdraw my love from you?’ she asked, with tremulous lips.

‘I have committed no crime, Laura, but I have been suspected of theworst of crimes. Do you remember the story of a man whose name wasbandied about in the newspapers nearly a year ago; a man whose wife wasmurdered, and whom some of the London papers plainly denounced as themurderer; the man called Chicot, whose disappearance was one of thesocial mysteries of the year?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, looking at him wonderingly. ‘What can you have todo with that man?’

‘I am that man!’

‘You? You, John Treverton?’

‘I, John Treverton, alias Chicot.’

‘The husband of a stage dancer?’

‘Yes, Laura. There have been two loves in my life. First, my love fora woman who had nothing but her beauty to make her dear to the heartsof men. Secondly, my love for you, whose beauty is the lightest partin your power to win and keep my affection. My history may be brieflytold. I began life in a cavalry regiment, with a small fortune inshares and stocks. These were so handy to get rid of, that before I hadbeen five years in the army I had contrived to make away with my lastsixpence. I had not been particularly dissipated or extravagant; I hadnot vied with my captain, who was the son of a West-end confectioner,and spent money like water; or with my colonel, who was a man ofrank, and £30,000 in debt; but I had kept good horses, and mixed inthe best society, and the day I got my company saw me a beggar. Therewas nothing for it but to sell out, and I sold out; and being of ahappy-go-lucky temperament, and tired of the confinement of countryquarters, I crossed the Channel, and wandered over the loveliest halfof Europe with a knapsack and a sketch-book. When I had spent the priceof my commission I found myself in Paris, out at elbows, penniless,with a taste for literature and a facile pencil. I lived in a garretin the Quartier Latin, found friends in a thoroughly Bohemian set,and contrived to earn just enough to keep body and soul together. Ibegan this life with the idea that I might one day win distinctionin art. I had the will to work, and a good deal of ambition. But theyoung men among whom I lived, small journalists and hangers-on at theminor theatres, soon taught me a different story. I learned to live asthey lived, from hand to mouth. All higher aspirations died out of mymind. I became a hanger-on at stage doors, a scribbler of newspaperparagraphs—a collaborateur in Palais Royal farces—happy when I hadthe price of a dinner in my waistcoat pocket and a decent coat on my[Pg 244]back. It was at this stage of my career that I fell in love with ZaïreChicot, a popular dancer at the theatre most affected by students inlaw and medicine. She was the handsomest woman I had ever seen. No onehad a word to say against her character. She was not a lady; I knewthat, even when I was most in love with her. But the vulgarities andignorances that would have revolted me in an Englishwoman amused andeven pleased me in this daughter of the people. She was fond of me, andI of her. We married without a thought of the future: with very littlecare even for the present. My wife—the popular dancer at a populartheatre—was so much the more important person of the two, that fromthe hour of my marriage I was known by her name—first, as La Chicot’shusband; then as Jack Chicot, tout court. We were reasonablyhappy together, till my wife began to fall into those wretched habitsof intemperance which finally blighted both our lives. God knows Idid my best to cure her. I tried my uttermost to hold her back fromthe dreary gulf into which she was descending. But I was powerless.No words of mine could ever tell you the misery—the degradation—ofmy life. I endured it. Perhaps I hardly knew the full measure of mywretchedness till the day on which I heard my cousin Jasper’s willread, and knew the happiness which might have been mine had I been freefrom that hateful bondage.’

Laura sat by his side in silence, her face hidden in her hands, herhead bowed down upon the cushion of the chair, crushed by the deepshame involved in her husband’s confession.

‘There is little more to tell. When I first saw and loved you I was LaChicot’s husband—a man bound hand and foot. I had no right to comenear you, yet I came. I had a vague, wicked hope that Fate would setme free somehow. Yet I tried, honestly, to do my duty to that unhappywoman. When her life was in peril, I helped to nurse her. I borepatiently with her violent temper after she recovered. When the yearwas nearly gone it came into my mind that my cousin’s estate mightbe secured to you by a marriage which should fulfil the terms of hiswill without making me your husband save in name. And then, if in somehappier day I should be released from my bonds, we could be marriedagain—as we were.’

He paused, but there was no answer from Laura except a half-stifled sob.

‘Laura, can you pity and pardon me? For God’s sake say that I am notutterly despicable in your eyes!’

‘Despicable? no!’ she said, lifting up her tear-stained face, ashypale, and drawn with pain, ‘not despicable, John. You could never bethat, in my eyes. But wrong, oh, so deeply wrong! See what shame andanguish you have brought upon[Pg 245] both of us! What was Jasper Treverton’sfortune worth to either of us, that you should be guilty of a fraud inyour endeavour to gain it for me?’

‘A fraud?’

‘Yes. Do you not see that our first marriage, being really no marriage,was an imposition and a sham—that neither you nor I have a right toa sixpence of Jasper Treverton’s money, or an acre of his land. Allis forfeited to the hospital trusts. We have no right to live in thishouse. We possess nothing but my income. We can live upon that, Jack.I am not afraid to face poverty with you; but I will not live an hourunder the weight of this shameful secret. Mr. Clare and Mr. Sampsonmust know the truth at once.’

Her husband was kneeling at her feet, looking up at her with a radiantface.

‘My love, my dearest, you have made me too happy. You do not shrinkfrom me—you do not abandon me. Poverty! No, Laura, I am not afraidof that. I have feared only the loss of your love. That has been myever-present fear. That one great dread has sealed my lips.’

‘You can never lose my love, dear. It was given to you without thepower of recall. But if you want to regain my esteem, you must actbravely and honourably. You must undo the wrong you have done.’

‘We will hold a council to-night, Laura. We will take Edward Clare’scards out of his hands.’

‘What? Does Edward know?’

‘He knows that I and Chicot are one.’

‘Ah, then I can understand the look he gave you on the night of ourfirst dinner-party—a look full of malignity. He had just been talkingof Chicot.’

She shuddered as she pronounced a name associated with such unspeakablehorror. And that name was her husband’s; the man branded with thesuspicion of a hideous crime was her husband.

‘I am afraid Edward is your secret enemy,’ she said, after a pause.

‘I am sure he is—and I believe he is on the eve of becoming myopen enemy. It will be a triumph in a small way for me to take theinitiative, and resign the estate.’

ON HIS DEFENCE.

A letter was brought to the Vicar just as he was sitting down to hisfive o’clock dinner that Sunday evening in the bosom of his family.The Vicar dined at five on Sundays, giving himself an hour for hisdinner, and fifty minutes for repose after it, before he left home forthe seven o’clock service. There were those among his congregation whoaffirmed that the tone of the Vicar’s evening sermon depended verymuch upon his satisfaction with his dinner. If he dined well he took apleasant view of human nature and human frailty, and was milder thanJeremy Taylor. If his dinner had been a failure the bitterest Calvinismwas not severe enough for him.

‘From the Manor House, sir,’ said the parlour-maid. ‘An answer waitedfor.’

‘Why do people bring me letters just as I am sitting down to mydinner?’ ejacul*ted the Vicar pettishly. ‘From Treverton, too. What canhe have to write about?’

Edward Clare looked up, with an eager face.

‘Wants to see me after church this evening—particular business,’ saidthe Vicar. ‘Tell Mr. Treverton’s man, yes, Susan. My compliments, andI’ll be at the Manor House before nine.’

Edward was mystified. Was John Treverton going to throw himself uponthe Vicar’s mercy—to win that good, easy man, over to his cause—andpersuade him to wink at the fraud upon the trusts under Jasper’s will?Edward had no opinion of his father’s wisdom, or his father’s strengthof mind. The Vicar was so weakly fond of Laura.

‘I hate going out of an evening in such weather,’ said Mr. Clare, ‘butI suppose Treverton has something important to say, or he would hardlyask me to risk a bronchial attack.’

Tom Sampson, sitting by his comfortable fireside, solacing himself forthe Sabbath dulness with a cup of strong tea and a dish of butteredtoast, was also surprised by a letter from the Manor House, asking himto go there between eight and nine that evening.

‘I am sorry to trouble you about business on Sunday, but this is amatter which will not keep,’ wrote John Treverton.

‘I never did!’ exclaimed Eliza Sampson, when her brother had read thebrief letter aloud.

Eliza was always protesting that she never did. This fragmentary phrasewas her favourite expression of astonishment.

And then Miss Sampson began to speculate upon the probable[Pg 247] nature ofthe business which required her brother’s presence at the Manor House.People who live in such a secluded village as Hazlehurst are very gladof anything to wonder about on a Sunday evening in winter.

At half-past eight precisely, Mr. Sampson presented himself at theManor House, and was shown into the library. This room was rarely used,as Mr. and Mrs. Treverton kept all their favourite books elsewhere.Here, on these massive oaken shelves, there was no literature thatwas not at least a century old. It was a repository for the genius ofthe dead. Travels, from Marco Polo to Captain Cook; histories, fromHerodotus to Mrs. Catherine Macaulay; poetry, from Chaucer to Milton;all bound in soberest brown calf, all with the dust of years thick upontheir upper edges. It was a long, narrow room, with three tall windows,curtained with faded crimson cloth. It had an awful and almost judiciallook on this Sunday evening, dimly lighted by a pair of moderator lampson the centre table, making a focus of light in the middle of the room,and leaving the corners in darkness. There was a good fire in the wideold basket-shaped grate, and Tom Sampson sat beside it, waiting for hishost to appear. Trimmer had told him that Mr. Treverton would be withhim presently.

Presently seemed to mean half an hour, for the clock struck nine whileMr. Sampson still waited. Not having any inclination to dip into theliterature of the past, he had allowed the fire to draw him to sleep,and was slumbering placidly when the door opened and Trimmer announcedMr. Clare.

Tom Sampson started up, and rubbed his eyes, thinking for the momentthat he had fallen asleep by the fire in his snuggery, and that Elizahad come to call him to supper—supper being another of those solaceswhich Mr. Sampson required to beguile the dulness of Sunday leisure.

The Vicar was surprised to see Mr. Sampson, and Mr. Sampson was equallysurprised to see the Vicar. They told each other how they had beensummoned.

‘It must be something rather important,’ said Mr. Clare.

‘It must be something connected with the estate, or he would scarcelywant you and me,’ said Sampson.

John Treverton and his wife entered the room together. Both were verypale, but Laura’s countenance wore a look of keen distress, which hadno part in the expression of her husband’s face. Secure of his wife’sallegiance, he was ready to meet calamity, whatever shape it mightassume.

‘Mr. Clare, Mr. Sampson, I have sent for you as the trustees under mycousin Jasper’s will,’ he began, when he had apologized to the lawyerfor letting him wait so long, and had placed Laura in a chair near thefire.

[Pg 248]

‘That’s a misnomer,’ said Sampson. ‘Our trusts under Jasper Treverton’swill determined on your wedding day. We are only trustees to thesettlement made for Miss Malcolm’s benefit, sixteen years ago, and toyour wife’s marriage settlement.’

‘I have sent for you to tell you that I have been guilty of a fraudupon you, and upon this lady,’ answered John Treverton, in a steadyvoice.

He was going on with his self-denunciation, when the door opened, andTrimmer announced Mr. Edward Clare.

The young man came into the room quickly, looking round him with aswift, viperish glance. He was surprised to see Laura, still moresurprised at the presence of Tom Sampson. He had expected to find hisfather and Treverton alone.

John Treverton looked at the intruder with undisguised irritation.

‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ he said; ‘but perhaps when I tell youthat your father and Mr. Sampson are here to discuss a business of someimportance to me—and to them as my wife’s trustees—you’ll be kindenough to amuse yourself in the drawing-room until we’ve finished ourconversation.’

‘I have come to speak to Mrs. Treverton. I have something to say toher which she ought to hear—which she must hear—and that without anhour’s delay,’ said Edward. ‘Accident has made me acquainted with asecret which concerns her and her welfare—and I am here to communicateit to her, and—in the first instance—to her alone. It will be for herto act upon that knowledge—for me to defer to her.’

‘If your secret concerns me, it must concern my husband also,’ saidLaura, rising and taking her stand beside John Treverton. ‘Whatevertouches my happiness must involve his. You can speak out, Edward.Possibly your fancied secret is no secret.’

‘What do you mean?’ stammered Edward, startled by her calm look andresolute tone.

‘Have you come to tell me that my husband, John Treverton, was for ashort period of his life known by the name of Chicot?’

‘Yes, that, and much else,’ answered Edward, deeply mortified atfinding himself forestalled.

‘You wish to tell me, perhaps, that he has been suspected of murder.’

‘So strongly suspected, and upon such evidence, that it will need allyour wifely trustfulness to believe him innocent,’ retorted Edward,with a malignant sneer.

‘Yet I do believe in his innocence—I am as certain of it as I am thatI myself am no murderess—and if the evidence against him were doublystrong, my trust in him would not fail,’ said Laura, facing the accuserproudly.

[Pg 249]

‘And now, Mr. Clare, since you find that your secret is everybody’ssecret, and that my wife knows all you can tell her about me——’

‘Your wife,’ sneered Edward. ‘Yes, it is as well to call her by thatname.’

‘She is my wife—bound to me as securely as the law and the church canbind her.’

‘You had another wife living when you married her—unless you have beenremarried since your first wife’s death——’

‘We have been so married. My wife was never mine, save in name, until Iwas a free man,—free to claim her before God and the world.’

‘Then your first marriage was a deliberate felony, and a deliberatefraud,’ cried Edward: ‘a felony because it was a bigamous marriage, forwhich the law of the land could punish you, even now; a fraud becauseby it you pretended to fulfil the conditions of your cousin’s will,when you were not in a position to comply with them.’

‘Stop, Mr. Edward Clare,’ exclaimed Tom Sampson, whose quick perceptionhad by this time made him master of the case; ‘you are assuming a greatdeal more than you can sustain. You are going very much too fast. Whatevidence have you that my client’s first marriage was a legal one? Whatevidence have you that he was ever married to Mademoiselle Chicot? Weknow how very loosely tied such alliances are apt to be in that classof life.’

‘How do I know that he was married to her?’ echoed Edward. ‘Why, by hisown admission.’

‘My client admits nothing,’ said Sampson with dignity.

‘He admits everything when he tells you that he was remarried to MissMalcolm after Madame Chicot’s death. Had he known his first marriagewith Miss Malcolm to be valid there would have been no occasion for arepetition of the ceremony.’

‘He may have erred from excess of caution,’ said Sampson.

‘John Treverton,’ said the Vicar, who had been looking from one speakerto the other, the facts of the case slowly dawning upon him, ‘this isvery dreadful. Why is my son here as your accuser? What does it allmean?’

‘It means that I have been guilty of a great wrong,’ answered Trevertonquietly, ‘and that I am ready to undo that wrong, so far as it lies inmy power. But I cannot discuss this question in your son’s presence.He has entered this room to-night as my avowed enemy. To you—toSampson—as the trustees under my cousin’s will, I am prepared to speakwith fullest confidence—as I have already spoken to my wife—but Ihave no confession to make to your son. I recognise no right of his tointerfere in my affairs.’

[Pg 250]

‘No, Edward, really, this is no concern of yours,’ said the Vicar.

‘Is it not?’ cried his son, bitterly. ‘But for my discovery, but forthe presence of George Gerard in the church to-day, do you supposethis virtuous gentleman would have made his confession to his wife orhis wife’s trustees? He saw himself identified to-day by the doctorwho attended his first wife, who knows the story of his late careerunder the alias of Chicot. Finding himself face to face withan inevitable discovery, Mr. Treverton very cleverly yields to thepressure of circ*mstances, and makes a clean breast of it. Had Gerardnever appeared in Hazlehurst, this honourable gentleman would have goneon till doomsday, untroubled by any scruples of conscience.’

The Vicar looked at his son wonderingly. Was this a loyal regard fortruth and justice, or was it the spirit of hatred and envy which movedthe youth so strongly? The good, easy-going Vicar, full of charityfor all the world, except a bad cook, could not bring himself all ina moment to think evil of his son. Nor was he ready to believe JohnTreverton the vilest of sinners. Yet here was John Treverton accusedby the Vicar’s own son of an unpardonable fraud, and suspected of thedarkest crime.

‘If you will tell your son to retire, we may discuss this businesswithout prejudice or passion,’ said John. ‘But as long as he is presentmy lips are sealed.’

‘I have no wish to remain a moment longer,’ answered Edward. ‘I hopeMrs. Treverton knows that I am ready to serve her with zeal anddevotion, should she deign to demand my aid.’

‘I know that you are my husband’s enemy,’ answered Laura, with freezingcontempt, ‘and that is all I know or care to know about you.’

‘That’s hard upon an old friend, Laura,’ remonstrated the Vicar, asEdward left the room.

‘Has he not dealt hardly by my husband?’ answered Laura, with a stifledsob.

‘Now, let us try and look this business in the face,’ said Mr. Sampson,seating himself quietly at the table and taking out his note-book.‘According to your confession, Mr. Treverton, you had a wife livingat the date of your first marriage with Miss Malcolm, December thethirty-first of the year before last. We have nothing to do with yoursecond marriage—except so far, of course, as the lady’s honour isconcerned. That second marriage can’t touch the property. Now I amsorry to tell you that if your marriage with the French dancer wasa good marriage, you have no more right to be in this house, or tohold an acre of Jasper Treverton’s land, than the meanest hind inHazlehurst.’

‘I am ready to deliver up all I hold to-morrow. Let the[Pg 251] hospitalbe founded. I acknowledge myself an impostor. Shameful as the actappears now that I contemplate it coldly, it seemed hardly a fraudwhen it first suggested itself to my mind. I saw a way of securingthe estate to my cousin’s adopted daughter. I knew it had been hisdearest wish that she should possess it. When I went through theceremony of marriage with Laura Malcolm in Hazlehurst Church, I had butthe faintest hope of ever being really her husband. When I made thepost-nuptial settlement which was to secure to her the full enjoymentof the estate, I had no hope of ever sharing that estate with her. Onmy honour, as a man and a gentleman, it was for this dear girl’s sake Idid these acts, and with no view to my own happiness or aggrandisem*nt.’

Laura’s hand had been in his all the time he was speaking. Its warmgrasp at the close of this speech told him that he was believed.

‘If you make these facts public, you beggar yourself and your wife,’said Sampson.

‘No, we shall not be penniless,’ exclaimed Laura. ‘There will be myincome left. It is not quite three hundred a year, but we can manage tolive upon that, can’t we, John?’

‘I could live contentedly on a crust a day in the dingiest garret inSeven Dials if you were with me,’ answered her husband, in a low voice.

Mr. Clare was walking up and down the room in a state of suppressedexcitement. The whole business was too dreadful; he was hardly able torealize the enormity of the thing. This John Treverton was a scoundrel,and the estate must all go to found a hospital. Poor Laura must leaveher luxurious home. The parish would be a heavy loser. It was sad, andtroublesome, and altogether fraught with perplexity. And the Vicar hada cordial liking for this John Treverton.

‘What have you to say about the murder of that poor creature—yourfirst wife?’ he exclaimed presently, walking up to the hearth by whichTreverton and Laura were standing.

‘Only that I know no more who killed her than you do,’ answered JohnTreverton. ‘I did a foolish thing, perhaps a cowardly thing, when Ileft the house that night, with the determination never to return toit; but if you could know how intolerable my old life had become to me,you would hardly wonder that I took the first opportunity of gettingaway from it.’

‘We had better look at things from a business point of view,’ saidMr. Sampson. ‘We are not going to do anything in a hurry. There willalways be time enough for you to surrender the estate, Mr. Treverton,and to acknowledge yourself guilty of bigamy. But before you take sucha step we may as well make ourselves sure of our facts. You marriedMademoiselle Chicot in Paris.’

[Pg 252]

‘Yes, on the eighteenth of May, sixty-eight. We were married at theMairie. There was no other ceremony.’

‘Under what name were you married?’

‘My own, naturally. It was only afterwards that I got to be known by mywife’s name.’

‘Were you known to many people in Paris by your own name?’

‘To very few. I had written in the newspapers under a nom deplume,—my sketches at that time were all signed “Jack.” I wasgenerally known as Jack, and after my marriage I became Jack Chicot.’

‘How much did you know of your wife’s antecedents?’

‘Very little, except that she had come to Paris from Auray, inBrittany, about five years before I married her; that she livedreputably, although surrounded by much that was disreputable.’

‘But of her life in Brittany you knew nothing?’

‘I only knew what she told me. She was a fisherman’s daughter, born andreared in extreme poverty. She had grown weary of the hard monotony ofher life, and had come to Paris alone, and for the most part of the wayon foot, to make her fortune. Auray is a long day’s journey from Parisby rail. It took her nearly a month to travel the distance.’

‘That is all you know?’

‘Positively all.’

‘Then you cannot know that she was free to contract a marriage—and youcannot know that you were legally married to her!’ said Tom Sampsontriumphantly.

His interests as well as his client’s were at stake, and he wasdetermined to make a hard fight for them. His stewardship was wortha good five hundred a year. If the estate came to be handed over forthe establishment and maintenance of a hospital, he would in allprobability lose his position of land steward and collector of rents.Some officious committee would oust him from his post. His trusteeshipwould bring him nothing but trouble.

‘That is a curious way of looking at the question,’ said Trevertonthoughtfully.

‘It is the only right way. Why should any man be in a hurry to provehimself guilty of felony? How do you know that Mademoiselle Chicot didnot leave a husband behind her at Auray? It may have been to escapefrom his ill-treatment that she came to Paris. That was a desperatestep for a young woman to take—a month’s journey through a strangecountry, alone, and on foot.’

‘She was so young,’ said Treverton.

‘Not too young to have married foolishly.’

‘What would you advise me to do?’

‘I’ll tell you to-morrow, when I’ve had time to think the[Pg 253] matter over.I can tell you in the meantime what I would advise you not to do.’

‘What is that?’

‘Don’t surrender your estate till you—and we, as your wife’strustees—are thoroughly convinced that you have no right to holdit. Mr. Clare, I must ask you, as my co-trustee to Mrs. Treverton’smarriage settlement, to be silent as to the whole of the facts thathave become known to us to-night, and to request your son also to keephis knowledge to himself.’

‘My son can have no motive for injuring Mr. and Mrs. Treverton,’ saidthe Vicar.

‘Of course not,’ replied Sampson; ‘yet I thought his manner thisevening was somewhat vindictive.’

‘I believe he was only moved by his regard for Laura,’ answered theVicar. ‘He took up the matter warmly because he considered that she hadbeen deeply injured. I can but think so too, and I do not wonder thatmy son should feel indignant. As to the legal bearing of the case, Mr.Sampson, I leave you to judge that, and to deal with that as you bestmay for the interests of your client. But as to its moral aspect, Ishould do less than my duty as a minister of the Gospel if I were notto declare that Mr. Treverton has been guilty of a sin which can onlybe atoned for by deep and honest repentance. I will say no more thanthat now. Good-night, Treverton. Good-night, Laura.’

He took her in his arms and kissed her with fatherly affection. ‘Keepup your courage, my poor girl,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I wish yourhusband well out of his difficulties, for your sake. Will you come hometo the Vicarage with me, and talk over your troubles with Celia? Itmight be a relief to you.’

‘Leave my husband!’ exclaimed Laura. ‘Leave him in grief and trouble!How could you think me capable of such a thing?’ And then she drewthe Vicar aside, and in a tremulous voice, which was little more thana whisper, said to him, ‘Dear Mr. Clare, try not to think evil of myhusband, for my sake. I know that he has sinned; but he has been sorelytempted. He could not judge the extent of the wrong he was doing. Tellme that you do not suspect him as he has been suspected; that you arenot influenced by Edward’s cruel words. You do not believe that hekilled his wife?’

‘No, my dear,’ answered the Vicar decidedly. ‘First and foremost he isa Treverton, and comes of a stock I love and honour; and, secondly, Ihave lived in friendship with him for the last six months; and I don’tthink I’m such a fool that I could live so long upon intimate termswith a murderer and not find him out. No, my dear, I believe yourhusband has been weak and guilty; but I do not believe—I never willbelieve—that he has been a cold-blooded-assassin.’

[Pg 254]

‘God bless you for those words,’ said Laura as the Vicar left her.

‘If Mrs. Treverton will go to bed and get a little rest after all thisagitation, I shall be glad of some further conversation with you beforeI go home,’ said Sampson, when the door had closed upon Mr. Clare.

Laura assented, turning her white, weary face to her husband, with alook full of trust and love, as he went with her to the bottom of thestaircase.

‘God bless and keep you, love,’ he whispered. ‘You have shown me theway out of all my difficulties. I can afford to lose everything exceptyour affection.’

He went back to Tom Sampson, who was scribbling in his note-book, in abrown study.

‘Now, Sampson, we are alone. What have you to say to me?’

‘A great deal. You’ve got yourself into a pretty fix. Why didn’t youtrust me from the beginning? What’s the use of a man having a lawyer ifhe keeps his affairs dark?’

‘We won’t go into that question now,’ said John Treverton. ‘I want youradvice about the future, not your lamentations over the past. What doyou recommend me to do?’

‘Get away from this place to-night, on the best horse in your stable.Take the first train at the furthest station you can reach by daybreakto-morrow. Let me see. It’s not much over thirty miles to Exeter. Youmight get to Exeter on a good horse.’

‘No doubt. But what would be gained by such a course?’

‘You would get out of the way before you could be arrested on suspicionof being concerned in your first wife’s murder.’

‘Who is going to arrest me?’

‘Edward Clare means mischief. I am sure of that. If he has not alreadygiven information to the police, depend upon it he will do so withoutdelay.’

‘Let him,’ answered Treverton. ‘If he does, I must stand my ground. Igot out of the way once; and I feel now that in so doing I committedthe greatest mistake of my life. I am not going to fall into the sameblunder again. If I am to be arrested—if I am to be tried for murder,I will face my position. Perhaps it would be the best thing that couldhappen to me, for a trial might elicit the truth.’

‘Well, perhaps you are right. Anything like running away would tellagainst you. But I recommend you to get to the other side of theChannel without an hour’s loss of time. It is of vital importancefor you to find out your first wife’s antecedents. If you could befortunate enough to discover that she was a married woman when she leftAuray, that she had a husband living at the time of your marriage——’

[Pg 255]

‘Why do you harp so upon that string?’ asked Treverton impatiently.

‘Because it is the only string that can save your estate.’

‘I have no hope of such a thing.’

‘Will you go to Auray and hunt up your wife’s history? Will you let mego with you?’

‘I have no objection. A drowning man will cling to a straw I may aswell cling to that straw as to any other.’

‘Then we’ll start by the first train to-morrow. We’ll leave the placein the openest manner. You can tell people you are going to Paris onbusiness; but if young Clare does set the police on your track, I thinkthey’ll find it hardish work to catch us.’

‘Yes, I’ll go to Auray,’ said John Treverton, frowning meditativelyat the fire. ‘In my wife’s antecedents there may lie the clue to thesecret of her miserable death. Revenge must have been the motive ofthat murder. Who was it whom she had so deeply injured, that nothingbut her life could appease his wrath?’

‘Who, except a deserted husband or lover?’ urged Sampson.

‘Yet we lived together for two years in Paris, and no one ever assailedus.’

‘The husband, or lover, may have been out of the way—beyond seas,perhaps—a sailor, very likely. Auray is a seaport, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

It was agreed that they should start for Exeter by the seven o’clocktrain from Beechampton, catch the Exeter express for Southampton,and cross from Southampton to St. Malo by the steamer which sailedon Monday evening. From St. Malo to Auray would be only a few hours’journey. They might reach Auray almost as soon as they could havereached Paris.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

AT THE MORGUE.

It was midnight when John Treverton went upstairs to his study, wherethere were lighted candles, and a newly replenished fire; for it wasone of his habits to read or write late at night. This evening he wasin no mood for sleep. He lifted the curtain that hung between the tworooms, and looked into the bedroom. Laura had sobbed herself to sleep.The disordered hair, the hand convulsively clasped upon the pillow,told how far from peace her thoughts had been when she sank into theslumber of mental exhaustion. John Treverton bent down and then turnedfrom the bed with a sigh.

[Pg 256]

‘My sins have fallen heavily upon you, my poor girl,’ he said tohimself as he went back to his study and sat down by the fire to thinkover his position, with all its perplexities and entanglements.

Sleep was out of the question. He could only sit and stare at the fire,and review his past life and its manifold follies.

How lightly had he flung away the treasure of liberty! Without athought of the future he had bound himself to a woman for whom he hadbut the transient liking born of a young man’s fancy—of whom he knewso little, that looking back now, he was unable to recall anythingbeyond the barest outline of her history. Well, he was paying dearlyfor that brief infatuation—he was paying a heavy forfeit for thosecareless days in which he had lived among men without principle, andhad sunk almost to as low a level as his companions. He tried toremember anything that his wife had ever told him of her childhoodand youth; but he could only remember that she had been very silentas to the past. Once, and once only, on a summer Sabbath night, whenthey two had been driving home alone together from a dinner in theBois, and when Zaïre’s tongue had been loosened by champagne andcuraçao, she had talked of her journey to Paris;that long, lonely journey, during which she had so little moneyin her pocket that she could not even afford to give herself anoccasional stage in a diligence, but had been content to geta gratuitous lift now and then in an empty wagon, or on the top of aload of buckwheat. She told him how she had entered Paris faint andthirsty, white with dust from head to foot, as if she had come outof a flour-mill; and how the great city—with its myriad lamps andvoices, and the thunder of its wheels—had made her dazed and giddy asshe stood at the junction of two great boulevards, looking down theendless vista, where the lights dwindled to a point on the edge of thedark sky. She told him of her career in Paris—how she had begun asa laundress on the quay, and how one Sunday night at the Chateau desFleurs a man had come up to her after one of the quadrilles—a fat manwith a gray moustache and a large white waistcoat—and had asked herwhere she had learned to dance; and how she had told him, laughingly,that she had never learned at all—that it came naturally to her, likeeating and drinking and sleeping; and then he had asked her whether shewould like to be a dancer at one of the theatres, and wear a petticoatof golden tissue and white satin boots embroidered with gold—such asshe might have seen in the last great spectacle of the Hind in theWood; and she had told him yes, such a life would suit her exactly;whereupon the gentleman in the white waistcoat told her to presentherself at eleven o’clock next morning at a certain big theatre on theBoulevard. She obeyed, saw the gentleman in his private room at thetheatre, was engaged as one[Pg 257] of a hundred and fifty figurantes, at asalary of twenty francs a week. ‘And from that to the time when I wasthe rage at the Students’ Theatre, it was easy,’ said La Chicot, withan insolent smile upon her full, red lips. ‘If I had any other man formy husband I should be the rage at one of the Boulevard Theatres, andthe Figaro would have an article about me every other week.’

‘You have never had any fancy for going back to Auray, to see your oldfriends?’ asked the husband once, wondering at the cold egotism of thecreature.

‘I never had a friend in Brittany for whom I cared that,’ answeredZaïre, snapping her fingers. ‘Every one ill-treated me. My father was aperambulating cider-vat—my poor mother—well, I can pity her, becauseshe was so miserable—whined and whimpered. It was a mercy to all of uswhen the good God took her.’

‘And you never had any one else to care for?’ asked Jack, in aspeculative mood. ‘No lover, for instance?’

‘Lover!’ cried La Chicot, her great eyes flashing upon him angrily.‘What had I to do with a lover? I was but nineteen when I left thathole.’

‘Lovers have been heard of even at that early age,’ suggested Jack, inhis quietest tone; and after that his wife said no more about her pasthistory.

To-night, sitting in idle despondency, looking into the fire, JohnTreverton, master of Hazlehurst Manor, husband of a wife he adored,utterly dissociated from that reckless, happy-go-lucky Jack Chicotof Bohemian surroundings, for whom the good and evil of each day hadbeen all-sufficient, and who had never dared to look forward to theinevitable to-morrow, let his thoughts slip back to the bygone days,and saw, as in a picture, those scenes of the past which had impressedthemselves most vividly upon his mind when they happened.

There was one incident in his married life which had made him wonder,for his wife had not been a woman of a sensitive temper, or easilymoved to strong emotion, save when her own pleasure or her own interestwas at stake. Yet in this particular instance she had shown herself assusceptible to pity and terror as a girl of seventeen, fresh from aconvent school.

They two, husband and wife, had been strolling one summer afternoonupon the quays and bridges, loitering to look at the traffic on theriver, sitting to rest under the trees, or turning over the leaves ofthe old books upon the stalls, and so sauntering carelessly on tillthey came to the Pont Neuf.

‘Let us go across and look at Notre Dame,’ said the husband, for whomthe old church had an inexhaustible charm.

‘Bah!’ cried the wife. ‘What a fancy you have for staring at oldstones!’

[Pg 258]

They crossed the bridge, and sauntered to the front of the noble oldcathedral, where already the hand of improvement was beginning toclear away the houses that surrounded and overshadowed its beauty.Jack Chicot was looking up at the glorious western door, built byPhilip Augustus, thickly wrought with fleurs-de-lys, where indays of old had appeared the sculptured images of all the kings ofJudah, shrined in niches of stonework, as delicate as lace or springfoliage. His wife’s eyes roved right and left, and all around, seekingsome diversion for a mind prone to weariness when not stimulated byamusem*nt or dissipation.

‘See, my friend,’ she cried suddenly, clutching her husband’s arm.‘There is something! Look, what a crowd of people. Is it a procession oran accident?’

‘An accident, I think,’ answered Chicot, looking down the street facingthem, along which a closely-packed crowd was hastening, rolling towardsthem like a mighty wave of black water. ‘We had better get out of theway.’

‘But, no,’ cried the wife eagerly. ‘If there is something to see, letus see it. Life is not too full of distractions.’

‘It may be something unpleasant,’ suggested Jack. ‘I am afraid they arecarrying some poor creature to the Morgue.’

‘That matters nothing. We may as well see.’

So they waited, and fell in among the hurrying crowd, and heard manyvoices discussing the thing that had happened, every voice offering adifferent version of the same ghastly story.

A man had been run over on the Boulevard—a seafaring man from theprovinces—knocked down by the horses of a huge wagon. The horses hadkicked him, the wheels had gone over his body. ‘He was dead when theypicked him up,’ said one. ‘No, he spoke, and hardly seemed conscioushe was hurt,’ said another. ‘He died while they were waiting for thebrancard on which to carry him to the hospital,’ said a third.

And now they were taking him to the Morgue, the famous dead-house ofthe city, down by the river yonder. He was being carried in the midstof that dense crowd, which had been gathering ever since the bearersstarted with their ghastly burden, from the Porte St. Denis, where theaccident happened. He was there in the centre of that mass of humanlife, an awful figure, covered from head to foot, and hidden from allthose curious eyes.

Jack and his wife were borne along with the rest, past the greatcathedral, down by the river, to the doors of the dead-house.

Here they all came to a stop: no one was allowed to enter save the deadman and his bearers, and three or four sergents de ville.

[Pg 259]

‘We must wait till they have made his toilet,’ said La Chicot to herhusband, ‘and then we can go in and see him.’

‘What!’ cried Jack, ‘surely you would not wish to look at a piece ofshattered humanity? He must be a dreadful sight, poor creature.’

‘On the contrary, monsieur,’ said some one near them in the crowd. ‘Thepoor man’s face was not injured. He is a handsome fellow, tanned by thesun; a seafaring man, a fine fellow.’

‘Let’s go in and see him,’ urged La Chicot, and when La Chicot wantedto do a thing she always did it.

So they waited amongst the crowd, close-packed still, though abouttwo-thirds of the people had dropped off and gone back to theirbusiness or their pleasure; not because they shrank from lookingupon death in its most awful aspect, but because the toilet might belong, and the spectacle was not worth the trouble of waiting a wearyhalf-hour in the summer sun.

La Chicot waited with a dogged patience which was a part of hercharacter when she had made up her mind about anything. Jack waitedpatiently too; for he was watching the faces in the crowd, and had anartistic delight in studying these various specimens of a somewhatdebased humanity. Thus the half-hour wore itself out, the doors wereopened, and the crowd poured into the dead-house, just as it would havepoured into a theatre or a circus.

There he lay, the new-comer, with the summer light shining on him—acalm figure behind a sheet of glass, a brave, bronzed face, bearded,with strongly-marked brows and close-cropped black hair, gold ringsin the ears, and on one bare arm, the arm which had escaped the wagonwheel, an inscription tattooed in purple and red.

Jack Chicot, after contemplating the dead man’s face with curiousinterest, fixing the well-marked features in his mind, bent down tolook at the tattooed device and inscription.

There was a ship, a rose, and these words, ‘Dedicated to Saint Anne ofAuray.’

The man was doubtless a native of Auray, La Chicot’s birthplace.

Jack turned to remark this to his wife. She was standing close at hiselbow, livid as the corpse behind the glass, her face convulsed, bigtears rolling down her cheeks.

‘Do you know him?’ asked Jack. ‘Is it any one you remember?’

‘No, no!’ she sobbed; ‘but it is too dreadful. Take me away—take meout of this place, or I shall drop down in a fit.’

He hurried her out through the crowd, pushing his way into the openair.

[Pg 260]

‘You overrated your strength of nerve,’ he said, vexed at the follywhich had exposed her to such a shock. ‘You should not have a fancy forsuch horrid sights.’

‘I shall be better presently,’ answered La Chicot. ‘It is nothing.’

She was not better presently. She was hysterical all the rest of theday, and at night had no sooner closed her eyes than she started upfrom her pillow, sobbing violently, and holding her hands before herface.

‘Don’t let me see him!’ she cried passionately. ‘Jack, why are you socruel as to make me see him? You are holding me against the glass—youare forcing me to look at him. Take me away.’

Pondering to-night upon this strange scene of five years ago, JohnTreverton asked himself if there might not have been some kind of linkbetween this man and Zaïre Chicot.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

GEORGE GERARD IN DANGER.

Although George Gerard had made up his mind to leave Beechampton bythe first train on Monday morning, and although he began to feeldoubtful as to the purity of Edward Clare’s intentions, and altogetheruncomfortable in the society of that young man, when Monday came andshowed him a dark sky, and a world almost blotted out by rain, heyielded, more weakly than it was his nature to yield, to the friendlypersuasion of Mrs. Clare and her daughter, who had come down to thebreakfast room at an early hour to pour out the departing guest’s tea.

‘You really must not travel on such a wretched morning,’ said theVicar’s wife, with maternal kindness. ‘I wouldn’t let Edward start on along journey in such weather.’

George Gerard thought of the discomforts of a third-class carriage,the currents of icy air creeping in at every crack, the incursion ofdamp passengers at every station, breathing frostily, and flappingtheir muddy garments against his knees, the streaming umbrellas in thecorners, the all-pervading wretchedness: and then his thoughtful eyesroamed round the pretty little breakfast room, where the furniturewould hardly have fetched twenty pounds at an auction, but where thesnugness and cosiness and homelike air were above price; and fromthe room he glanced at its occupants, Celia in her dark winter gown,of coarse blue serge, fitting to perfection, and set off by the lastfashion in collar and cuffs.

‘Why do you worry Mr. Gerard, mother?’ asked Celia, looking up fromher tea-making. ‘Don’t you see that we are so[Pg 261] horribly dull here, andhe is so anxious to get away from us, that he would go through a muchworse ordeal than a wet journey in order to make his escape?’

‘I almost wish you knew what a cruel speech that is, Miss Clare,’ saidGerard, looking down at her with a grave smile from his station infront of the fire.

‘Why cruel?’

‘Because you unconsciously taunt me with my poverty. The eight or tenpatients I ought to see to-morrow morning are worth a hundred poundsa year to me at most, and yet I can hardly venture to jeopardise thatinsignificant income.’

‘How you will look back and laugh at these days years hence when youare being driven in your brougham from Savile-row to the railwaystation, to start for Windsor Castle, at the command of a telegram fromroyalty.’

‘Leaving royal telegrams and Windsor Castle out of the question, thereis such a distance between my present abode and Savile-row that I doubtmy ever being able to traverse it,’ said Gerard; ‘but in the meantimemy few paying patients are of vital importance to me, and I have somerather critical cases among my poor people.’

‘Poor dear things, I am sure they can all wait,’ said Celia. ‘Perhapsit will do them good to suspend their treatment for a day or two.Physic seems at best such a doubtful advantage.’

‘I have a friend who looks after anything serious,’ said Gerarddubiously. ‘If I were to follow my own inclination I should mostassuredly stay.’

‘Then follow it,’ cried Celia. ‘I always do. Mamma, give Mr. Gerardsome bacon and potatoes, while I run and tell Peter to go to theGeorge, and let them know that the omnibus need not call here.’

‘I am afraid I am imposing upon your kind hospitality, and giving you agreat deal of trouble,’ said Gerard, when Celia had slipped out of theroom to give her orders.

‘You are giving us no trouble; and you must know that I should be happyto receive any friend of my son’s.’

Gerard’s sallow cheek flushed faintly at this speech. He felt thatthere was a kind of imposture in his position at the Vicarage. Everyone insisted upon regarding him as an intimate friend of Edward Clare;and already it had been made clear to him that Edward was a man whom hecould never make his friend. But for Edward Clare’s mother and sisterhe had a much more cordial feeling.

He sat down to breakfast with the two ladies. The Vicar would breakfastlater, and one of Edward’s privileges as a poet of the future was tolie in bed until ten o’clock every morning in the present. Never,perhaps, was a merrier breakfast eaten.[Pg 262] Gerard, having made up hismind to stay, abandoned himself unreservedly to the pleasure of themoment. Celia questioned him about his life, and drew from him a livelydescription of some of the more curious incidents in his career. Hehad but rarely joined in the wilder amusem*nts of his fellow students,but he had joined them often enough to see all that was strange andinteresting in London life. Celia listened open-eyed, with rosy lipsapart in wonder.

‘Ah, that is what I call living,’ she exclaimed. ‘How different fromour system of vegetation here. I’m sure if Harvey had lived all hislife at Hazlehurst he would never have found out anything about thecirculation of the blood. I don’t believe ours does circulate.’

‘If you could only know how sweet your rural stagnation seems to adweller in cities,’ said Gerard.

‘Let the dweller in cities try it for a month or six weeks,’ saidCelia. ‘He will be weary enough by the end of that time; unless he isone of those sporting creatures who are always happy as long as theycan go about with a gun or a fishing rod murdering something.’

‘I should want neither gun nor rod,’ said Gerard. ‘I think I could findcomplete happiness among these hills.’

‘What, away from all your hospitals?’

‘I am speaking of my holiday life. I could not afford to live alwaysaway from the hospitals. I have to learn my profession.’

‘I thought you had done with all that when you passed your examination.’

‘A medical man has never done learning. Medical science is progressive.The tyro of to-day knows more than the adept of a century ago.’

As Mr. Gerard had only one day to spend at the Vicarage, Celia gaveherself up to the task of making that one day agreeable to him, withthe utmost benevolence and amiability. Her brother seemed dull andmorose, and shut himself in his den all day, upon the pretence ofpolishing a lyric he had flung off, in a moment of inspiration, for oneof the magazines; so Celia had the visitor thrown altogether on herhands, as she complained afterwards rather plaintively, though she borethe infliction pretty cheerfully at the time.

The two young people spent the morning in conversation beside thebreakfast-room fire, Celia pretending to work very hard at anantimacassar in crewels; while Gerard paced the room, and staredout of the window, and fidgeted on his chair, after the manner ofa young man, not belonging to the tame cat species, when he findshimself shut up in a country house with a young woman. In spiteof this restlessness, however, the surgeon seemed particularlywell pleased with his idle morning. He[Pg 263] found a great deal to talkabout—people—places—books—life in the abstract—and, finally, hisown youth and boyhood in particular. He told Celia much more thanit was his habit to tell an acquaintance. Those blue eyes of hersexpressed such gentle sympathy; the pretty, pouting, under lip had atender look that tempted him to trust her. As a physiognomist he wasinclined to think well of Celia, despite her frivolity. As a young manhe was inclined to admire her.

‘You must have had a very hard youth,’ she said compassionately, whenhe had given her a sketch, half sad, half humorous, of his life at theMarischal College, Aberdeen.

‘Yes, and I am likely to have a hard manhood,’ he answered gravely.‘How can I ever dare ask a woman to share a life which has at presentso little promise of sunshine?’

‘But do not all your great men begin in that kind of way?’ interrogatedCelia; ‘Sir Astley Cooper, for instance, and that poor dear who foundout the separate functions of the nerves that direct our thoughts andmovements—though goodness knows what actual use that discovery couldhave been to anybody——’

‘I think you must mean Sir Charles Bell,’ suggested Gerard, ratherdisgusted at this flippant mention of genius.

‘I suppose I do,’ said Celia. ‘He wrote a book about hands, I believe.I only wish he had written a book about gloves; for your glove-maker’sidea of anatomy is simply absurd. I never yet could find a maker whounderstands my thumb.’

‘What an advantage my sex has over yours in that respect!’ remarkedGerard.

‘How so?’

‘We never need wear gloves, except when we dance or when we drive.’

‘Ah!’ sighed Celia, with her wondering look. ‘I suppose there are sanemen in big places like London and Manchester, who walk about withoutgloves. They wouldn’t do it here, where everybody knows everybody else.’

‘I think I have bought about two pairs of gloves since I attained toman’s estate,’ said Gerard.

‘But your dances? How do you manage for those?’

‘Easily. I never dance.’

‘What, are you never tired of playing the wallflower? Do not Germanwaltzes inspire you?’

‘I never go in the way of being inspired. I have never been to a partysince I came to London.’

‘Good gracious! Why don’t you go to parties?’

‘I could give you fifty reasons, but perhaps one will do as well.Nobody ever asks me.’

‘Poor fellow!’ cried Celia, with intense compassion. Nothing he hadtold her of his early struggles had touched her like this.[Pg 264] Here wasthe acme of desolation. ‘What, you live in London all the season, andnobody asks you to dances and things?’

‘In that part of London I inhabit there is no season. Life there runson the same monotonous wheels all the year round—poverty all theyear round—hard work all the year round—debt, and difficulty, andsickness, and sorrow all the year round.’

‘You are making my heart bleed,’ said Celia; ‘at least I suppose that’sanatomically impossible, and I ought not to mention such an absurdityto a doctor; but you are making me feel quite too unhappy.’

‘I should be sorry to do that,’ returned Gerard gently, ‘and it wouldbe a very bad return for your kindness to me. Do not imagine that thekind of life I lead is a silent martyrdom. I am happy in my profession.I am getting on quite as fast as I ever expected to get on. Ibelieve—yes, I do honestly believe, that I shall make name and fortunesooner or later, if I live long enough. It is only when I reflect howlong it must be before I can conquer a position good enough for a wifeto share, that I am inclined to feel impatient.’

Celia became suddenly interested in the shading of a vine leaf, andbent her face so low over her work, that a flood of crimson rushed intoher cheeks, and she felt disinclined to look up again.

She gave a little, nervous cough presently, and, as Gerard was pacingthe room in silence, felt herself constrained to say something.

‘I dare say the young lady to whom you are engaged will not mind howlong she has to wait,’ Celia suggested; ‘or, if she is very brave, shewill not shrink from sharing your early struggles.’

‘There is no such young lady in question,’ answered Gerard. ‘I am notengaged.’

‘I beg your pardon. Ah, I forgot you had said you didn’t go to parties.’

‘Do you think a man should choose a wife at a dance?’

‘I don’t know. Such things do happen at dances, don’t they?’

‘Possibly. For my own part, I would rather see my future wife at home,by her father’s fireside.’

‘Darning stockings,’ suggested Celia. ‘I believe that is the realtest of feminine virtue. A woman may be allowed to play and sing; shemay even speak a couple of modern languages; but her chief merit issupposed to lie in her ability to darn stockings and make a pudding.Now, Mr. Gerard, is not that the old-established idea of perfection inwomankind?’

‘I believe that the darning and pudding-making are vaguely supposedto include all the domestic virtues. It may seem sordid in a lover toconsider such details, but the happiness of a husband depends somewhatupon his wife’s housekeeping.[Pg 265] Could any home be Eden in which the cookgave warning once a month, and the policeman ate up all the cold meat?’

Celia laughed, but the laugh ended with a sigh. She had made up hermind that if ever she married, her husband must be rich enough to beabove the petty struggles of household economy, the cheese-parings of alimited income. He must be able to keep at least a pony carriage, andthe pony carriage must be perfect in all its appointments. A footmanCelia might forego, but she must have the neatest of parlour-maids.She did not aspire to get her gowns from Wörth: but she must not becirc*mscribed as to collars and cuffs, and must be able to employ thebest dressmaker in Exeter or Plymouth.

But here was a young man who must wait for years before he couldmarry; or must drag some poor young woman down into the dismal swampof genteel poverty. Celia felt honestly sorry for him. Of all the menshe had ever met he seemed to her the most manly, the brightest, thebravest—perhaps altogether the best. If not exactly handsome, therewas that in his marked features and vivid expression which Celiathought more attractive than absolute regularity of line, or splendourof colour.

Mrs. Clare had been absent all the morning, engaged in small domesticduties which she considered important, but which Celia describedsweepingly as ‘muddling.’ She appeared by-and-by at luncheon—ameal which the Vicar never ate—and entertained her guest witha dissertation on the tiresomeness of servants, and the variousdifficulties of housekeeping, until Edward—who honoured the familycircle with his society while he refreshed his exhausted muse with coldroast beef and pickles—ruthlessly cut short his mother’s sermonising,and entered upon a critical discussion with George Gerard as to therelative merits of Browning and Swinburne.

Celia was surprised to discover how widely the young surgeon had read.She had expected to find him ignorant of almost everything outside hisown particular domain.

‘How can you find time for light literature?’ she asked.

‘Light literature is my only relaxation.’

‘You go to the theatres now and then, I suppose?’

‘I like to go when there is something good to be seen,’ answeredGerard, flushing at the recollection of the time when he had gone threenights a week to feast his eyes upon La Chicot’s florid loveliness.

He felt ashamed of an infatuation which at the time had seemed to himas noble as the Greek’s worship of abstract beauty.

By the time luncheon was finished the rain had ceased, and the gray,wintry sky, though sunless, looked no longer threatening.

‘Not a bad afternoon for a ramble on yonder moor,’ said[Pg 266] Gerard,standing in the bay window, looking out at the landscape. ‘Would youhave the courage to be my pioneer, Miss Clare?’

Celia looked at her brother interrogatively.

‘I’m not in the humour for any more scribbling to-day,’ said Edward,‘so perhaps a good long walk would be the easiest way of getting rid ofthe afternoon. Put on your waterproof and clump soles, Celia, and showus the way.’

Celia ran off, delighted at the opportunity. A moorland ramble with aconversable young man was at least a novelty.

In the hall the damsel met her mother, and, in a sudden overflow ofspirits, stopped to give her a filial hug.

‘Let us have something nice for dinner, mother dear,’ she pleaded.‘It’s his last evening.’

The tone of the request inspired Mrs. Clare with vague fears. A girlcould hardly have said more had the visitor been her plighted lover.

‘What an idea!’ she exclaimed good-humouredly. ‘Of course I shall dothe best I can, but Monday is such an awkward day.’

‘Of course, dear. We all know that, but don’t let it be quite a Mondaydinner,’ urged Celia.

‘As for that young man, I don’t believe he knows what he is eating.’

‘Heaven forbid that he should be like my father, and his dinner themost important event in his day!’ retorted Celia, whereat Mrs. Claremurmured mildly,—

‘My love, your father has a very peculiar constitution. There arethings which he can eat, and things which he cannot eat.’

‘Of course, you dear deluded mater. Cold mutton is poisonous tohis constitution; but I never heard of his being the worse for truffledturkey.’

And then Celia skipped off to attire herself, not unbecomingly, in adark gray ulster, and the most impertinent of billyco*ck hats.

The ramble on the moor was a success. Edward held himself aloof, andsmoked his cigar in gloomy silence, but the two others were as merryas a brace of schoolboys taking a stolen holiday. They clambered thesteepest paths, crossed the wildest bits of hill and hollow, narrowlyescaped coming to grief in boggy ground, and laughed and talked withinexhaustible spirits all the time. George Gerard hardly knew himself,and was struck with wonder at finding that life could be so pleasant.The wintry air was fresh and clear, the wind whistled gaily over thevast sweep of undulating turf and heather. Just at sunset there came aflood of yellow light over the low western sky; a farewell smile from asun that had hidden himself all day.

‘Good gracious!’ cried Celia, ‘we shall barely have time to[Pg 267] scamperhome to dinner; and if there is one thing that irritates papa more thananother, it is to wait five minutes for his dinner. He never waits morethan five minutes. If he did, I believe lunacy would ensue before thetenth. You ought not to have led me astray so far, Mr. Gerard.’

‘I think it is you who have been leading me astray,’ said Gerard, halfgrave, half gay. ‘I never felt so far from my work-a-day self in mylife. You have a great deal to answer for, Miss Clare.’

Celia blushed at the charge, but did not reply to it. She turned andsurveyed the ground over which they had travelled.

‘I can’t see Edward anywhere,’ she exclaimed.

‘Do you know, I have an idea that he left us about an hour ago,’ saidGerard.

‘What a ridiculous young man! And now he will be home ever so longbefore us, and will make capital out of his punctuality with my father.’

‘Could you imagine him capable of such meanness?’

‘He is a brother,’ answered Celia, ‘and in that capacity capable ofanything. Come along, pray, Mr. Gerard. We must scamper home awfullyfast.’

‘Won’t you take my arm?’ asked Gerard.

‘Walk arm in arm over the moor! That would be too ridiculous,’exclaimed Celia, tripping on lightly over hillock and hollow. ‘Do makehaste, Mr. Gerard, or we shall be lost in the darkness.’

George Gerard thought it would be rather nice to be benighted on themoor with Celia, or at any rate to go astray for an hour or so andlengthen their ramble. Happily, however, the lights of the village,glimmering in the valley below, were a safe guide to their footsteps,and Celia knew the pathway that descended the moor as well as she knewher father’s garden. The only peril was the risk of getting into someboggy patch of the common at the bottom of the moor, and even hereCelia’s knowledge availed to keep them out of mischief. They arrived atthe Vicarage breathless, with glowing cheeks, just in time to make ahurried toilet for dinner.

Oh, how much too short that winter evening, though one of the longestin the year, seemed to George Gerard! And yet its pleasures were of thesimplest. Three of Celia’s particular friends—the one eligible youthof Hazlehurst and his two sisters—dropped in to spend the evening, andthe Vicarage drawing-room resounded with youthful voices and youthfullaughter. Celia and the two young ladies played and sang; and thoughneither playing nor singing was above the average young lady power,the voices were tuneful and fresh, and the fingers were equal to doingjustice to a German waltz. The eligible[Pg 268] young man was capable ofjoining in a glee, and George Gerard consented to try the bass part,and proved himself the possessor of a fine bass voice and a correctear, so they asked each other, ‘Who would o’er the downs so free?’ andthey requested every one to ‘See our oars with feathered spray,’ andthey made valorous attempts at Bishop’s famous ‘Stay, pr’ythee, stay,’in which they did not break down more than fifteen times, and theyaltogether enjoyed themselves immensely, while the Vicar read JohnBull and the Guardian from end to end, and good Mrs. Clarenodded comfortably over a crochet comforter, giving her ivory hook avague dig into the woolly mass every now and then with an idea that shewas working diligently.

Edward sat aloof reading Browning’s “Paracelsus,” and hardlyunderstanding a word he read. His mind was full of perplexity anddarkest thoughts were brooding there.

Thus the evening ran its course, till the appearance of a tray ofsandwiches and a tankard of claret negus warned the revellers thatit was time to disperse. The church clock chimed the half-hour aftereleven as George Gerard went up to his room.

‘And to-morrow night I shall be alone in my Cibber Street parlour,’ hesaid to himself, ‘and I may never see Celia Clare again. Better so,perhaps. What should a piece of pretty frivolity like that have to doin so hard a life as mine?’

CHAPTER XXXV.

ON A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY.

After pitching and tossing all night in a manner painfully suggestiveof shipwreck, John Treverton and his faithful solicitor arrived at St.Malo early in the afternoon, where the comforts and luxuries of thatmost comfortable hotel, the ‘Franklin,’ were peculiarly grateful aftertheir cold and dreary passage.

There was no train to carry them to Auray that afternoon, so they dinedsnugly by a glorious wood fire in a private sitting-room, and discussedthe difficulties and dangers of John Treverton’s position over a bottleof Chambertin with the true violet bouquet.

Throughout this long conversation, Tom Sampson showed himself as shrewdas he was devoted. He seized the salient points of the case; fullymeasured all its difficulties; saw that sooner or later John Trevertonmight be arrested on suspicion of his wife’s murder, and would have toprove himself innocent. Sampson, as well as Treverton, had seen howmuch malice there was in Edward Clare’s mind, and both foresaw theprobability of that malice being pushed still further.

[Pg 269]

‘If we could only prove that your first marriage was invalid, we shouldget rid at once of any motive on your part for the murder,’ saidSampson.

‘You could not prove that I knew my first marriage to be invalid,’answered Treverton, ‘unless you are going to try to prove a lie.’

‘I don’t know what I might not try to do, if your neck were in danger,’retorted Sampson. ‘I shouldn’t stick at trifles, you may depend uponit. The grand thing will be to find out if there was a previousmarriage. After your story about the sailor at the Morgue, I aminclined to hope for success.’

‘Are you? Poor Sampson! I strongly suspect we are going in search of amare’s nest.’

They left St. Malo next morning, and arrived at Auray early in theafternoon. They were jolted down a long boulevard from the station tothe town in an omnibus, which finally deposited them at the Pavillond’en haut, a very comfortable hotel, where they were received by asmiling landlady, and a pretty chambermaid in a neat black gown,trimmed with velvet, a cambric cap as quaint as a nun’s headgear, andapron, collar, and cuffs of the same spotless fabric.

As Tom Sampson’s knowledge of the French language was that of theaverage British schoolboy, he naturally found himself unable tounderstand the natives of an obscure port in Brittany. He was with hisclient in the capacity of adviser; but it behoved his client to do allthe work.

‘Well, my dear fellow,’ said Treverton, when they had depositedtheir travelling bags at the hotel, and were standing in the emptymarket-place, looking round them somewhat vaguely, ‘here we are, andwhat is to be our first move now we are here?’

‘I should think about the best plan would be to go to the churches andexamine the registers,’ suggested Sampson. ‘I suppose you know yourfirst wife’s real name?’

‘Not unless it was Chicot—I married her under that name.’

‘Chicot,’ repeated Sampson dubiously. ‘It sounds rather barbarous,but it’s nothing to the names over the shops here. I never saw suchcrack-jaw cognomens. Well, we’d better go and look up all the registersfor the name of Chicot.’

‘That would be slow work,’ said Treverton, thinking of the sweet youngwife at home, full of fear and trouble, left to brood upon her sorrowsat that very time when life ought to have been made bright and happyfor her, a time when her mind might be most prone to despondency.

He had written Laura a consoling letter from St. Malo, affectinghopefulness he did not feel; but he knew how poor a consolation anyletter must be, and he was longing to finish his business and turn hisface homewards.

[Pg 270]

‘Can you suggest a quicker way?’ asked Sampson.

‘I think it might be a better plan to find out the oldest priest in theparish, and question him. A priest in such a place as this ought to bea living chronicle of the lives of its inhabitants.’

‘Not half a bad idea,’ said Sampson approvingly. ‘The sooner you findyour priest the better, say I.’

‘Come along, then,’ said Treverton, and they went up the steps of achurch near at hand, and into the dusky aisle, where a few scatteredold women were kneeling in the winter gloom, and where the sanctuarylamp shone like a red star in the distance.

‘What would they say at Hazlehurst if they could see me in a RomanCatholic church?’ thought Sampson. ‘They’d give me over for lost.’

John Treverton walked softly round the church, till he met with apriest who was just shutting up his confessional, preparatory todeparture. He was a youngish man, with a good-natured countenance, andacknowledged the stranger’s salutation with a friendly smile. JohnTreverton followed him out of the church before he ventured to ask forthe information he wanted, and then he explained himself as briefly aspossible.

‘I have come from England to obtain information about a native of thistown,’ he said. ‘Do you think that among the priests connected withyour church there is any gentleman who can remember the events ofthe last twenty years, and who would be obliging enough to answer myquestions?’

‘Most certainly, monsieur, since I apprehend your inquiries are to agood end.’

‘I can give you my own word for that. This gentleman is my solicitor,and if he could speak French, or if you could speak English, he wouldbe able to vouch for my respectability. Unhappily he cannot puthalf-a-dozen words together in your charming language. At least I’mafraid he can’t. Do you think you could tell this gentleman who I am,Sampson?’ John Treverton asked, turning to his ally.

Mr. Sampson became furiously red in the face, and blew out his cheekslike a turkey-co*ck.

‘Mon ami, monsieur,’ he began with a desperate plunge. ‘Er,mon ami est bien riche homme, bien à faire, le plus fort riche hommedans notre part de la campagne. Il a un grand état, très grand. Je suisson lawyer—comprenney, monsieur?—son avocat.’

The priest expressed himself deeply convinced of the honourableposition of both travellers, though he was inwardly at a loss tounderstand why a man should go wandering about the country with hisadvocate.

He then went on to tell John Treverton that his superior, Father leMescam, the curé of the parish, had been attached to that church forthe last thirty years, and could doubtless recall[Pg 271] every event ofimportance that had happened in the town during that period. He waslikely to know much of the private history of his congregation; andas he was the most amiable of men, he would doubtless be willing tocommunicate anything which a stranger could have the right to know.

‘Sir, you are most obliging,’ said John Treverton. ‘Extend yourcourtesy still further, and bring Father le Mescam to dine with me andmy friend at six o’clock this evening, and you will weigh me down withobligations.’

‘You are very kind, sir,’ murmured the priest. ‘We have vespers atfive—yes, at six we shall be free. I shall feel much pleasure inpersuading Father le Mescam to accept your very gracious invitation.’

‘A thousand thanks. I consider it settled. We are staying at thePavillon d’en haut, where I suppose that if a man cannot dine,he can at least eat.’

‘Sir, I take it upon myself to answer for the hotel. As a type of theprovincial cuisine the Pavillon d’en haut will prove itself worthy ofyour praise. You shall not be discontented with your dinner. I pledgemyself to that. Till six o’clock, sir.’

The Vicaire lifted his biretta, and left them.

‘It will go hard if I cannot find out something about my wife’santecedents from a man who has lived thirty years in Auray,’ said JohnTreverton, as he and his companion walked down the narrow stony streetleading to the river. ‘So beautiful a woman must have been remarkablein a place like this.’

‘Judging from the specimens of female loveliness I have met with sofar, I should say very remarkable,’ retorted Sampson; ‘for, with theexception of that pretty chambermaid at the Pavillong dong Haw, Ihaven’t seen a decent-looking woman since we left St. Mallow.’

They went down to the bridge, Sampson hobbling over the stony pathway,and vehemently abusing the vestry and local board of Auray, whichsettlement he appeared to think was governed exactly after the mannerof our English country towns.

They crossed the bridge and went to look at an old church on theother side of the river, where the fisher folk had hung models ofthree-masters and screw steamers as votary offerings to their guardiansaints; then they re-crossed the bridge and went up to an observatoryon a hill above the little town, and surveyed as much as they couldsee of the landscape in the gathering winter gloom; and then Mr.Sampson, who might possibly have been impressed by Vesuvius in a stateof eruption, but who had not a keen eye for the quaint and picturesqueon a small scale, proposed that they should go back to their hotel andmake themselves comfortable for dinner.

‘I should like a wash if there’s such a thing as a cake of soap[Pg 272] in theplace,’ said the lawyer, ‘but from the appearance of the inhabitants Ishould rather suspect there wasn’t. Soap would be a mockery for some ofthem. Nothing less than scraping would be any real benefit.’

They found their sitting-room at the hotel bright with wax candlesand a wood fire. Mr. Sampson nearly came to grief upon the beeswaxedfloor, and protested against polished floors as a remnant of barbarism.Otherwise he found things more civilized than he had expected, neverbefore having trusted himself across the Channel, and being strictlyinsular in his conception of foreign manners and customs.

‘I should hope the old gentleman who is to dine with us can speakEnglish,’ he said; ‘he ought at his time of life.’

‘But if he has lived all his life at Auray?’

‘Well, no doubt this is a sink of ignorance,’ asserted Sampson. ‘I daresay the stupid old man won’t be able to understand a word I say.’

The two priests were announced as the great clock in the market-placestruck six, town time, while the clock on the mantelpiece followed withits shriller chime. ‘Father le Mescam, Father Gedain,’ said the prettychambermaid in most respectful tones, and thereupon the two gentlemenentered, neatly dressed, clean shaven, smiling, and having nothing ofthat dark and sinister air which Tom Sampson expected to discover inevery Popish priest.

Father le Mescam was a little old man, with a quaint, comical face,which would have done admirably for the first gravedigger in ‘Hamlet’;small, twinkling eyes, full of sly humour; a mobile mouth, and a pertlittle nose, co*cked up in the air, as if in good-humoured contempt atthe folly of human nature in general.

‘I am extremely obliged to you for the kindness of this visit, Fatherle Mescam,’ said John Treverton, when the Vicaire had presentedhim to his superior.

‘My dear sir, when a pleasant-mannered traveller asks me to dinner,I am only too glad to accept the invitation,’ answered the priestheartily. ‘A whiff of air from the outside world gives an agreeableflavour to life in this quiet little corner of the universe.’

‘Lord have mercy on us, how fast the old chap talks!’ exclaimed Sampsoninwardly. ‘Thank goodness, we Englishmen never gabble like that.’

And then, determined not to be left altogether out of the conversation,Mr. Sampson pulled himself together for a bold attempt. He gazedbenignantly at Father le Mescam, and shouted at the top of his voice,—

‘Fraw, Mossoo, horriblemong fraw.’

The little priest smiled blandly, but shrugged his shoulders withserio-comic helplessness.

[Pg 273]

‘Non moing c’est saisonable temps pour le temp de l’ong,’pursued Sampson, waxing bolder, and feeling as if all the French he hadacquired in his school days was pouring in upon him like a flood oflight.

Father le Mescam still looked dubious.

‘Well,’ exclaimed Sampson, turning to John Treverton, ‘I’ve alwaysheard that Frenchmen were slow at learning foreign languages; butI could not have believed they’d be so disgustingly stupid as notto understand their own. Upon my word, Treverton, I don’t see anyreason why you should explode in that fashion,’ he remonstrated, asTreverton fell back in his chair in a fit of irrepressible laughter.‘Allong,’ cried Sampson. ‘Voyci le pottage; and I’mblessed if they haven’t emptied the bread basket into it!’ heexclaimed, contemplating with ineffable disgust the contents of thesoup tureen, in which he beheld lumps of bread floating on the surfaceof a thin broth. ‘Venez dong, Treverton, si vous avez finnide faire un sot de voter même, nous pouvons aussi bien commencer.’

‘Mais, oui, monsieur,’ cried the curé, enchanted atunderstanding about two words of this last speech, and beaming at theEnglishman in a paroxysm of good nature. ‘Oui, oui, oui, monsieur,commençons, commençons. C’est tres-bien dit.’

‘Ah,’ grunted Sampson, ‘the old idiot is inspired when one talks abouthis dinner. If that bread-and-waterish broth is a specimen of thekewsine of this hotel, I don’t think much of it,’ he added.

Poor as the soup was in appearance, Mr. Sampson found it was notamiss in flavour, and when a savoury preparation of some unknown fishhad followed the soup tureen, and a fricassee of fowl and mushroomhad replaced the fish, he began to feel at peace with the Pavillond’en haut. A leg of mutton from the salt marshes completed hisreconciliation to provincial cookery, and a dish of vanilla cream àla Chateaubriand raised his spirits to enthusiasm. The two priestsenjoyed their dinner thoroughly, and chatted gaily as they ate, but itwas not till the dessert had been handed round by the brisk servingmaid, and a bottle of Pomard had been placed on the table, that JohnTreverton approached the serious business of the evening. He waitedtill the chambermaid had left the room, and then, wheeling his chairround to the fire, piled with chestnut logs, invited Father le Mescamto do the same. Mr. Sampson and Father Gedain followed their example,and the four made a cosy circle round the hearth, each nursing hisglass of red wine.

‘I am going to ask you a good many questions, Father le Mescam,’ beganJohn Treverton. ‘I hope you won’t think me troublesome or impertinentlyinquisitive. However trivial my inquiries may seem, the result is amatter of life and death to me.’

[Pg 274]

‘Ask what you will, sir,’ answered the curé. ‘So long as you ask noquestion which a priest ought not to answer, you may command me.’

CHAPTER XXXVI.

KERGARIOU’S WIFE.

‘Father le Mescam,’ said John Treverton, ‘do you ever remember hearingof a girl who left this town a laundress to become afterwards acelebrity in Paris, as a stage dancer?’

‘I ought to remember her,’ answered the curé, looking somewhatastonished at the question, ‘for I baptized her; I prepared her for herfirst communion, poor soul; and I married her.’

John Treverton started from his chair, and then sat down againprofoundly agitated. Sampson was right. Yes; there had been a previousmarriage. Yet it might be too soon for exultation. The first husbandmight have died before La Chicot came to Paris.

‘Are we talking of the same woman?’ he asked; ‘a girl who was known asMademoiselle Chicot?’

‘Yes,’ answered Father le Mescam, ‘that was the only woman who everleft Auray to blossom into a stage dancer. Ours is not a soil whichfreely produces that kind of flower. I have good reason to rememberthat girl, for I was interested by her singular beauty, and I feltanxious for the safety of her soul amidst the snares and temptations towhich such remarkable beauty is subject. I did my best to teach her—tofortify her against all future dangers; but she was as empty within aswas lovely without. I hardly know whether one ought to consider such acreature responsible for all her errors. Hers was a case of invincibleignorance. The Church has to deal with many such characters—the hearthard as stone, the intellect a blank.’

‘What’s he jabbering about?’ said Tom Sampson to his client. ‘You lookas if you had found out something.’

‘Wait, my dear fellow. I am on the point of making a discovery. Youwere right in your guess, Sampson; there was a previous husband.’

‘Of course,’ cried Sampson triumphantly. ‘My surprise in the case of awoman of that kind would be to discover only one previous husband; Ishould sooner expect to hear of six.’

‘Hold your tongue,’ said John Treverton authoritatively, and then herefilled Father le Mescam’s glass before he proceeded with his inquiry.‘You say you married La Chicot?’

[Pg 275]

‘She was not La Chicot when I married her, but plain Marie Pomellec,the eldest daughter of a drunken old fisherman down by the quay. Drinkwas hereditary in her family. Grandfather and great-grandfather, theyhad all been drunkards from generation to generation. The children hadto shift for themselves from the time they could run. I think thatmay have helped to make them hard and cruel, though some sweet soulseducate themselves for heaven in just as hard a life. As Marie grewup to a fine tall slip of a girl her handsome face attracted notice.She got to know that she was the prettiest woman in Auray, and theknowledge soon spoiled whatever good there was in her. I saw all theperils of her position—dissolute parents—utter want of guidance fromwithout—a mind too frivolous to be a guide to itself. In my idea heronly chance of salvation lay in an early marriage, and although she wasbut seventeen when Jean Kergariou asked her to be his wife, I did nothesitate in advising her to marry him.’

‘Who was Kergariou?’

‘A sailor, and as good a fellow as ever went to sea. He and Marie hadbeen playfellows. They had attended the same class for instruction.Jean was intelligent, Marie was dull. Jean was frank and good-humoured,Marie was reserved and self-willed. But the poor fellow was dazzled bythe girl’s beauty, and she was endeared to him by old associations. Hetold me that she was the only woman he ever had cared for, the onlywoman he ever should care for. He had saved a little money, and couldafford to furnish one of the cottages in the street by the quay. Hewould have to go to sea, of course, and Marie would stop at home andkeep house, and perhaps earn a little money by washing linen, havingthe river so convenient. I would rather have had a home-staying husbandfor her, but Jean was a thoroughly good fellow, and I thought such ahusband must keep her out of harm’s way. He was not the kind of manthat any woman could attempt to trifle with.’

‘And he married her?’

‘Yes, they were married in the church yonder, one Easter Monday.’

‘Can you tell me the date?’

‘I can find it for you in the book where such events are registered.I could not say at this moment how many years ago it may have been. Icould tell you the year of poor Kergariou’s death.’

‘Oh, he is dead, then?’ asked Treverton, with a dreadful sinking of theheart.

‘Yes, poor fellow. Let me see; it must have been three years ago lastsummer that Kergariou met with his melancholy death.’

[Pg 276]

‘His melancholy death,’ repeated Treverton. ‘Why melancholy?’

‘He was killed—run over by a waggon, on the Boulevard St. Denis, inParis.’

‘Run over by a waggon, three summers ago, on the Boulevard,’ echoedJohn Treverton. ‘Yes, I recollect.’

‘What—you knew him?’

‘No, but I was in Paris at the time of the accident.’

John Treverton recalled that scene at the Morgue, and his wife’sghastly face when she entreated him to take her away. Yes, that onepage which had stood boldly out from the book of memory, with a luridlight upon it, was indeed a page of momentous meaning.

‘Tell me all about Jean Kergariou and his wife,’ he said to the curé.‘It is a matter of vital importance for me to know. You are doing me aservice which will make me grateful to you for the rest of my life.’

‘Not quite so long, I hope,’ retorted the priest, with a sly smile. ‘Aman would be but short-lived if his life were to be measured by theendurance of his gratitude. That is a delightful virtue, but not alasting one.’

‘Try me,’ exclaimed John Treverton. ‘Give me legal proof that MariePomellec and the dancer called Chicot were one, and that the man killedon the Boulevard three summers ago was Marie Pomellec’s husband, andyou may put me to the hardest proof you choose, but you shall neverfind me ungrateful.’

‘There are noble exceptions, doubtless,’ said the priest, shrugging hisshoulders, ‘just as there is now and then a baby born with two heads.As for the story of Marie Pomellec and her marriage, it is simpleenough, and common enough, and the proof of it is to be found in theregisters at the Mairie, while the fact is known to all the inhabitantsof the quay, where Jean’s wife lived. That the man killed in Paris wasJean Kergariou is also certain; he was recognised by a fellow-sailorwhile he was lying in the Morgue, and the account appeared in severalof the Paris newspapers under the heading of Faits divers.The only point open to question might be the identity of the dancer,Mademoiselle Chicot, with Kergariou’s wife, but even that was prettywell known to several people in Auray, who saw the woman dance inParis, and brought back the news of her success—to say nothing of herphotographs, which are unmistakable.’

‘How did Marie Kergariou come to leave Auray?’

‘Who knows? Not I. What man can explain a woman’s caprice? She livedsteadily enough for the first year after her marriage. Kergariou wasaway the greater part of the time, on board a whaler in Greenland. Whenhe came home he and his pretty wife seemed monstrously fond of eachother. But in the[Pg 277] second year things were not so pleasant. Kergarioucomplained to me of his wife’s temper. Marie avoided the confessional,and grew lax in her attendance at the services of the church. Theneighbours told me there were quarrels—neighbours will talk of eachother, you see, sir, and a priest must not always shut his ears, forthe more he knows of his parishioners the better he can help them. Ihad some serious talk with Marie, but found her sadly impenetrable. Shecomplained of her hard life. She had to work as hard as the ugliestwoman in Auray. I reminded her that the blessed Virgin, who wasportrayed in all our churches as the highest type of human loveliness,had led a humble and toilsome life on earth, before she ascended tobe the queen of heaven. Was beauty to give exception from toil andhardship? If she had been feeble and deformed, I told her, she mightplead her infirmity as an excuse for idleness; but God had given herhealth and strength, and she ought to be proud to think that her labourcould help to keep a decent home for her husband, whose career was oneof continual peril. I might as well have talked to a stone. Marie toldme she was very sorry she had married a sailor. If she had waited alittle she had no doubt she might have had a rich young farmer for herhusband—a man who could have stayed at home and kept her company, andgiven her fine clothes to wear. When that year was half gone I heardthat there had been a desperate quarrel between Kergariou and his wifethe night before he left home for his Greenland voyage; and before hehad been gone a week Marie disappeared. At first there was an idea thatshe had made away with herself; and some of the good-natured fisherfolk, who had known her from childhood, set to work to drag the river.But when the neighbours came to examine her cottage they found that shehad taken all her clothes, and the few trinkets that Jean had given herin his courting days, and soon after that a waggoner told how he hadmet her on the road to Rennes; and then every one knew that Kergariou’swife had run away because she was tired of her toilsome, honest life atAuray. She had let drop many a hint, it seemed, when she was washinglinen among her companions down by the river; and it was pretty clearto them all that she had gone to Paris to make her fortune, and that ifshe could not make it in a good way she would make it in a bad one. Shewas only nineteen years of age, but as old in perversity as if she hadbeen fifty.’

‘When did her husband come back?’

‘Not till late in the following year. He had been through all kinds ofmisfortune in the North Seas, and came back looking like the ghost ofthe fine, handsome young fellow I had married two years before. When hefound out what had happened he wanted to set out for Paris in search ofhis wife; but he fell ill of fever and ague, and lay for months at afriend’s house, between[Pg 278] life and death. As soon as he was able to moveabout he went to Paris, and spent the remnant of his savings in huntingfor his wife without success. She had not yet made herself notoriousas a dancer, you must understand, and there were no photographs of herto be seen in the shops. She was only one among many foolish creaturespainting their faces, and dancing before the foolish crowd. Kergarioucame back to Auray in despair, and then went off to the North Seasagain, caring very little whether he ever returned to his native placeany more. He did come back, however, after an absence of more thanthree years. By that time Marie Pomellec had become notorious in Paris,under the name of Zaïre Chicot, and a Parisian photographer travellingthrough Brittany had left half-a-dozen of her photographs in Auray.They were to be seen at the bookseller’s shop when Jean Kergariou camehome from his last voyage, and no sooner did he comprehend what hadhappened than he started off again for Paris on foot this time, for thepoor fellow had spent all his money during his former search for hiswife. He left Auray about the middle of June, and in the second weekof July I read of his death in the Moniteur Universel, which afriend sends me every week from Orleans. Whether he had found his wifeor not, I never knew. No one ever heard any more about his fate thanthat he had reached Paris, and met his death there.’

‘A melancholy end,’ said John Treverton.

‘Not more melancholy than that of his wife,’ replied Father le Mescam,‘if there was any truth in a story I read last year, copied from anEnglish newspaper. The poor creature seems to have been murdered by theman with whom she was living—possibly her husband.’

John Treverton’s heart sank. Every one, even this unworldly old priest,looked upon the husband’s guilt as a matter of course. And, if hisinnocence should ever be put to the proof, how was he to prove it?It was much to have made this discovery about his first wife, and toknow that his second marriage had been valid. He stood possessed ofJasper Treverton’s estate without a shadow of fraud. Although guilty inintention, he had been innocent in fact. But beyond this there remainedthat still darker peril, the possibility that he might have to stand inthe dock, charged with La Chicot’s murder.

The two priests helped to discuss a second bottle of Pomard, and thentook their departure, after Father le Mescam had promised to introduceMr. Treverton to a respectable notary, who would procure for him thelegal evidence of Marie Pomellec’s marriage. While this was being doneat Auray, John Treverton and his companion would travel without lossof time to Paris, and there search out the details of Jean Kergariou’sdeath and burial.

[Pg 279]

The appointment with the notary was made for nine o’clock next morning,so eager was John Treverton to push on the business.

‘Well,’ gasped Sampson, when the two priests had gone, ‘if ever a manplayed patience on a monument for a long winter evening, I think I amthat individual. Now they’ve gone, perhaps you’ll tell me what thatridiculous old Jack-in-the-box, Father le Whatshisname, has been sayingto you. I never saw an old fellow gesticulate in such a frantic way. IfI hadn’t been bursting with curiosity, I should have rather enjoyed theperformance, as a piece of dumb show.’

John Treverton told his legal adviser the gist of all he had heard fromthe priest.

‘Didn’t I say so?’ exclaimed Sampson. ‘Didn’t I say that it wasmore than likely there was a former husband in the background? Itwas a desperate guess, of course, and I don’t know that I quitethought it when I made the suggestion. But anything was better thanrelinquishing the estate, as you would have been fool enough to do, ifyou hadn’t had a shrewdish young man for your legal adviser. One ofthose tip-top firms in the City would have gone straight off to takecounsel’s opinion; and, before you knew where you were, you’d have beencounselled and opinioned out of your property.’

Sampson was in a state of intense exultation at a result which heconsidered entirely due to his own acumen. He walked up and down theroom, chuckling inwardly, in a burst of self-approval. His overstrungfeelings at last sought relief in some kind of refreshment. He askedJohn Treverton to order him a glass of hot gin and water, and he wasquite indignant when he was informed that the Pavillon d’en haut couldnot furnish that truly British luxury.

‘I dare say if I order you “a grog” you will get something in the shapeof hot brandy and water,’ said Treverton.

‘Oh, pray don’t do anything of the kind. Ask that black-eyed girl tobring a jug—oh! here she is.’

And thereupon Mr. Sampson turned himself to the pretty waiting maid,gave a loud preliminary ‘hem,’ and thus addressed her:—

‘Mada-moyselle, voulez vous avez le bonty de—bringez—ong joug—ongtoo petty joug—O boyllong, prenez vous garde que c’est too boyllong,avec une demi pint de O di vi, et ong bassing de sooker, et, pardonnez,aussi ong quiller, n’oubliez pas le quiller.’ Here the girl’svacant stare arrested him, and he saw that no ray of British lightcould pierce an intellect of such Gallic density. ‘Here Treverton,’ hecried, impatiently. ‘You tell her. The girl’s a fool.’

John Treverton gave the order, and Mr. Sampson had the[Pg 280] pleasure ofmixing for himself a strong jorum of thoroughly English brandy andwater, and went to bed happy after drinking it.

As soon as the office was open next morning, John Treverton despatchedthe following telegram to his wife:—

‘Good news for you. All particulars to follow in to-day’s letter.’

At eleven, railroad time, Mr. Treverton and his lawyer were on theirway to Rennes, en route for Paris.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE TENANT FROM BEECHAMPTON.

While John Treverton was in Paris, waiting to obtain proof of JeanKergariou’s identity with the sailor whose corpse he had seen carriedto the Morgue, Laura was sitting alone in her husband’s study, full ofanxious thoughts. The telegram from Auray had been delivered at theManor House early in the afternoon, and had given comfort to the wearyheart of John Treverton’s wife; but even this assurance of good newscould not silence her fears. One horrible idea pursued her wherever sheturned her thoughts, an ever-present source of terror. Her husband, theman for whom she would have given her life, had been suspected—evenbroadly accused—of murder. Let him go where he would, change his nameand surroundings as often as he would, that hideous suspicion wouldfollow him like his shadow. She recalled much that she had read aboutLa Chicot’s murder in the daily papers. She remembered how even sheherself had been impressed with an idea of the husband’s guilt. Everycirc*mstance had seemed to point at him. And who else was there to besuspected?

Strong in her faith in the man she loved, Laura Treverton was as fullyconvinced of her husband’s innocence as if she had been by his sidewhen he came home on the night of the murder, and stood aghast on thethreshold of his wife’s chamber, gazing at the horrid crimson streamthat had slowly oozed from under the door, dreadful evidence of thedeed that had been done. There was no doubt in her mind, no uncertaintyin her thoughts: but she knew that as she had thought in the past, whenshe had read of the man called Chicot, so others would think in thefuture, if John Treverton, alias Chicot, were to stand at thebar accused of his wife’s murder.

An awful possibility to face, alone, with the husband she loved faraway, perhaps secretly watched and followed by the police, who mightdistort his most innocent acts into new evidence of guilt.

[Pg 281]

‘If he were at home, here at my side, I should not suffer this agony,’she thought. ‘It is here that he ought to be.’

Celia had been at the Manor House twice since Mr. Treverton’sdeparture, but on both occasions Laura had refused to see her, excusingherself on the ground that she was too ill to see any one. EdwardClare’s conduct had filled her mind with loathing, and with fear. Shehad felt the hidden tooth of the cobra, and she knew that here was afoe whose hatred was fierce enough to mean death. She could not clasphands with this man’s sister, kiss as they two had been wont to kiss.She could not confide in Celia’s sisterly love. Brother and sister wereof the same blood. Could she be true when he was so profoundly false?

‘From this day forth I shall feel afraid of Celia,’ she told herself.

When the good-natured Vicar himself came on the day after the arrivalof the telegram, anxious to comfort and cheer her in this period ofdistress, Laura was not able to harden her heart against him, eventhough he was of the traitor’s blood. She could not think evil of him,upon whose knees she had often sat in the early years of her happy lifeat Hazlehurst Manor; she could not believe that he was her husband’senemy. He had behaved with exemplary gentleness when John Trevertonstood before him accused of falsehood and fraud. Even his rebuke hadbeen full of mercy. He was not perhaps a high-minded man, nor evena large-minded man. There was very little of the Apostle about him,though he honestly tried to do his duty according to his lights. But hewas a thoroughly good-hearted man, who would have gone a long way outof his straight path to avoid treading on those human worms over whosevile bodies a loftier type of Christian will sometimes tramp ratherruthlessly.

Laura feared no reproaches from this old friend in her hour of misery.He might be prosy, perhaps, and show himself incapable of grappling adifficulty; but he would shoot no barbed arrow of scorn or contumelyagainst that wounded heart. She felt secure in the assurance of hiscompassion.

‘My dear, this is a very sad case,’ he said, after he had seatedhimself by her side, and patted her hand, and hummed and hawedgently for a minute or so. ‘You mustn’t be down-hearted, mydear Laura; you mustn’t give way; but it really is a very sadaffair; such complications—such difficulties on every side—onescarcely knows how to contemplate such a position. Imagine sucha gentlemanly young fellow as John Treverton married to a Frenchballet-dancer—a—French—dancer!’ repeated the Vicar, dwelling onthe lady’s nationality, as if that deepened the degradation. ‘If mypoor old friend could have known I am sure he would have made a verydifferent will. He would have left everything to you, no doubt.’

[Pg 282]

‘Indeed, he would not!’ cried Laura, almost indignantly. ‘You forgetthat he had made a vow against that.’

‘My dear, a vow of that kind could have been evaded without beingbroken. My dear old friend would never have bequeathed his fortune to ayoung man capable of marrying a French opera dancer.’

‘Why should we dwell upon that hateful marriage?’ said Laura.‘If—if—my husband was not free to marry me at the time of our firstmarriage—in Hazlehurst Church—we must surrender the estate. That isonly common honesty. We are both quite willing to do it. You and Mr.Sampson have only to take up your trusts for the hospital.’

‘My dear, you talk as lightly of surrendering fourteen thousand a yearas if it were nothing. You have no power to realize your loss. Youhave lived in this house ever since you can remember—mistress of allits comforts and luxuries. You have no idea what life is like on theoutside of it.’

‘I know that I could live with my husband happily in any house, so longas we had clear consciences.’

‘My love, have you considered what a pittance your poor little incomewould be? Two hundred and sixty pounds a year for two people, at thepresent price of provisions; and one of the two an extravagant youngman.’

‘My husband is not extravagant. He has known poverty, and can live onvery little. Besides, he has talents, and will earn money. He is notgoing to fold his hands, and bewail his loss of fortune.’

‘My dearest Laura, I shudder at the thought of your facing life upon apittance, you who have never known the want of money.’

‘Dear Mr. Clare, you must think me very weak—cowardly, even—if yousuppose that I can fear to face a little poverty with the husband Ilove. I can bear anything except his disgrace.’

‘My poor child, God grant you may be spared that bitter trial. If yourhusband is innocent of all part in his first wife’s death, as you and Ibelieve, let us hope that the world will never know him as the man whohas been suspected of such an awful crime.’

‘Your son knows,’ said Laura.

‘My son knows. Yes, Laura, but you cannot for a moment suppose thatEdward would make any use of his knowledge against your interest. Itwas his regard for you that prompted him to the course he took lastSunday night.’

‘Is it regard for me that makes him hate my husband? Forgive me forspeaking plainly, dear Mr. Clare. You have been all goodness tome—always—ever since I can remember. My heart is full of affectionfor you and your kind wife; but I know that your son is my husband’senemy, and I tremble at the thought of his power to do us harm.’

[Pg 283]

The Vicar heard her with some apprehension. He, too, had perceived themalignity of Edward’s feelings towards John Treverton. He ascribed theyoung man’s malice to the jealousy of a rejected suitor; and he knewthat from jealousy to hatred was but a step. But he could not believethat his son—his own flesh and blood—could be capable of doing agreat wrong to a man who had never consciously injured him. That Edwardshould make any evil use of his knowledge of John Treverton’s identitywith the suspected Chicot was to the Vicar’s mind incredible—nay,impossible.

‘You have nothing to fear from Edward, my dear,’ he said, gentlypatting the young wife’s hand as it lay despondingly in his; ‘make yourmind easy on that score.’

‘There is Mr. Gerard. He, too, knows my husband’s secret.’

‘He, too, will respect it. No one can look in John Treverton’s face andbelieve him a murderer.’

‘No,’ cried Laura, naïvely; ‘those cruel people who wrote in thenewspapers had never seen him.’

‘My dear Laura, you must not distress yourself about newspaper people.They are obliged to write about something. They could put themselves ina passion about the man in the moon if there were nobody else for themto abuse.’

Laura told the Vicar about the telegram received from Auray, with itspromise of good news.

‘What can be better than that? my dear,’ he cried, delightedly. ‘Andnow I want you to come to the Vicarage with me. Celia is most anxiousto have you there, as she says you won’t have her here.’

‘Does Celia know!’ Laura began to ask faltering.

‘Not a syllable. Neither Celia nor her mother has any idea of what hashappened. They know that Treverton is away on business. That is all.’

‘Do you think Edward has said nothing?’

‘I am perfectly sure that Edward has been as silent as the Sphinx. Mywife would not have held her tongue about this sad business for fiveminutes, if she had had an inkling of it, or Celia either. They wouldhave been exploding in notes of admiration, and would have pesteredme to death with questions. No, my dear Laura, you may feel quitecomfortable in coming to the Vicarage. Your husband’s secret is onlyknown to Edward and me.’

‘You are very good,’ said Laura gently, ‘I know how kindly yourinvitation is meant. But I cannot leave home. John may come back at anyhour. I am continually expecting him.’

‘My poor child, is that reasonable? Think how far it is from here toAuray.’

‘Think how fast he will travel, when once he is free to return.’

[Pg 284]

‘Very well, Laura, you must have your own way. I’ll send Celia to keepyou company.’

‘Please don’t,’ said Laura, quickly. ‘You know how fond I have alwaysbeen of Celia—but just now I had rather be quite alone. She is so gayand light-hearted. I could hardly bear it. Don’t think me ungrateful,dear Mr. Clare; but I would rather face my trouble alone.’

‘I shall never think you anything but the most admirable of women,’answered the Vicar; ‘and now put on your hat and walk as far as thegate with me. You are looking wretchedly pale.’

Laura obeyed, and walked through the grounds with her old friend. Shehad not been outside the house since her husband’s departure, and thekeen wintry air revived her jaded spirits. It was along this chestnutavenue that she and John Treverton had walked on that summer eveningwhen he for the first time avowed his love. There was the good oldtree beneath whose shaded branches they had sealed the bond of anundying affection. How much of uncertainty, how much of sorrow, she hadsuffered since that thrilling moment, which had seemed the assurance ofenduring happiness! She walked by the Vicar’s side in silence, thinkingof that curious leave-taking with her lover a year and a half ago.

‘If he had only trusted me,’ she thought, with the deepest regret. ‘Ifhe had only been frank and straightforward, how much misery might havebeen saved to both of us! But he was sorely tempted. Can I blame him ifhe yielded too weakly to the temptation?’

She could not find it in her heart to blame him—though her noblernature was full of scorn for falsehood—for it had been his love forher that made him weak, his desire to secure to her the possession ofthe house she loved that had made him false.

Half-way between the house and the road they met a stranger—amiddle-aged man, of respectable appearance—a man who might be a clerk,or a builder’s foreman, a railway official in plain clothes, anythingpractical and business-like. He looked scrutinisingly at Laura as heapproached, and then stopped short and addressed her, touching hishat:—

‘I beg your pardon, madam, but may I ask if Mr. Treverton is at home?’

‘No; he is away from home.’

‘I’m sorry for that, as I’ve particular business with him. Will he belong away, do you think, madam?’

‘I expect him home daily,’ answered Laura. ‘Are you one of his tenants?I don’t remember to have seen you before.’

‘No, madam. But I am a tenant for all that. Mr. Treverton is groundlandlord of a block of houses I own in Beechampton,[Pg 285] and there is aquestion about drainage, and I can’t move a step without referenceto him. I shall be very glad to have a few words with him as soon aspossible. Drainage is a business that won’t wait, you see, sir,’ theman added, turning to the Vicar.

He was a man of peculiarly polite address, with something ofold-fashioned ceremoniousness which rather pleased Mr. Clare.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till the end of the week,’ said theVicar. ‘Mr. Treverton has left home upon important business, and Idon’t think he can be back sooner than that.’

The stranger was too polite to press the matter further.

‘I thank you very much, sir,’ he said; ‘I must make it convenient tocall again.’

‘You had better leave your name,’ said Laura, ‘and I will tell myhusband of your visit directly he comes home.’

‘I thank you, madam, there is no occasion to trouble you with anymessage. I am staying with a friend in the village, and shall calldirectly I hear Mr. Treverton has returned.’

‘A very superior man,’ remarked the Vicar, when the stranger had raisedhis hat and walked on briskly enough to be speedily out of earshot.‘The owner of some of those smart new shops in Beechampton High Street,no doubt. Odd that I should never have seen him before. I thought Iknew every one in the town.’

It was a small thing, proving the nervous state into which Laura hadbeen thrown by the troubles of the last few days—even the appearanceof this courteous stranger discomposed her, and seemed a presage ofevil.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

CELIA’S LOVERS.

The day after Mr. Clare’s visit brought Laura the expected letter fromher husband, a long letter telling her his adventures at Auray.

‘So you see, dearest,’ he wrote, after he had related all that Fatherle Mescam had told him, ‘come what may, our position as regards mycousin Jasper’s estate is secure. Malice cannot touch us there. Fromthe hour I knelt beside you before the altar in Hazlehurst Church, Ihave been your husband. That unhappy Frenchwoman was never legally mywife. Whether she wilfully deceived me, or whether she had reasons ofher own for supposing Jean Kergariou to be dead, I know not. It isquite possible that she honestly believed herself to be a widow. Shemight have heard that Kergariou had been lost at sea. Shipwreck anddeath are too common among those Breton sailors[Pg 286] who go to the NorthSeas. The little seaports in Brittany are populated with widows andorphans. I am quite willing to believe that poor Zaïre thought herselffree to marry. This would account for her terrible agitation when sherecognised her husband’s body in the Morgue. And now, dear love, Ishall but stay in Paris long enough to procure all documents necessaryto prove Jean Kergariou’s death; and then I shall hasten home tocomfort my sweet wife, and to face any new trouble that may arise fromEdward Clare’s enmity. I feel that it is he only whom we have to fearin the future; and it will go hard if I am not equal to the strugglewith so despicable a foe. The omnibus is waiting to take us to thestation. God bless you, love, and reward you for your generous devotionto your unworthy husband,—John Treverton.’

This letter brought unspeakable comfort to Laura’s mind. The knowledgethat her first marriage was valid was much. It was still more to knowthat her husband was exempted from the charge of having possessedhimself of his cousin’s estate by treachery and fraud. The moral wrongin his conduct was not lessened; but he had no longer to fear thedisgrace which must have attached to his resignation of the estate.

‘Dear old house, dear old home, thank God we shall never be driven fromyou!’ said Laura, looking round the study in which so many eventfulscenes of her life had been passed, the room where she and JohnTreverton had first met.

While Laura was sitting by the fire with her husband’s letter in herhand, musing upon its contents, the door was suddenly flung open, andCelia rushed into the room and dropped on her knees by her friend’schair.

‘Laura, what has come between us?’ she exclaimed. ‘Why do you shut meout of your heart? I know there is something wrong. I can see it inpapa’s manner. Have I been so false a friend that you are afraid totrust me?’

The brightly earnest face was so full of warm and truthful feeling thatLaura had not the heart to resent this impetuous intrusion. She hadtold Trimmer that she would see no one, but Celia had set Trimmer atdefiance, and had insisted on coming unannounced to the study.

‘You are not false, Celia,’ Laura answered gravely, ‘but I have goodreason to know that your brother is my husband’s enemy.’

‘Poor Edward,’ sighed Celia. ‘It’s very cruel of you to say such athing, Laura. You know how devotedly he loved you, and what a blow yourmarriage was to him.’

‘Was it really, Celia? He did not take much trouble to avert the blow.’

‘You mean that he never proposed,’ said Celia. ‘My dear Laura, whatwould have been the use of his asking you to marry[Pg 287] him when he waswithout the means of keeping a wife? It is quite as much as he can doto clothe himself decently by the uttermost exertion of his genius,though he is really second only to Swinburne, as you know. He hastoo much of the poetic temperament to face the horrors of poverty,’concluded Celia, quoting her brother’s own account of himself.

‘I think a few poets—and some of the first quality—have faced thosehorrors, Celia.’

‘Because they were obliged, dear. They were in the quagmire, andcouldn’t get out; like Chatterton and Burns, and ever so many poordears. But surely those were not of the highest order. Great poets arelike Byron and Shelley. They require yachts and Italian villas, andthoroughbred horses, and Newfoundland dogs, and things,’ said Celiawith conviction.

‘Well, dearest, I bear Edward no ill-will for not having proposed tome, because if he had I could have only refused him; but don’t youthink there is an extremity of folly and weakness in his affecting tofeel injured by my marrying some one else?’

‘It isn’t affectation,’ protested Celia. ‘It’s reality. He does feeldeeply, cruelly injured by your marriage with Mr. Treverton. Youcan’t be angry with him, Laura, for a prejudice that results from hisaffection for you.’

‘I am very angry with him for his unjust and unreasonable hatred of myhusband. I believe, Celia, if you knew the extent of his enmity, youtoo would feel indignant at such injustice.’

‘I don’t know anything, Laura, except that poor Edward is very unhappy.He mopes in his den all day, pretending to be hard at work; but Ibelieve he sits brooding over the fire half the time—and he smokeslike——I really can’t find a comparison. Locomotives are nothing tohim.’

‘I am glad he is not without a conscience,’ said Laura, gloomily.

‘That means you are glad he is unhappy,’ retorted Celia, ‘for itseems to me that the chief function of conscience is to make peoplemiserable. Conscience never stops us when we are going to do anythingwrong. It only torments us afterwards. But now don’t let’s talk anymore about disagreeable things. Mother told me I was to do all I couldto cheer and enliven you. She is quite anxious about you, thinking youwill get low-spirited while your husband is away.’

‘Life is not very bright for me without him, Celia; but I have had acheering letter this morning, and I expect him home very soon, so Iwill be as hopeful as you like. Take off your hat and jacket, dear,and make up your mind to stay with me. I have been very bearish andungrateful in shutting the door against my faithful little friend. Ishall write your mother a few lines to say I am going to keep you tillSaturday.’

[Pg 288]

‘You may, if you like,’ said Celia. ‘It won’t break my heart to be awayfrom home for a day or two; though of course I fully concur with thatdrowsy old song about pleasures and palaces, and little dicky-birds,and all that kind of thing.’

Celia threw off her hat, and slipped herself out of her sealskin jacketas gracefully as Lamia, the serpent woman, escaped from her scalycovering. Laura rang the bell for afternoon tea. The sky was darkeningoutside the window, the rooks were sailing westwards with a mightyclamour, and the shadows were gathering in the corners of the room. Itwas that hour in a winter afternoon when the firelight is pleasantest,the hearth cosiest, and when one thinks half regretfully that the daysare lengthening, and that this friendly fireside season is passing away.

The tea-table was drawn up to the hearth, and Celia poured out the tea.Laura had eaten nothing with any appetite since that fatal Sunday,but her heart was lighter this evening, and she sat back in herchair, restful and placid, sipping her tea, and enjoying the delicatehome-made bread and butter. Celia was unusually quiet during the nextten minutes.

‘You say your mother gave you particular instructions about beingcheerful, Celia,’ said Laura presently; ‘you are certainly not obeyingher. I don’t think I ever knew you hold your tongue for ten consecutiveminutes before this evening.’

‘Let’s talk,’ exclaimed Celia, jerking herself out of a reverie. ‘I’mready.’

‘What shall we talk about?’

‘Well, if you wouldn’t object, I think I should like to talk about ayoung man.’

‘Celia!’

‘It sounds rather dreadful, doesn’t it?’ asked Celia naïvely; ‘but, totell you the truth, there’s nothing else that particularly interests mejust now. I’ve had a young man on my mind for the last three days.’

Laura’s face grew graver. She sat looking at the fire for a minute orso in gloomy silence.

‘Mr. Gerard, I suppose?’ she said at last.

‘How did you guess?’

‘Very easily. There are only two eligible young men in Hazlehurst, andyou have told me a hundred times that you don’t care about either ofthem. Mr. Gerard is the only stranger who has appeared at the Vicarage.You might easily arrange that as a syllogism.’

‘Laura, do you think I am the kind of girl to marry a poor man?’ askedCelia, with sudden intensity.

‘I think it is a thing you are very likely to do; because you havealways protested most vehemently that nothing could induce you to doit,’ answered Laura, smiling at her friend’s earnestness.

[Pg 289]

‘Nothing could induce me,’ said Celia.

‘Really.’

‘Except being desperately in love with a pauper.’

‘What, Celia, has it gone so far already?’

‘It has gone very far, as far as my heart. Oh, Laura, if you onlyknew how good he is, how bravely he has struggled, his cleverness andenthusiasm, his ardent love of his profession, you could not helpadmiring him. Upon my word, I think there is more genius in such acareer as his than in all Edward’s poetic efforts. I feel quite surethat he will be a great man by-and-by, and that he will live in abeautiful house at the West-end, and keep a carriage and pair.’

‘Are you going to marry him on the strength of that conviction?’

‘He has not even asked me yet; though I must say he was on the brinkof a declaration ever so many times when we were on the moor. We hada long walk on the moor, you know, on Monday afternoon. Edward wassupposed to be with us, but somehow we were alone most of the time. Heis so modest, poor fellow, and he feels his poverty so keenly. He livesin a dingy street, in a dingy part of London. He is earning about ahundred and fifty pounds a year. His lodgings cost him thirty. Quitetoo dreadful to contemplate, isn’t it, Laura, for a girl who is asparticular as I am about collars and cuffs?’

‘Very dreadful, my pet, if one considers elegance in dress andluxurious living as the chief good in life,’ answered Laura.

‘I don’t consider them the chief good, dear, but I think the want ofthem must be a great evil. And yet, I assure you, when that poor youngfellow and I were rambling on the moor, I felt as if money were hardlyworth consideration, and that I could endure the sharpest poverty withhim. I felt lifted above the pettiness of life. I suppose it was thealtitude we were at, and the purity of the air. But of course that wasonly a moment of enthusiasm.’

‘I would not marry upon the strength of an enthusiastic moment, Celia,lest a lifelong repentance should follow. You can know so little ofthis Mr. Gerard. It is hardly possible you can care for him.’

‘“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”’ quoted Celia,laughing. ‘I am not quite so foolish as to love at first sight; butin three days I seemed to know Mr. Gerard as well as if we had beenfriends as many years.’

‘Your brother and he are intimate friends, are they not?’

‘I cannot make out the history of their friendship. Edward isdisgustingly reserved about Mr. Gerard, and I don’t like to seemcurious, for fear he should suppose I take too much interest in theyoung man.’

[Pg 290]

‘Mr. Gerard has gone back to London, has he not?’

‘Yes,’ sighed Celia. ‘He went early on Tuesday morning, by theparliamentary train. Fancy the Sir William Jenner of the futuretravelling by a horrid slow train, in a carriage like a cattle truck.’

‘He will be amply rewarded by-and-by, if he is really the Jenner of thefuture.’

‘Yes, but it’s a long time to wait,’ said Celia dolefully.

‘No doubt,’ assented Laura, ‘and the time would seem longer to the wifesitting at home by a shabby fireside.’

‘Sitting,’ echoed Celia; ‘she would never be able to sit. She wouldhave no time for moping over the fire. She would always be dusting orsweeping, or making a pudding, or sewing on buttons.’

‘I think you had better abandon the idea,’ said Laura. ‘You couldnever bear a life of deprivation. Your home-nest has been too soft andcomfortable. You had much better think of Mr. Sampson, who admires youvery sincerely, and who has a nice house, and a good income.’

‘A nice house!’ exclaimed Celia, with unqualified contempt. ‘Thequintessence of middle-class commonness. I would rather endure GeorgeGerard’s shabby lodgings. A nice house! Oh, Laura, how can you, livingin these fine old rooms, call that stucco abomination of a modernvilla, those dreadful walnut-wood chairs and sofas and chiffonnier,all decorated with horrid wriggling scroll-work, badly glued on;that sticky-looking mahogany sideboard, those all-pervading crochetantimacassars——’

‘My dearest, the antimacassars are not fixtures. You could do awaywith them. Indeed, I dare say if Mr. Sampson thought his furniture wasthe only obstacle to his happiness, he would not mind refurnishing hishouse altogether.’

‘His furniture the only obstacle!’ echoed Celia indignantly. ‘What haveyou ever seen in my conduct or character, Laura, that can justify youin supposing I could marry a stumpy little man with sandy hair?’

‘In that case we will waive the marriage question altogether. You sayyou won’t marry Mr. Sampson, and I am sure you ought not to marry Mr.Gerard.’

‘There is no fear of my doing anything so foolish,’ Celia replied, witha resigned air. ‘He has gone back to London, and heaven knows if Ishall ever see him again. But I am certain if you saw more of him, youwould like him very much.’

Laura shuddered, remembering that it was by means of George Gerard thather husband had been identified with the missing Chicot. She could nothave a very friendly feeling towards Mr. Gerard, knowing this, but shelistened with admirable patience while Celia descanted upon the youngman’s noble qualities, and repeated all he had said upon the moor,where he really seemed to have recited his entire biography for Celia’sedification.

[Pg 291]

Comforted by her husband’s letter, Laura was able to support Celia’sliveliness, and so the long winter evening wore itself away pleasantlyenough. The next day was Saturday. Laura had calculated that, ifthings went easily with him in Paris, it would be just possible forJohn Treverton to be home on Saturday night. This possibility kept herin a flutter all day. It was in vain that Celia proposed a drive toBeechampton, or a walk on the moor. Laura would not go a step beyondthe gardens of the Manor House. She could not be persuaded even togo as far as the orchard, for there she could not have seen the flythat brought her husband to the door, and she had an ever-presentexpectation of his return.

‘Don’t you know that vulgar old proverb which says that “a watched potnever boils,” Laura?’ remonstrated Miss Clare. ‘Depend upon it, yourhusband will never come while you are worrying yourself about him. Youshould try to get him out of your thoughts.’

‘I can’t,’ answered Laura. ‘All my thoughts are of him. He is a part ofmy mind.’

Celia sighed, and felt more sympathetic than usual. She had beenthinking about George Gerard for the last four days more than seemedat all reasonable; and it occurred to her that if she were ever to beseriously in love, she might be quite as foolish as her friend.

The day wore on very slowly for both women. Laura watched the clock,and gave herself up to the study of railway time-tables, in order tocalculate the probabilities as to John Treverton’s return. She sent thecarriage to meet an afternoon train, and the carriage came back empty.This was a disappointment, though she argued with herself afterwardsthat she had not been justified in expecting her husband by that train.

An especially excellent dinner had been ordered, in the hope that themaster of the house would be at home to eat it. Seven o’clock came,but no John Treverton, and so the dinner was deferred till eight; andat eight Laura would have had it kept back till nine if Celia had notprotested against such cruelty.

‘I don’t suppose you asked me to stay here with the deliberateintention of starving me,’ she said, ‘but that is exactly what you aredoing. I feel as if it were weeks since I had eaten anything. There isno possibility—at least so far as the railway goes—of Mr. Treverton’sbeing here before half-past ten; so you really may as well let me havea little food, even if you are too much in the clouds to eat yourdinner.’

‘I am not in the clouds, dear, I am only anxious.’

They went into the dining-room and sat down to the table, which seemedso empty and dismal without the master of the house. The carriage wasordered to meet the last train. Celia[Pg 292] ate an excellent dinner, talkingmore or less all the time. Laura was too agitated to eat anything. Shewas glad to get back to the drawing-room, where she could walk up anddown, and lift the curtain from one of the windows every now and thento look out and listen for wheels that were not likely to be heardwithin an hour.

‘Laura, you are making me positively miserable,’ Celia cried at last.‘You are as monotonous in your movements as a squirrel in his cage, anddon’t seem half so happy as a squirrel. It’s a fine, dry night. We hadbetter wrap ourselves up and walk to the gate to meet the carriage.Anything will be better than this.’

‘I should enjoy it above all things,’ said Laura.

Five minutes later they were both clad in fur jackets and hats, andwere walking briskly towards the avenue.

The night was fine, and lit with wintry stars. There was no moon, butthat clear sky, with its pale radiance of stars, gave quite enoughlight to direct the footsteps of the two girls, who knew every inch ofthe way.

They had not gone far before Celia, whose tongue ran on gaily, andwhose eyes roamed in every direction, espied a man walking a little wayin front of them.

‘A strange man,’ she cried. ‘Look, Laura! I hope he’s not a burglar!’

‘Why should he be a burglar? No doubt he is some tradesman who has beendelivering goods at the kitchen door.’

‘At ten o’clock?’ cried Celia. ‘Most irregular. Why, every respectabletradesman in the village is in bed and asleep by this time.’

Laura made no further suggestion. The subject had no interest for her.She was straining her ears to catch the first sound of wheels on thefrost-bound high-road. Celia quickened her pace.

‘Let’s try and overtake him,’ she said; ‘I think it’s our duty. Youought not to allow suspicious-looking strangers to hang about yourgrounds without at least trying to find out who they are. He may have arevolver, but I’ll risk it.’

With this heroic determination Celia went off at a run, and presentlycame up with the man, who was walking steadily on in front of her. Atthe sound of her footsteps he stopped and looked round.

‘I beg your pardon,’ gasped Celia, in a breathless condition, andlooking anxiously for the expected revolver. ‘Have you been leavinganything at the Manor House?’

‘No, madam. I’ve only been making an inquiry,’ the man replied quietly.

‘It is one of John’s tenants, Celia,’ said Laura overtaking[Pg 293] them. ‘Youhave been to inquire about Mr. Treverton’s return, I suppose,’ sheadded, to the stranger.

‘Yes, madam. My visit is to come to an end on Monday morning, and I amgetting anxious. I want to see Mr. Treverton before I go back. It willsave me a journey to and fro, you see, madam, and time is money to aman in my position.’

‘I expect him home this evening,’ Laura answered kindly; ‘and if hedoes come to-night, as I hope he will, I have no doubt he will see youas early as you like on Monday morning. At nine, if that will not betoo early for you.’

‘I thank you, madam. That will suit me admirably.’

‘Good evening,’ said Laura.

The man lifted his hat and walked away.

‘A very decent person,’ remarked Celia; ‘not a bit like the popularnotion of a burglar, but perhaps not altogether unlike the real thing.A respectable appearance must be a great advantage to a criminal.’

‘There it is,’ cried Laura joyfully.

‘What?’

‘The carriage. Yes, I am sure. Yes—he is coming. Let’s run on to thegate, Celia.’

They ran as fast as a brace of school-girls, and arrived at the gate ina flutter of excitement, just in time to see the neat little broughamturn into the avenue.

‘Jack,’ cried Laura.

‘Stop,’ cried Jack, with his head out of the window, and the coachmanpulled up his horses, as his master jumped out of the carriage.

‘Come out, Sampson,’ said Mr. Treverton. ‘We’ll walk to the house withthe ladies.’

He put his wife’s hand through his arm and walked on, leaving Celia toMr. Sampson’s escort.

They had much to say to each other, husband and wife, in this happymeeting. John Treverton was in high spirits, full of delight atreturning to his wife, full of triumph in the thought that no one couldoust him from the home they both loved.

Tom Sampson walked in the rear with Miss Clare. She was dying toquestion him as to where he and his client had been, and what they hadbeen doing, but felt that to do so would be bad manners, and knew thatit would be useless. So she confined herself to general remarks of apolite nature.

‘I hope you have had what the Yankees call a good time, Mr. Sampson,’she said.

‘Very much so, thanks, Miss Clare,’ answered Sampson, recalling adinner eaten at Véfour’s just before leaving Paris on the previousevening. ‘The kewsine is really first-class.’

[Pg 294]

If there was one word Celia hated more than another it was this lastodious adjective.

‘You came by the four o’clock express from Waterloo, I suppose,’hazarded Celia.

‘Yes, and a capital train it is!’

‘Ah!’ sighed Celia, ‘I wish I had a little more experience of trains. Istick in my native soil till I feel myself fast becoming a vegetable.’

‘No fear of that,’ exclaimed Mr. Sampson. ‘Such a girl as you—all lifeand spirit and cleverness—no fear of your ever assimilating to thevegetable tribe. There’s my poor sister Eliza, now, there’s a good dealof the vegetable about her. Her ideas run in such a narrow groove. Iknow before I go down to breakfast of a morning exactly what she’ll sayto me, and I get to answer her mechanically. And at dinner again we sitopposite each other like a couple of talking automatons. It’s a dismallife, Miss Clare, for a man with any pretence to mind. If you only knewhow I sometimes sigh for a more congenial companion!’

‘But I don’t know anything about it, Mr. Sampson,’ answered Celiatartly. ‘How should I?’

‘You might,’ murmured Sampson tenderly, ‘if you had as much sympathywith my ideas as I have with yours.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Celia. ‘What sympathy can there be between you andme? We haven’t an idea in common. A business man like you, with hismind wholly occupied by leases and draft agreements and wills and writsand things, and a girl who doesn’t know an iota of law.’

‘That’s just it!’ exclaimed Sampson. ‘A man in my position wantsa green spot in his life—a haven from the ocean of business—ano—what’s its name—in the barren desert of legal transactions. I wanta home, Miss Clare—a home!’

‘How can you say so, Mr. Sampson? I am sure you have a very comfortablehouse, and a model housekeeper in your sister.’

‘A young woman may be too good a housekeeper, Miss Clare,’ answeredSampson seriously. ‘My sister is a little over-conscientious in herhousekeeping. In her desire to keep down expenses she sometimes cutsthings a little too fine. I don’t hold with waste or extravagance—Ishudder at the thought of it—but I don’t like to be asked to eat ranksalt butter on a Saturday morning because the regulation amount offresh has run out, and Eliza won’t allow another half-pound to be hadin till Saturday afternoon. That’s letting a virtue merge into a vice,Miss Clare.’

‘Poor Miss Sampson. It is quite too good of her to study your purse socarefully.’

[Pg 295]

‘So it is, Miss Clare,’ answered the solicitor doubtfully, ‘but I seeribbons round Eliza’s neck, and bonnets upon Eliza’s head, that I can’talways account for satisfactorily to myself. She has a little incomeof her own, as you no doubt know, since everybody knows everything atHazlehurst, and she has made her little investments in cottage propertyout of her little income, which, as you may also know, is derived fromcottage property, and she has added a cottage here and a cottage there,till she is swelling out into a little town, as you may say—well, Ishould think she must have five-and-twenty tenements in all—and Isometimes ask myself how she manages to invest so much of her littleincome, and yet to dress so smart. There isn’t a better-dressed younglady in Hazlehurst—present company, of course, excepted—than mysister. You may have noticed the fact.’

‘I have,’ replied Celia, convulsed with inward laughter. ‘Her bonnetshave been my admiration and my envy.’

‘No, Miss Clare, not your envy,’ protested Sampson, with exceedingtenderness. ‘You can envy no one. Perfection has no need to envy.It must feel its own superiority. But I was about to observe, inconfidence, that I would rather the housekeeping money was spent onbutter than on bonnets; and that when I feel myself deprived of anylittle luxury, it is a poor consolation to know that my self-denialwill provide Eliza with a neck ribbon. No, my dear Miss Clare, the hourmust come when my sister will have to give up the keys of her cupboardsat The Laurels, and retire to a home of her own. She is amply providedfor. There will be no unkindness in such a severance. You know the oldproverb, “Two is company, three is none.” It doesn’t sound grammatical,but it’s very true. When I marry, Eliza will have to go.’

‘But you are not thinking of matrimony yet awhile, I hope, Mr. Sampson?’

‘Yet awhile,’ echoed Sampson; ‘I’m three-and-thirty. If I don’t takethe business in hand now, Miss Clare, it will be too late. I amthinking of matrimony, and have been thinking of it very constantlyfor the last six months. But there is only one girl in the world thatI would care to marry, and if she won’t have me I shall go down to mygrave a bachelor.’

‘Don’t say that,’ cried Celia. ‘That is deciding things much toohastily. You haven’t seen all the girls in the world. How can you knowanything about it? Hazlehurst is such a narrow sphere. A man might aswell live in a nutshell, and call that life. You ought to travel. Youought to see the world of fashion. There are charming boarding-housesat Brighton, now, where you would meet very stylish girls. Why don’tyou try Brighton?’

‘I don’t want to try Brighton, or anywhere else,’ exclaimed[Pg 296] Mr.Sampson, with a wounded air. ‘I tell you I am fixed, fixed as fate.There is only one girl in this magnificent universe I want for my wife.Celia, you must feel it, you must know it—you are that girl.’

‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ cried Celia. ‘This is quite too dreadful.’

‘It is not dreadful at all. Don’t be carried away by the first shockof the thing. I may have been too sudden, perhaps. Oh, Celia, I haveworshipped too long in silence, and I may, perchance’—Mr. Sampsonrather dwelt on the perchance, which seemed to him a word of peculiarappropriateness, almost a lapse into poetry—‘I may, perchance, havebeen too sudden in my avowal. But when a man is as much in earnest as Iam, he does not study details. Celia, you must not say no.’

‘But I do say no,’ protested Celia.

‘Not an irrevocable no?’

‘Yes, a most irrevocable no. I am very much flattered, of course, and Ireally like you very much—as we all do—because you are good and trueand honest. But I never, never, never could think of you in any othercharacter than that of a trustworthy friend.’

‘Do you really mean it?’ asked poor Sampson, aghast.

He was altogether crushed by this unexpected blow. That any young ladyin Hazlehurst could refuse the honour of an alliance with him hadnever occurred to him as within the range of possibility. He had takenplenty of time in making up his mind upon the matrimonial question. Hehad been careful and deliberate, and had waited till he was thoroughlyconvinced that Celia Clare was precisely the kind of wife he wanted,before committing himself by a serious declaration. He had been carefulthat his polite attentions should not be too significant, until thefinal die was cast. His journey to Brittany had given him ample leisurefor reflection. Prostrate in his comfortable berth on board the St.Malo steamer, in the dim light of the cabin lamp, lulled by themonotonous oscillation of the steamer, he had been able to contemplatethe question of marriage from every standpoint, and this offer ofto-night was the result of those meditations.

Celia told him, with all due courtesy, that she really did mean torefuse him.

‘You might do worse,’ he said, dolefully.

‘No doubt I might. Some rather vulgar person has compared matrimony toa bag of snakes, in which there is only one eel. Perhaps you are theone eel. But then you see I am not obliged to marry anybody. I can goon like Queen Elizabeth,

[Pg 297]

‘That’s not likely,’ said Mr. Sampson moodily. ‘A young lady of yourstamp won’t remain single. You’re too attractive and too lively. No,you’ll marry some scamp for the sake of his good looks; and perhaps theday will come when you’ll remember this evening, and feel sorry thatyou rejected an honest man’s offer.’

They were at the house by this time, much to Celia’s relief, as shefelt that the conversation could hardly be carried on further withoutunpleasantness.

She stopped in the hall, and offered her hand to her dejected admirer.

‘Shake hands, Mr. Sampson, to show that you bear no malice,’ she said.‘Be assured I shall always like and respect you as a friend of ourfamily.’

She did not wait for his answer, but tripped lightly upstairs,determined not to make her appearance again that evening.

Tom Sampson was inclined to return to his own house, without waiting tosay good night to his client, but while he stood in the hall making uphis mind on this point, John Treverton came out of the dining-room tolook for him.

‘Why, Sampson, what are you doing out there?’ he cried. ‘Come in andhave some supper. You haven’t eaten much since we left Paris.’

‘Much,’ echoed Sampson dismally. ‘A segment of hard biscuit on boardthe boat, and a cup of weak tea at Dover, have been my only sustenance.But I don’t feel that I care about supper,’ he added, surveying thetable with a melancholy eye. ‘I ought to be hungry, but I’m not.’

‘Why, you seem quite low-spirited, Mr. Sampson,’ said Laura, kindly.

‘I am feeling a little low to-night, Mrs. Treverton.’

‘Nonsense, man! Low-spirited on such a night as this, after the triumphyou achieved at Auray! Wasn’t it wonderful, Laura, that Sampson’sacumen should have hit upon the idea of my first marriage beinginvalid? It was the only chance we had—the only thing that could havesaved the estate.’

‘Of course it was,’ replied Sampson, ‘and that was why I thought of it.A lawyer is bound to see every chance, however remote. I don’t knowthat in my own mind I thought it really likely that your first wifehad been encumbered with a living husband when you married her; butI saw that it was just the one loophole for your escape from a mostconfounded fix.’

Cheered by the idea that he had saved his client’s fortune, andcomforted by a tumbler or two of irreproachable champagne, Mr. Sampsonmanaged to eat a very good supper, and he trudged briskly homewardson the stroke of midnight, tolerably content with himself and life ingeneral.

[Pg 298]

‘Perhaps after all I may be better off as a bachelor than with themost fascinating of wives,’ he reflected. ‘But I must come to anunderstanding with Eliza. Cheeseparing is all very well as long asmy cheese is not pared. I must let Eliza know that I’m master,and that my tastes are to be consulted in every particular. When Ithink of the melted butter they gave me last night at Veefoor’s, andthe sauce with that sole normong, I shudder at the recollectionof the bill-sticker’s paste I’ve been asked to eat at my own table. IfEliza is to go on keeping house for me, there must be a revolution inthe cookery.’

John Treverton and his wife spent a Sabbath of exceeding peacefulness.They appeared at church together morning and evening, much to thediscomfiture of Edward Clare, who was surprised to see them looking sohappy.

‘Does he think the storm has blown over?’ Edward said to himself. ‘Poorwretch. He will discover his mistake before long.’

The Vicar went to the Manor House after the evening service, and heand John Treverton were closeted together in the library for an houror more, during which time John told his wife’s trustee all thathad happened at Auray, and showed him documents which proved MariePomellec’s marriage with Jean Kergariou, and Kergariou’s death twoyears after her second marriage.

‘Providence has been very good to you, John Treverton,’ said theVicar when he had heard everything. ‘You cannot be too grateful foryour escape from disgrace and difficulty. But I hope you will alwaysremember that your own sin is not lessened by this discovery. I hopethat you honestly and truly repent that sin.’

‘Can I do otherwise?’ asked John Treverton sadly. ‘Has it not broughtfear and sorrow upon one I love better than myself? The thing was doneto benefit her, but I feel now that it was not the less dishonourable.’

‘Well, we will try to forget all about it,’ said the good-naturedVicar, who, in exhorting a sinner to repentance, never wished to makethe burden of remorse too heavy. ‘I only desired that you should seeyour conduct in a proper light, as a Christian and a gentleman. Godknows how grateful I am to Him for His mercy to you and my dear Laura.It would have almost broken my heart to see you turned out of thishouse.’

‘Like Adam and Eve out of Paradise,’ said Treverton, smiling, ‘and mypoor Eve a sinless sufferer.’

After this serious talk the Vicar and his host went back to thedrawing-room, where Laura and Celia were sitting by a glorious woodfire reading Robertson’s sermons.

‘What a darling he was!’ cried Celia, with a gush. ‘And how[Pg 299]desperately in love with him I should have been if I had lived atBrighton in his time and heard him preach! His are the only sermons Ican read without feeling bored. If that dear prosy old father of minewould only take a lesson——’

Her father’s entrance silenced her just as she was about to criticisehis capabilities as a preacher. The Vicar went straight to Laura, andtook both her hands in his hearty grasp.

‘My dear, dear girl,’ he said, ‘Providence has ordered all things wellfor you. You have no more trouble to fear!’

It was not till the next morning that Laura remembered her husband’sanxious tenant from Beechampton. Husband and wife were breakfastingtogether tête-à-tête in the book-room at half-past seven, JohnTreverton dressed in his hunting gear, ready to start for a six-mileride to the meet of staghounds among the pasture-clad hills. Celia, whodid not consider that her obligations as a guest included early rising,was still luxuriating in morning dreams.

‘Oh, by-the-bye,’ exclaimed Laura, when she and her husband had talkedabout many things, ‘I quite forgot to tell you about your tenant atBeechampton. He is coming to see you at nine o’clock this morning. Itis a rather important matter he wants to see you about, he says. He hasbeen extremely anxious for your return.’

‘My tenant at Beechampton, dear?’ said John Treverton, with a puzzledair. ‘Who can that be? I have no property at Beechampton except groundrents, and Sampson collects those. I have nothing to do with thetenants.’

‘Yes, but this is something about drainage, and your tenant wants tosee you. He said you were the ground landlord of some houses which heholds.’

John Treverton shrugged his shoulders resignedly.

‘Rather a bore,’ he said, ‘But if he is here at nine o’clock I don’tmind seeing him—I shan’t wait for him. I’ve ordered my horse at ninesharp. And I’ve ordered the pony carriage for you and Celia to drive tothe meet. It’s a fine morning, and the fresh air will do you good.’

‘Then I’d better send a message to Celia,’ said Laura. ‘She is given tolate hours in wintry weather.’

She rang the bell and told Trimmer to send one of the maids to MissClare to say that she was to be ready for a drive at nine o’clock;and then John and his wife dawdled over their talk and breakfast tillhalf-past eight, by which time the January sun was bright enough toinvite them into the garden.

‘Run and put on your sealskin, Laura, and come for a turn in thegrounds,’ said Mr. Treverton.

The obedient wife departed, and came back in five minutes, in a browncloth dress, with jacket, hat, and muff of darkest sealskin.

[Pg 300]

‘What a delightful study in brown!’ said John.

They went out into the Dutch garden—that garden where JohnTreverton had walked alone on the morning after his first arrival atHazlehurst—the garden where he had seen Laura standing under theyew-tree arch, in the glad April sunshine. They passed under the archto-day, and made the circuit of the orchard, and speculated as to howlong it would be before the primroses would brighten the grassy banks,and the wild purple crocuses break through the sod, like imprisonedsouls rising from a wintry grave. Never had they been happiertogether—perhaps never so happy, for John Treverton’s mind was nolonger burdened with the secret of an unhappy past. To-day it seemed toboth as if there was not a cloud on their horizon. They strolled aboutorchard and garden until the church clock struck nine, and then Johnwent straight to the hall door, where his handsome bay stood waitingfor him, and where Laura’s ponies were rattling their bits, and shakingtheir pretty little thoroughbred heads, in a general impatience tobe doing something, were it only running away with the light basketcarriage to which they were harnessed.

‘Oh, there is your tenant,’ said Laura, as she and her husband cameround the gravel drive from the adjacent garden, ‘standing at the halldoor waiting for you.’

‘Is that he?’ exclaimed Treverton. ‘He looks uncommonly like aLondoner.—Well, my good fellow,’ he began, going up to the man,hunting-crop in hand, ready to mount his horse, ‘what is your businesswith me? Please make it as short as you can, for I’ve six miles to ridebefore I begin my day’s work.’

‘I shall be very brief, Mr. Treverton,’ answered the stranger, comingclose up to the master of Hazlehurst Manor, and speaking in a low andserious tone, ‘for I want to catch the up train at 11.30, and I musttake you with me. I’m a police officer from Scotland Yard, and I amhere to arrest you on suspicion of having murdered your wife, known asMademoiselle Chicot, at Cibber Street, Leicester Square, on the 19th ofFebruary, 187—.’

John Treverton turned deadly pale, but he faced the man withoutflinching.

‘I’ll come with you immediately,’ he said; ‘but you can do me onefavour. Don’t let my wife know the nature of the business that takes meto London. I can get it broken to her gently after I am gone.’

‘Don’t you think you’d better tell her yourself?’ suggested thedetective, in a friendly tone. ‘She’ll take it better from you thanfrom any one else. I’ve always found it so. Tell her the truth, and lether come to London with us, if she likes.’

‘You are right,’ said Treverton; ‘she’ll be happier near me than eatingher heart out down here. You’ve got some one with[Pg 301] you, I suppose. Youdidn’t reckon upon taking me single-handed?’

‘I didn’t reckon upon your making any resistance. You’re too much agentleman and a man of the world. I’ve no doubt you can clear yourselfwhen you come before a magistrate, and that the business will go nofurther. It was your being absent from the inquest, you know, that madethings look bad against you.’

‘Yes, that was a mistake,’ answered Treverton.

‘I’ve got a man inside,’ said the detective. ‘If you’ll step into theparlour, and have it out with your wife, he can wait in the hall.Perhaps you wouldn’t mind ordering a trap of some kind to take us tothe station. It might look better for you to go in your own trap.’

‘Yes, I’ll see to it,’ assented John Treverton absently. ‘Answer me onequestion, there’s a good fellow. Who set Scotland Yard on my heels? Whoput you up to the fact that I am the man who called himself Chicot?’

‘Never you mind how we got at that, sir,’ replied the detective sagely.‘That’s a kind of thing we never tell. We got the straight tip; that’sall you need know. It don’t make no difference to you how we got it,does it, now?’

‘Yes,’ said John Treverton, ‘it makes a great difference. But I daresay I shall know all about it before long.’

CHAPTER XXXIX.

ON SUSPICION.

Mr. Treverton’s hunter was taken back to his loose-box, where heexecuted an energetic pas seul with his hind legs, in theexuberance of his feelings at being let off his day’s work. Mr.Treverton himself was closeted with his wife in the book-room, but notalone. The man from Scotland Yard was present throughout the interview,while his subordinate, a respectable-looking young man in plainclothes, paced quietly up and down the corridor outside.

Laura bore this last crushing blow as she had borne the first—witha noble heroism. She neither wept nor trembled, but stood by herhusband’s side, pale and steadfast, ready to sustain and comfort him,rather than to add to his burden with the weight of her own grief.

‘I am not afraid, John,’ she said. ‘I am almost glad that you shouldface this hideous charge. Better to be put upon your trial, and proveyourself innocent, as I know you can, than to live all your life underthe shadow of a groundless suspicion.’

[Pg 302]

She spoke boldly, yet her heart sickened at the thought that it mightnot be easy, perhaps not even possible, for her husband to provehimself guiltless. She remembered what had been said at the time of themurder, and how every circ*mstance had seemed to point at him as themurderer.

‘My dearest, I shall be able to confront this charge,’ answered JohnTreverton. ‘I have no fear of that. I made a miserable mistake in notfacing the difficulty at the time. The business may be a little moretroublesome now than it would have been then, but I am not afraid. Iwould not ask you to go to London with me, darling, if I feared theresult of my journey.’

‘Do you think I would let you go alone in any case?’ asked Laura.

She was thinking that even if this trouble were to end in the scaffold,she would be with him to the last, clinging to him and holding by himas other brave women had held by their loved ones, face to face withdeath. But no, it would not come to that. She was so convinced, in herown mind, of his innocence, that she could not suppose there would bemuch difficulty in proving the fact in a court of law.

‘You will take your maid with you, of course?’ said Treverton.

‘Yes, I should like to take Mary.’

‘Where am I to be during this inquiry?’ asked Treverton, turning to thedetective.

‘At the House of Detention, Clerkenwell.’

‘Not the most desirable neighbourhood, but it might be worse,’ saidTreverton.

‘They are surely not going to put you in prison, John, before they haveproved anything against you?’ cried his wife, with a look of horror.

‘It’s only a form, dear. We needn’t call it prison; but I shan’t beexactly at large. I think, perhaps, the best plan would be for you totake quiet lodgings at Islington, say in Colebrook Row, for instance.That’s a decent place. You’d prefer that to an hotel, wouldn’t you?’

‘Infinitely.’

‘Very well. You had better put up at the Midland Hotel to-night, andto-morrow morning you and Mary can drive about in a cab till you find anice lodging. I shall write a line to Sampson, asking him to follow usas soon as he can. He may be of use to us in London.’

Everything was settled as quietly as if they had been starting on apleasure trip. The brougham was at the door in time to take them to thestation. Celia, who was ready dressed to drive to the meet, was theonly person who appeared excited or bewildered.

‘What does it all mean, Laura?’ she asked. ‘Have you and[Pg 303] Mr. Trevertongone suddenly mad? At eight o’clock you send up to tell me you aregoing to take me to the meet; and at nine I find you are starting forLondon, with two strange men. What can you mean by it?’

‘It means very serious business, Celia,’ Laura answered quietly. ‘Donot worry yourself about it. You will know everything by-and-by.’

‘By-and-by,’ echoed Celia scornfully. ‘I suppose you mean when I goto heaven, and look down upon you with a new pair of eyes? I want toknow now. By-and-by will not be the least use. I remember when I was achild, if people told me I should have anything by-and-by, I never gotit.’

‘Good-bye, Celia dearest. John will write to your father.’

‘Yes, and my father will keep the letter all to himself. When will yoube back?’

‘Soon, I hope; but I cannot say how soon.’

‘Now, madam,’ said the police officer, ‘the time is up.’

Laura embraced her friend and stepped into the carriage. Her husbandfollowed, then the detective, and lastly the faithful Mary, who hadhad hard work to get a couple of portmanteaus packed for her masterand mistress, and a few things huddled into a carpet bag for herself.She had no idea where they were going, or the motive of this suddenjourney. A few hasty words had been said to Trimmer, as to the conductof the household, and that was all.

At the station Mr. Palby, the detective, contrived to secure acompartment for Mr. and Mrs. Treverton and himself. His subordinate wasto travel with Mary in a second-class carriage.

‘You needn’t be afraid of his talking,’ said Mr. Palby to his prisoner.‘Grummles is as close as wax.’

‘It can matter very little whether he talks or not,’ answered Trevertonindifferently. ‘Everybody will know everything in a day or two. Thenewspapers will make my story public.’

He thought with supreme bitterness how much easier it would have beenfor him to face this accusation as Jack Chicot than as John Treverton,alias Chicot; how much less there would have been for thenewspapers to say about him, had he stood boldly forward at the inquestand faced his difficulty. About Jack Chicot, the literary Bohemian, theworld would have been little curious. How much greater was the scandalnow that the accused was a man of fortune, a country squire, the bearerof a good old name!

At five o’clock that winter afternoon the doors of the House ofDetention closed upon John Treverton. There was some deference shownto the accused even here, and much consideration for the lovely youngwife, who remained quietly with her[Pg 304] husband to the last moment, andgave vent to none of the lamentations which were wont to disturb theorderly silence of those stony halls. Laura made herself acquaintedwith the rules and regulations to which her husband would besubject—the hours at which she would be allowed to see him, and thenbade him good-bye without a tear. It was only when she and Mary werealone in the cab, on their way to the Midland Hotel, that her fortitudebroke down, and she burst into convulsive sobs.

‘Oh, please don’t,’ cried Mary, putting her friendly arms round hermistress. ‘You mustn’t give way, indeed you mustn’t. It’s so dreadfulbad for you. Everything’s bound to come right, ma’am. Look at master,how cheerful he is, and how brave and handsome he looked in that horridplace.’

‘Yes, Mary, he pretended to be cheerful and confident for my sake, justas I try to keep myself calm in order to sustain him. But it is a merepretence on both sides. I shall be a miserable woman until this inquiryis over.’

‘Well, ma’am, of course it’s an anxious time.’

‘We have hardly a friend who can help us. What does Mr. Sampson know ofcriminal law? What does my husband know as to what he ought to do toprotect himself in his present position? We are like children lost in adark wood—a wood where there are beasts of prey that may devour us.’

‘Mr. Sampson seems very clever, ma’am. Depend upon it, he’ll know whatto do. Lor’, what a ugly place this London is!’ exclaimed Mary, lookingwith astonished eyes at the architectural beauties of the Gray’s InnRoad, ‘everything so dark and smoky. Beechampton is ever so muchgrander.’

Here the cab turned into the Euston Road, and the palatial front ofthe Midland Hotel revealed itself in a burst of splendour to Mary’sastonished eyes.

‘My!’ she exclaimed, ‘it must be Buckingham Palace, surely!’

Her astonishment became stupefaction when the cab drove under theItalian-Gothic portico, and a liveried page sprang forward to open thedoor, and relieve the bewildered Abigail of her mistress’s travellingbag. Her surprise and admiration went on increasing, like a geometricalprogression, commencing above unity, as she followed her mistressacross the pillared hall and up the marble staircase, to a corridor,whose remote perspective ended far away in a twinkling speck ofgaslight.

‘Gracious, what a place!’ she cried. ‘If all the hotels in London arelike this, what must the Queen’s palace be?’

The polite German attendant opened the door of a sitting-room, wherea bright fire burned as if to welcome expected guests. He had softlymurmured the words ‘sitting-room’ into Laura’s ear as she crossed thehall, and she bowed gently in assent.[Pg 305] No more was needed. He felt thatshe was the right sort of customer for the Grand Midland.

‘Die pettroom is vithin,’ he said, indicating a door of communication.‘Dere is also tressing-room. Dere vill pe a room vanted for die mait,matam, I subbose. I vill sent die champermait. Matam vill vish totine?’

‘No, thanks. You can bring some tea,’ answered Laura, sinking wearilyinto a chair. She kept her veil down to hide her tear-stained cheeks.‘If a gentleman called Sampson should inquire for me in the course ofthe evening, please send him here.’

‘Yes, matame. Vat name?’

‘What man? Oh, you mean my own name. Treverton, Mrs. Treverton.’

She shuddered at the thought that in a few days the name might benotorious.

Mary ordered a dish of cutlets to be sent up with the tea, andpresently she and the chambermaid were arranging Mrs. Treverton’sbedroom, opening the portmanteau, setting out the ivory brushes andsilver-topped bottles from the travelling bag, and giving a look ofcomfort and homeliness to the strange apartment.

Fires were lighted in the bedroom and dressing-room, and there was thatall-pervading air of luxury, which, to the traveller of limited means,suggests the idea that, for the time being, he is living at the rate often thousand a year.

The evening was sad and weary for Laura Treverton. Now only was shebeginning to realize the catastrophe that had befallen her. Now only,as she walked up and down the strange sitting-room, alone, friendless,in the big world of London, did all the horror of her position comehome to her.

Her husband a prisoner, charged with the most direful offence mancan commit against his fellow-man, to be brought, perhaps to-morrow,to face his accusers, and to have the details of his supposed guiltbandied from lip to lip to-morrow night, the subject of idle wonder andfoolish speculations. He, her darling, degraded to the lowestdepth to which humanity can fall! It was too horrible. She clasped herhands before her eyes, as if to shut out an actual scene of horror—thedock, the judgment-seat, the hangman, and the scaffold.

‘My husband suspected of such a crime,’ she said to herself. ‘Myhusband, whose inmost thoughts are known to me; a man incapable ofcruelty to the meanest thing that crawls.’

Sometimes, in the course of those slow hours, a sudden excitement tookhold of her. She forgot everything except the one fact of her husband’sposition.

‘Let us go to him, Mary,’ she cried. ‘Get me my hat and jacket, and letus go to him directly.’

[Pg 306]

‘Indeed, ma’am, we can’t get in,’ remonstrated Mary. ‘Don’t youremember what they told us about the hours of admission? You were onlyto see him at a particular time. Why, they’re all abed by this time,poor things, I make no doubt.’

‘How cruel!’ cried Laura; ‘how cruel it is that I can’t be with him!’

‘If you go on worrying yourself like this, ma’am, you’ll be ill. Youhaven’t eaten a bit since you left home, though I’m sure the cutletswas done lovely. Shall I order some arrowroot for your supper? Or abasin of soup, now? That would be more nourishing.’

‘No, Mary, it’s no use. I can’t eat anything. How I wish Mr. Sampsonwould come!’

‘It’s almost too late to expect him, ma’am. I don’t suppose he’s leftHazlehurst. Perhaps he couldn’t get away to-day.’

‘Not get away!’ echoed Laura. ‘Nonsense! He would never abandon myhusband in the hour of difficulty.’

The German waiter at this very moment announced, ‘Mr. Zambzon.’

‘I’m awfully late, Mrs. Treverton,’ said the little man, bustling in,‘but I thought you’d like to see me, so I came in. I’ve engaged aroom in the hotel, and I shall stay as long as I’m wanted, even if myHazlehurst business goes to pot.’

‘How good you are! You have only just come to London?’

‘Only just come, indeed! I came by the train after yours. I was inLondon at seven o’clock. I’ve been with Mr. Leopold, the well-knownsolicitor—the man who’s so great in criminal cases, you know,—andI’ve got him for our side. And I’ve been down to Cibber Street withhim, and we’ve picked up all the information we can. The landlady’slaid up with low fever, and so we couldn’t get much out of her; butwe’ve seen Mr. Gerard, and we know pretty well what he has to bringforward against us, and I think he’ll be rather a reluctant witness.It’s a pity that Mr. Desrolles is out of the way. We might have madesomething out of him.’

Laura turned to him with a startled look. Desrolles! That was the nameby which her husband had known her father. He, to whom an aliasseemed so easy, had been known in his London lodgings as Mr. Desrolles.And he had been in the house at the time of the murder.

‘You have no fear as to the result, have you?’ Laura asked Sampson,with intense anxiety. ‘My husband will be able to prove himselfinnocent of this terrible crime.’

‘I don’t believe the other side will be able to prove him guilty,’ saidSampson thoughtfully.

‘But he may remain all his life under the stigma of this hideoussuspicion. The world will believe him guilty, though[Pg 307] the crime cannotbe brought home to him. Is that what you mean?’

‘My dear Mrs. Treverton, I am not clever enough or experienced enoughto offer an opinion in such a case as this. We are only at the outsetof things. Besides, I am no criminal lawyer.’

‘What does Mr. Leopold say?’ asked Laura, looking at him intently.

‘I am not at liberty to tell you that. It would be a breach ofconfidence,’ answered Sampson.

‘I see. Mr. Leopold thinks there is a strong case against my husband.’

‘Mr. Leopold thinks nothing at present. He has no data to go upon.’

‘He must remember the report of the inquest, and all that was said inthe newspapers.’

‘Mr. Leopold thinks that of the newspapers,’ exclaimed Sampson,snapping his fingers. ‘Mr. Leopold is not led by the nose by thenewspapers. He would not be where he is if he were that kind of man.’

‘Well, we must wait and hope,’ said Laura, with a sigh. ‘It is a hardtrial, but it must be borne. Will anything be done to-morrow?’

‘There will be an inquiry at Bow Street.’

‘Will Mr. Leopold be present?’

‘Of course. He will watch the case as a cat watches a mouse.’

‘Tell him that I should think half my fortune too little to reward himif he can prove—clearly and plainly prove—my husband’s innocence.’

‘Mr. Leopold won’t ask for your fortune. He’s as rich as——well,rolling in money. He’ll do his duty, you may depend upon it, withoutany prompting from me.’

CHAPTER XL.

MR. LEOPOLD ASKS IRRELEVANT QUESTIONS.

An inquiry was held at Bow Street next day. Several of the witnesseswho had appeared nearly a year ago at the inquest were present, andmuch of the evidence that had been then given was now repeated. Thepoliceman who had been called in by Desrolles, the doctor who hadfirst examined the dead woman’s wound, and the detective who examinedthe premises—all these gave their evidence exactly as they had givenit at the inquest. Mrs. Evitt was too ill to appear, but her previousstatements were read. There was one witness present on this occasionwho had not appeared at the inquest. This was George Gerard, who hadbeen[Pg 308] subpœnaed by the prosecution, and who described, with a somewhatreluctant air, his discovery of the dagger in Jack Chicot’s colour-box.

‘This was a curious discovery of yours, Mr. Gerard,’ said Mr. Leopold,after the witness had been examined, ‘and comes to light at a curioustime. Why did you not inform the police of this discovery when you madeit?’

‘I was not called as a witness.’

‘No. But if you considered this discovery of yours of any importance,it was your duty to make it known immediately. You make your way intothe house of the accused without anybody’s authorization; you goprying and peering into rooms that have already been examined by thepolice; and you come forward a year afterwards with this extraordinarydiscovery of a tarnished dagger. What evidence have we that this daggerever belonged to the accused?’

‘There need be no difficulty about that,’ said John Treverton, ‘thedagger is mine.’

Mr. Leopold rewarded his client’s candour with a ferocious scowl. Wasthere ever such a man—a man who was legally dumb, whose lips the lawhad sealed, and who had the folly to blurt out such an admission asthis?

The magistrate asked whether the dagger could be found. The police hadtaken possession of all Jack Chicot’s chattels. The dagger was no doubtamong them.

‘Let it be found and given to the divisional surgeon to be examined,’said the magistrate.

The inquiry was adjourned at the request of Mr. Leopold, who wantedtime to meet the evidence against his client. The magistrate, who feltthat the case was hardly strong enough for committal, granted thisrespite. An hour later John Treverton was closeted with Mr. Leopold andMr. Sampson in his room at Clerkenwell.

‘The medical evidence shows that the murder must have been committed atone o’clock,’ said Mr. Leopold. ‘You only discovered it at five minutesbefore three. What were you doing with yourself during those hours? Atthe worst we ought to be able to prove an alibi.’

‘I’m afraid that would be difficult,’ answered Treverton thoughtfully.‘I was very unhappy at that period of my life, and had acquired ahabit of roaming about the streets of London between midnight andmorning. I had suffered from a painful attack of sleeplessness, andthis night-roving was the only thing that gave me relief. I was at aliterary club near the Strand on the night of the murder. I left a fewminutes after twelve. It was a fine, mild night—wonderfully mild forthe time of year,—and I walked to Hampstead Heath and back.’

[Pg 309]

‘Humph!’ muttered Mr. Leopold, ‘you couldn’t have managed thingsbetter, if you wanted to put the rope round your neck. You left yourclub a few minutes after twelve, you say—in comfortable time for themurder. You were seen to leave, I suppose?’

‘Yes, I left with another member, a water-colour painter, who lives atHaverstock Hill.’

‘Good—and he walked with you as far as Haverstock Hill, I suppose?’

‘No, he didn’t. We walked to St. Martin’s Church together, and there hetook a hansom. He had no latch-key, and wanted to get home in decenttime.’

‘Did you tell him you were going to walk up to the Heath?’

‘No, I had no definite purpose. I walked as far, and in whateverdirection my fancy took me.’

‘Precisely. Then your friend, the water-colour painter, parted from youat about a quarter-past twelve?’

‘It struck the quarter while we were wishing each other good-night.’

‘Within five minutes’ walk of your lodging. No chance of analibi here, I fear, Mr. Treverton; unless you met any one onHampstead Heath, which in the middle of the night was not very likely.’

‘I neither met nor spoke to a mortal, except a man at a coffee-stallnear the Mother Redcap, on my way back.’

‘Oh! you talked to a man at a coffee-stall, did you?’

‘Yes, I stopped to take a cup of coffee at ten minutes past two. Ifthe same man is to be found there he ought to remember me. He was aloquacious fellow, something of a wag, and we had quite a politicaldiscussion. There had been an important division in the House thenight before, and my friend at the coffee-stall was well posted in hisDaily Telegraph.’

Mr. Leopold made a note of the circ*mstance while John Treverton wastalking.

‘So far so good. Now we come to another point. Is there anybody whomyou suspect as implicated in this murder? Can you trace a motiveanywhere for such an act?’

‘No,’ answered Treverton decidedly.

‘Yet you see the murder must have been done by some one, and that someone must have had a motive. It was not a case of suicide. The medicalevidence at the inquest clearly demonstrated that.’

‘You remember the inquest?’

‘Yes, I was present.’

‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Treverton, surprised.

‘Yes, I was there. Now to continue my argument; you, as the husband ofthe victim, must have been familiar with all her[Pg 310] surroundings. Youmust know better than any one else whether there was any one connectedwith her who could have a motive for this crime.’

‘I cannot conceive any reason for the act. I cannot suspect any oneperson more than another.’

‘Are you positive that your wife had no valuables in herpossession—money, for instance?’

‘She spent her money faster than she earned it. We were always in debt.The little jewellery she had ever possessed had been pledged.’

‘Are you sure that she had no valuable jewellery in her possession atthe time of her death?’

‘To my knowledge she had none.’

‘That’s curious,’ said Mr. Leopold. ‘I heard a rumour at the time ofa diamond necklace, which had been seen round her throat two or threeevenings before the murder, by the dresser at the theatre. Your wifewore a broad band of black velvet round her neck when she was dressedfor the stage, which entirely concealed the diamonds, and it was onlyby accident the dresser saw them.’

‘This must be a fable,’ said Treverton. ‘My wife never possessed adiamond necklace. She was never in a position to buy one.’

‘She may have been in a position to receive one as a gift,’ suggestedMr. Leopold quietly.

‘She was an honest woman.’

‘Granted. Such gifts are given to honest women. Not often, perhaps, butthe thing is possible. Her possession of that diamond necklace may havebecome known to the murderer, and may have tempted him to the crime.’

Treverton was silent. He remembered his wife’s anonymous admirer, thegiver of the bracelet. He had dismissed the man from his thoughts afterhis interview with the jeweller. No other gifts had appeared, and hehad felt no further uneasiness on the subject.

‘Have you thought of all the people in the house?’ asked Mr. Leopold.

John Treverton shrugged his shoulders.

‘What can I think about them? No one in the house could have had anymotive for murdering my wife.’

‘It is pretty clear that the murder was not done by any one outside thehouse,’ said Mr. Leopold, ‘unless, indeed, the street door had beenleft open in the course of the evening, so as to enable the murderer toslip in quietly, and hide himself until every one had gone to bed. Atwhat time did your wife generally return from the theatre?’

‘About twelve o’clock; oftener before twelve than after.’

[Pg 311]

‘The murderer may have followed her into the house. She had alatch-key, I suppose?’

‘Yes.’

‘She may have been careless in closing the door, and left itunfastened. It is quite possible that some one may have entered thehouse after her, and left it quietly when his work was done.’

‘Quite,’ answered Treverton, with a bitter smile. ‘But if we do notknow who that some one was, the fact won’t help us.’

‘How about this man who occupied the second floor—this Desrolles? Whatis he?’

‘A broken-down gentleman,’ answered Treverton, with a troubled look.

He had a peculiar reluctance in speaking of Desrolles.

‘He could not be anything worse,’ said Mr. Leopold sententiously. ‘ThisDesrolles was in the house at the time of the murder. Strange that heshould have heard nothing of the struggle.’

‘Mrs. Rawber heard nothing, yet she was on the floor below, and wasmore likely to hear any movement in my wife’s room.’

‘I should like to know all you can tell me about Desrolles,’ said Mr.Leopold, frowning over his pocket-book.

Honest Tom Sampson sat and listened, open-eyed and silent. To him thefamous criminal lawyer was as a god, a being made up of wisdom andknowledge.

‘I can tell you very little,’ answered John Treverton. ‘I know nothingto his discredit, except that he was poor, and too fond of brandy forhis own welfare.’

‘I see,’ answered Leopold quickly. ‘The kind of man who would doanything for money.’

Treverton started. He could not deny that this was in some wise trueof Mr. Desrolles, alias Mansfield, alias Malcolm. Ithorrified him to remember that this man was Laura’s father, and thatat any moment the disgrace of that relationship might be made known,should Desrolles’ presence at the police court be insisted upon.Happily Desrolles was on the other side of the Channel, where only thesolicitor who received his income knew where to find him.

Mr. Leopold asked a good many more questions, some of which seemedfrivolous and irrelevant, but all of which John Treverton answered aswell as he was able.

‘I hope you believe in me, Mr. Leopold,’ he said, when his solicitorheld out his hand at parting.

‘From my soul,’ answered the other earnestly. ‘And, what’s more, I meanto pull you through this. It’s a troublesome business, but I thinkI can see my way to the end of it. I wish you could help me to findDesrolles.’

‘That I cannot do,’ said Treverton decidedly.

[Pg 312]

‘It’s a pity. Well, good-day. The inquiry is adjourned till nextTuesday, so we have a week before us. It will be hard if we don’t dosomething in that time.’

‘The police have done very little in a twelvemonth,’ said Treverton.

‘The police have not a monopoly of human intelligence,’ answered Mr.Leopold. ‘We may do better than the police.’

Two advertisem*nts appeared in the Times, Telegraph, andStandard, next morning:—

CHAPTER XLI.

MRS. EVITT MAKES A REVELATION.

Mrs. Evitt was very ill. It may be that a prolonged residence on alevel with the sewers, and remote from the direct rays of the sun, isnot conducive to health or good spirits.

Mrs. Evitt had long suffered from a gentle melancholy, an all-pervadingdolefulness, which impelled her to hang her head on one side, and tosigh faintly, at intervals, without any apparent motive. She had beenalso prone to see all the affairs of life in their darkest aspect, asone living remote from the sun might naturally do. She had been givento prophesy death and doom to her acquaintance, to give a sick friendover, directly the doctor was called in, to foresee sheriff’s officersand ruin at the slightest indication of extravagance in the managementof a neighbour’s household, to augur bad things of babies, and worsethings of husbands, to mistrust all mankind, and to perform under herhuman aspect that ungenial office which the screech-owl was supposed tofulfil in a more romantic age.

She had always been ailing. She suffered from vague pains and stitches,and undefinable aches, which took her at awkward angles of her bonyframe, or which wracked the innermost recesses of that edifice. Sheknew a great deal more about her internal economy than is consistentwith happiness, and was wont to talk about her liver and other organswith an almost professional technicality. She was not an agreeablecompanion, but a long succession of lodgers had borne with her, becauseshe was tolerably clean and unscrupulously honest. Upon this lastpoint she prided herself immensely. She knew that she belonged to amaligned and suspected race; nay, that the very name of her[Pg 313] callingwas synonymous with peculation; and her soul swelled with pride as shedeclared that she had never wronged a lodger by so much as a crustof bread. She would let a mutton bone rot in her larder rather thanappropriate the barest shank without express permission. Rashers ofbacon, half-pounds of Dorset, lard, flour, eggs, were as safe in hercare as bullion in the Bank of England.

George Gerard, to whom every penny was of consequence, had discoveredthis sovereign virtue in his landlady, and honoured her for it. He hadsuffered much from the harpies with whom he had dwelt in the City. Hefound his half-pound of tea or coffee last twice as long as in formerlodgings; his rasher of bacon less costly; his mutton chop bettercooked; his loaf respected. For him Mrs. Evitt was a model landlady;and he rewarded her integrity by such small civilities as lay in hispower. What gratified her most was his readiness to prescribe forthose ailments which were the most salient feature of her life. Hermind had a natural bent towards medicine, and she loved to talk to thegood-natured surgeon of her disorders, or even to question him abouthis patients.

‘That’s a bad case of small-pox you’ve got in Green Street, isn’t it,Mr. Gerard?’ she would say to him, with a dismal relish, when shecame in after his day’s work to ask what she ought to do for that‘grumbling’ pain in her back.

‘Who told you it was small-pox?’ asked Gerard.

‘Well, I had it from very good authority. The charwoman that works atnumber seven in this street is own sister to Mrs. Jewell’s Mary Ann,and Mrs. Jewell and Mrs. Peaco*ck in Green Street is bosom friends, andthe house where you’re attending is exackerly opposite Mr. Peaco*ck’s.’

‘Excellent authority,’ answered Gerard, smiling, ‘but I am happy totell you I haven’t a case of small-pox on my list. Did you ever hear ofsuch a thing as rheumatic fever?’

‘Hear of it,’ echoed Mrs. Evitt rapturously. ‘I’ve been down with itseven times.’

She looked very hard at him as she made the assertion, as if notexpecting to be believed.

‘Have you?’ said Gerard. ‘Then I wonder you’re alive.’

‘That’s what I wonder at myself,’ answered Mrs. Evitt, with subduedpride. ‘I must have had a splendid constitution to go through all I’vegone through, and to be here to tell it. The quinsies I’ve had. Why,the mustard that’s been put to my throat in the form of poultices wouldstock a first-rate tea-grocer with the article. As to fever, I don’tthink you could name the kind I haven’t had since I had the scarlatinaat five months old and the whooping-cough atop of the measles beforeI’d got over it. I’ve been a martyr.’

[Pg 314]

‘I’m afraid that damp kitchen of yours has had something to do withit,’ suggested Gerard.

‘Damp?’ cried Mrs. Evitt, casting up her hands. ‘You never made agreater mistake in your life, Mr. Gerard, than when you threw out sucha remark. There ain’t a dryer room in London. No, Mr. Gerard, it ain’tdamp, it’s sensitiveness. I’m a regular sensitive plant; and if there’sdisease going about I take it. That’s why I asked you if the small-poxwas in Green Street. I don’t want to be disfigurated in my old age.’

Mr. Gerard looked upon Mrs. Evitt’s ailments as in a large degreeimaginary, but he found her weak and overworked, and gave her a gentlecourse of quinine, ill as he could afford to supply her with soexpensive a tonic. For some time the quinine had a restorative effect,and Mrs. Evitt thought her lodger the first man in his profession.That young man understood her constitution as nobody else had everunderstood it, she told her gossips, and that young man would make hisway. A doctor who had understood a constitution which had hithertobaffled the faculty was bound to achieve greatness. Unfortunately, thegood effect of Gerard’s prescription was not lasting. There was a gooddeal of wet and foggy weather at the close of the old year and at thebeginning of the new year; and the damp and fog crept into Mrs. Evitt’skitchen, and seemed to take hold of her hard-worked old bones. Sheexhibited some very fine examples of shivering—her teeth chattered,her complexion turned blue with cold. Even three-pennyworth of bestunsweetened gin, taken in half a tumbler of boiling water, failed tocomfort or exhilarate her.

‘I’m afraid I’m in for it,’ Mrs. Evitt exclaimed to a neighbour, whohad dropped in to pass the time of day and borrow an Italian iron. ‘Andthis time it’s ague.’

And then, forcing the attack a little for the benefit of the neighbour,she set up one of those dreadful shivering fits, which rattled all theteeth in her head.

‘It’s ague this time,’ she repeated, when the shivering had abated. ‘Inever had ague until now.’

‘Nonsense,’ cried the neighbour, with an assumption of cheerfulness.‘It ain’t ague. Lord bless you, people don’t have ague in the heart ofLondon, in a warm, comfortable kitchen like this. It’s only in marshesand such like places that you hear of ague.’

‘Never you mind,’ retorted Mrs. Evitt solemnly. ‘I’ve got the ague,and if Mr. Gerard doesn’t say as much when he comes home, he isn’t theclever man I think him.’

Mr. Gerard came home in due course, letting himself in quietly with hislatch-key, soon after dark. Mrs. Evitt managed to crawl upstairs witha tray, carrying a mutton chop, a loaf, and a pat of butter. To cookthe chop had cost her an[Pg 315] effort, and it was as much as she could do todrag her weary limbs upstairs.

‘Why, what’s the matter with you to-night, Mrs. Bouncer?’ asked Gerard,who had given his landlady that classic name. ‘You’re looking veryqueer.’

‘I know I am,’ answered Mrs. Evitt, with gloomy resignation. ‘I’ve gotthe ague.’

‘Ague? nonsense!’ cried Gerard, rising and feeling her pulse. ‘Let’slook at your tongue, old lady. That’ll do. I’ll soon set you on yourlegs again, if you do what I tell you.’

‘What is that?’

‘Get to bed, and stay there till you’re well. You’re not fit to beslaving about the house, my good soul. You must get to bed and keepyourself warm, and have some one to feed you with good soup andarrowroot, and such like.’

‘Who’s to look after the house?’ asked Mrs. Evitt dismally. ‘I shall beruined.’

‘No, you won’t. I’m your only lodger just now.’ Mrs. Evitt sigheddolefully. ‘And I want very little waiting upon. You’ll want some oneto wait upon you, though. You’d better get a charwoman.’

‘Eighteenpence a day, three substantial meals, and a pint of beer,’sighed Mrs. Evitt. ‘I should be eat out of house and home. If I mustlay up, Mr. Gerard, I’ll get a girl. I know of a decent girl that wouldcome for her vittles, and a trifle at the end of the week.’

‘Ah,’ said Gerard, ‘there are a good many decent young men walking thestreets of London, who would go anywhere for their victuals. Life’s aharder problem than any proposition in Euclid, my worthy Bouncer.’

The landlady shook her head in melancholy assent.

‘Now look here, my good soul,’ said Gerard seriously. ‘If you want toget well, you mustn’t sleep in that kennel of yours down below.’

‘Kennel!’ cried the outraged matron, ‘kennel, Mr. Gerard! Why, youmight eat your dinner off the floor.’

‘I dare say you might; but every breath you draw there is tainted moreor less with sewer gas. That furred tongue of yours looks rather likeblood-poisoning. You must make yourself up a comfortable bed on thefirst floor, and keep a nice little bit of fire in your room day andnight.’

‘Not in her room, Mr. Gerard,’ exclaimed Mrs. Evitt, with ashudder. ‘I couldn’t do it, sir. It isn’t like as if I was a stranger.Strangers wouldn’t feel it. But I knew her. I should see her beautifuleyes glaring at me all night long. It would be the death of me.’

‘Well, then, there’s Desrolles’ room. You can’t have any objection tothat.’

[Pg 316]

Mrs. Evitt shuddered again.

‘I’m that nervous,’ she said, ‘that my mind’s set against thoseupstairs rooms.’

‘You’ll never get well downstairs. If you don’t fancy that first-floorbedroom you can make yourself up a bed in the sitting-room. There’splenty of light and air there.’

‘I might do that,’ said Mrs. Evitt, ‘though it goes against me to ’ackmy beautiful drawing-room——’

‘You won’t hurt your drawing-room. You have to recover your health.’

‘’Ealth is a blessed privilege. Well, I’ll put up a truckle bed in thefirst-floor front. The girl could sleep on a mattress on the floor atthe bottom of my bed. She’d be company.’

‘Of course she would. Make yourself comfortable mentally and bodily,and you’ll soon get well. Now, how about this girl? You must get herimmediately.’

‘I’ve got a neighbour coming in presently. I’ll get her to step roundand tell Jemima to come.’

‘Is Jemima the girl?’

‘Yes. She’s step-daughter to the tailor at the corner of Cricket’s Row.He’s got a fine family of his own, and Jemima feels herself one toomany. She’s a hard-working, honest-minded girl, though she isn’t muchto look at. Her father was in the public line; he was barman at thePrince of Wales, and the stepfather throws it at her sometimes whenhe’s in drink.’

‘Never mind Jemima’s biography,’ said Gerard. ‘Get your neighbour tofetch her, and in the meantime I’ll help you to make up the bed.’

‘Lor’, Mr. Gerard, you haven’t had your tea. Your chop will be stonecold.’

‘My chop must wait,’ said Gerard cheerily. And then, with all thehandiness of a woman, and more than the kindness of an ordinary woman,the young surgeon helped to transform the first-floor sitting-room intoa comfortable bedchamber.

By the time this was done Jemima had arrived upon the scene, carryingall her worldly goods tied up in a cotton handkerchief. She was araw-boned, angular girl, deeply marked with the small-pox. Her scantyhair was twisted into a knot like a ball of cotton at the back of herhead; her elbows were preternaturally red, her wrists were bound upwith rusty black ribbon; but she had a good-natured grin that atonedfor everything. She was as patient as a beast of burden, contentedwith the scantiest fare, invariably cheerful. She was so accustomed toharsh words and hard usage that she thought people who did not bully ormaltreat her the quintessence of kindness.

It was on the evening when Mrs. Evitt took to her bed, and the housewas entrusted to the care of Jemima, that Mr. Leopold[Pg 317] and Mr.Sampson came to make their inquiries at the house in Cibber Street.George Gerard saw them, and heard of John Treverton’s arrest, withconsiderable surprise and some indignation. He felt assured that EdwardClare must have given the information upon which the police had acted;and he felt angry with himself for having been in some wise a cat’s-pawto serve the young man’s malice. He remembered Laura’s lovely face,with its expression of perfect purity and truth; and he hated himselffor having helped to bring this terrible grief upon her.

‘There was a time when I believed John Treverton guilty,’ he told Mr.Leopold, ‘but I have wavered in my opinion ever since last Sunday week,when he and I talked together.’

‘You never would have thought badly of him if you had known him as wellas I do,’ said the faithful Sampson. ‘He has stayed for a week at astretch in my house, you know. We have been like brothers. This is anawkward business, and of course it’s very painful for that sweet youngwife of his. But Mr. Leopold means to pull him through.’

‘I do,’ assented the famous lawyer.

‘Mr. Leopold has pulled a great many through, innocent and guilty.’

‘And guilty,’ assented the lawyer, with quiet self-approval.

He was disappointed at not being able to see Mrs. Evitt.

‘I should like to have asked her a few questions,’ he said.

‘She is much too ill to-night for that kind of thing,’ answered Gerard.‘Her only chance of recovery is to be kept quiet; and I don’t think shecan tell you any more about the murder than she stated at the inquest.’

‘Oh, yes, she could,’ said Mr. Leopold. ‘She would tell me a great dealmore.’

‘Do you think she kept anything back?’

‘Not intentionally perhaps, but there is always something untold; somesmall detail, which to your mind might mean nothing, but which mightmean a great deal to me. Please let me know directly I can see yourlandlady.’

Gerard promised, and then Mr. Leopold, instead of taking his departure,made himself quite at home in the surgeon’s arm-chair, and stirred thesmall fire with so reckless a hand that poor Gerard trembled for hisweekly hundred of coals. The solicitor seemed in an idle humour, andinclined to waste time. Honest Tom Sampson wondered at his frivolity.

The conversation naturally turned upon the deed which had given thathouse a sinister notoriety. Gerard found himself talking freely ofMadame Chicot and her husband; and it was only after Mr. Leopold andhis companion had gone that he perceived how cleverly the experiencedlawyer had contrived to cross-question him, without his being aware ofthe process.

[Pg 318]

After this evening Gerard watched the newspapers for any report of theChicot case. He read of John Treverton’s appearance at Bow Street, andsaw that the inquiry had been adjourned for a week. At Mrs. Evitt’sparticular request he read the report of the case in the evening paperson the night after the inquiry. She seemed full of anxiety about thebusiness.

‘Do you think they’ll hang him?’ she asked eagerly.

‘My good soul, they’ve a long way to go before they get to hanging. Heis not even committed for trial.’

‘But it looks black against him, doesn’t it?’

‘Circ*mstances certainly appear to point to him as the murderer. Yousee there seems to be no one else who could have had any motive forsuch an act.’

‘And you say he has got a sweet young wife?’

‘One of the loveliest women I ever saw; I feel very sorry for her, poorsoul.’

‘If you was on the jury, would you bring him in guilty?’ asked Mrs.Evitt.

‘I should be sorely perplexed. You see I should be called upon to findmy verdict according to the evidence, and the evidence against him isvery strong.’

Mrs. Evitt sighed, and turned her weary head upon her pillow.

‘Poor young man,’ she murmured, ‘he was always affable—not veryfree-spoken, but always affable. I should feel sorry if it went againsthim. It would be awful, wouldn’t it?’ she exclaimed, with suddenagitation, lifting herself up from her pillow, and gazing fixedlyat the surgeon; ‘it would be awful for him to be hung, and innocentall the time; and a sweet young wife, too. I couldn’t bear it; no, Icouldn’t bear it. The thought of it would weigh me down to my grave,and I don’t suppose it would let me rest even there.’

Gerard thought the poor woman was getting delirious. He laid hisfingers gently on her skinny wrist, and held them there while he lookedat his watch.

Yes, the pulse was a good deal quicker than it had been when he lastfelt it.

‘Is Jemima there?’ asked Mrs. Evitt, twitching aside the bed-curtain,and looking nervously round.

Yes, Jemima was there, sitting before the fire, darning a coarse graystocking, and feeling very happy in being allowed to bask in the warmthof a fire, in a room where nobody threw saucepan lids at her.

George Gerard had rigged up what he called a jury curtain, to shelterthe truckle bed from those piercing currents of air which find theirway alike through old and new window frames.

Mrs. Evitt’s thin fingers suddenly fastened like claws upon thesurgeon’s wrist.

[Pg 319]

‘I want to speak to you,’ she whispered, ‘by-and-by, when Jemima’s gonedown to her supper. I can’t keep it any longer. It’s preying on myvitals.’

The delirium was evidently increasing, thought Gerard. There wasgenerally this exacerbation of the fever at nightfall.

‘What is it you can’t keep?’ he asked soothingly. ‘Is there anythingthat worries you?’

‘Wait till Jemima has gone down,’ whispered the invalid.

‘I’ll come up and have a look at you between ten and eleven,’ saidGerard, aloud, rising to go. ‘I’ve a lot of reading to get through thisevening.’

He went down to his books and his tranquil solitude, pondering uponMrs. Evitt’s speech and manner. No, it was not delirium. The woman’swords were too consecutive for delirium; her manner was excited,but not wild. There was evidently something on her mind—somethingconnected with La Chicot’s murder.

Great Heaven, could this feeble old woman be the assassin? Couldthose withered old hands have inflicted that mortal gash? No, theidea was not to be entertained for a moment. Yet, stranger thingshave been since the world began. Crime, like madness, might givea factitious strength to feeble hands. La Chicot might have hadmoney—jewels—hidden wealth of some kind, of which the secret wasknown to her landlady, and, tempted by direst poverty, this wretchedwoman might——! The thought was too horrible. It took possession ofGeorge Gerard’s brain like a nightmare. Vainly did he endeavour tobeguile his mind by the study of an interesting treatise on dry-rotin the metatarsal bone. His thoughts were with that feeble old womanupstairs, whose skinny hand, just now, had set him thinking of thewitches in Macbeth.

He listened for Jemima’s clumping footfall going downstairs. It came atlast, and he knew that the girl was gone to her meagre supper, and thecoast was clear for Mrs. Evitt’s revelation. He shut his book, and wentquietly upstairs. Never until now had George Gerard known the meaningof fear; but it was with actual fear that he entered Mrs. Evitt’s room,dreading the discovery he was going to make.

He was startled at finding the invalid risen, and with her dingy blackstuff gown drawn on over her night-gear.

‘Why in heaven’s name did you get up?’ he asked. ‘If you were to takecold you would be ever so much worse than you have been yet.’

‘I know it,’ answered Mrs. Evitt, with her teeth chattering, ‘but Ican’t help that. I’ve got to go upstairs to the second-floor back, andyou must go with me.’

‘What for?’

[Pg 320]

‘I’ll tell you that presently. I want you to tell me something first.’

Gerard took a blanket off the bed, and wrapped it round the old woman’sshoulders. She was sitting in front of the fire, just where Jemima hadsat darning her stocking.

‘I’ll tell you anything you like,’ answered Gerard, ‘but I shall bevery savage if you catch cold.’

‘If an innocent person was suspected of a murder, and the evidence wasstrong against him, and another person knew he hadn’t done it, and saidnothing, and let the law take its course, would the other person beguilty?’

‘Of murder!’ cried Gerard; ‘of nothing less than murder. Having thepower to save an innocent life, and not saving it! What could that bebut murder?’

‘Are you sure Jemima isn’t outside, on the listen?’ asked Mrs. Evittsuspiciously. ‘Just go to the door and look.’

Gerard obeyed.

‘There’s not a mortal within earshot,’ he said. ‘Now, my good soul,don’t waste any more time. It’s evident you know all about this murder.’

‘I believe I know who did it,’ said the old woman.

‘Who?’

‘I can remember that awful night as well as if it was yesterday,’ beganMrs. Evitt, making strange swallowing noises, as if to keep down heragitation. ‘There we all stood on the landing outside this door—Mrs.Rawber, Mr. Desrolles, me, and Mr. Chicot. Mrs. Rawber and me was allof a twitter. Mr. Chicot looked as white as a ghost; Mr. Desrolles wasthe coolest among us. He took it all quiet enough, and I felt it was acomfort to have somebody there that had his wits about him. It was himthat proposed sending for a policeman.’

‘Sensible enough,’ said Gerard.

‘Nothing was further from my thoughts than to suspect him,’ pursuedMrs. Evitt. ‘He had been with me, off and on, for five years, and he’dbeen a quiet lodger, coming in at his own time with his own key, andgiving very little trouble. He had only one fault, and that was hisliking for the bottle. He and Madame Chicot had been very friendly. Heseemed to take quite a fatherly care of her, and had brought her homefrom the theatre many a night, when her husband was at his club.’

‘Yes, yes,’ cried Gerard impatiently. ‘You’ve told me that often beforeto-night. Go on, for heaven’s sake. Do you mean to say that Desrolleshad anything to do with the murder?’

‘He did it,’ said Mrs. Evitt, whispering into the surgeon’s ear.

‘How do you know? What ground have you for accusing him?’

[Pg 321]

‘The best of grounds. There was a struggle between that poor creatureand her murderer. When I went in to look at her as she lay there,before the doctor had touched her, one of her hands was clenchedtight—as if she had clutched at something in her last gasp. In thatclenched hand I found a tuft of iron-gray hair—just the colour ofDesrolles’ hair. I could swear to it.’

‘Is that all your evidence against Desrolles? The fact is strongly infavour of poor Treverton, and you were a wicked woman not to reveal itat the inquest; but you cannot condemn Desrolles upon the strength of afew gray hairs, unless you know of other evidence against him.’

‘I do,’ said Mrs. Evitt. ‘Dreadful evidence. But don’t say that I wasa wicked woman because I didn’t tell it at the inquest. There wasnobody’s life in danger. Mr. Chicot had got safe off. Why should Iup and tell that which would hang Mr. Desrolles? He had always beena good lodger to me; and though I could never look at him after thattime without feeling every drop of blood in my veins turned to ice, andthough I was thankful to Providence when he left me, it wasn’t in me totell that which would be his death.’

‘Go on,’ urged Gerard. ‘What was it you discovered?’

‘When the policeman had come in and looked about him, Mr. Desrollessays, “I shall go to bed; I ain’t wanted no more here,” and he goesback to his room as quiet and as cool as if nothing had happened.When the sergeant came back half-an-hour afterwards, with a gentlemanin plain clothes, which was neither more nor less than a detective,them two went into every room in the house. I went with them to showthe way, and to open cupboards and such like. They went up into Mr.Desrolles’ room, and he was sleeping like a lamb. He grumbled a bit atus for disturbing him. “Look about as much as you like,” he said, “aslong as you don’t worry me. Open all the drawers. You won’t find any of’em locked. I haven’t a very extensive wardrobe. I can keep count of myclothes without an inventory.” “A very pleasant gentleman,” said thedetective afterwards.’

‘Did they find nothing?’ asked Gerard.

‘Nothing, yet they looked and pried about very careful. There’s onlyone closet in the second-floor back, and that’s behind the head of thebed. The bed’s a tent, with chintz curtains all round. They lookedunder the bed, and they even went so far as to move the chimney boardand look up the chimney; but they didn’t move the bed. I suppose theydidn’t want to disturb Mr. Desrolles, who had curled himself up inthe bed-clothes and gone off to sleep again. “I suppose there ain’tno cupboards in this room?” says the detective. I was that tired ofdancing attendance upon them, that I just gave my head a shake that[Pg 322]might mean anything, and they went downstairs to the parlours to worritMrs. Rawber.’

Here Mrs. Evitt paused, as if exhausted by much speech.

‘Come, old lady,’ said Gerard kindly, ‘take a little of this barleywater, and then go on. You are keeping me on tenter hooks.’

Mrs. Evitt drank, gasped two or three times, and continued—

‘I don’t know what put it into my head, but after the two men wasgone I couldn’t help thinking about that cupboard, and whether theremightn’t be something in it that the detectives would like to havefound. Mr. Desrolles came downstairs at eleven o’clock, and went outto get his breakfast—as he called it,—but I knew pretty well when hewent out of doors for his breakfast, he breakfasted upon brandy. Ifhe wanted a cup of tea or a bloater, I got it for him; but there wasmornings when he hadn’t appetite to pick a bit of bloater with a sliceof bread and butter, and then he went out of doors.’

‘Yes, yes,’ assented Gerard, ‘pray go on.’

‘When he was gone I put up the chain of the front door, so as to makesure of not being disturbed, and I went straight up to his room. Imoved the bedstead, and opened the cupboard door. Mr. Desrolles had nokey to the cupboard, for the key was lost when he first came to me, andthough it had turned up afterwards, I hadn’t troubled to give it him.What did he want with keys, when all the property he had in the worldwasn’t worth a five-pound note?’

‘Go on, there’s a good soul.’

‘I opened the cupboard. It was a queer, old-fashioned closet in thewall, and the door was papered over just the same as the room. It wasso dark inside that I had to light a candle before I could see anythingthere. There was not much to see at first, even with the candle, but Iwent down upon my knees, and hunted in the dark corners, and at lastI found Mr. Desrolles’ old chintz dressing-gown, rolled up small,and stuffed into the darkest corner of the cupboard, under a lot ofrubbish. He had been wearing it only a day or two before, and I knewit as well as I knew him. I took it over to the window and unfoldedit; and there was the evidence that told who had murdered that poorcreature lying cold on her bed in the room below. The front of thedressing-gown and one of the sleeves were soaked in blood. It must haveflowed in torrents. The stains were hardly dry. “Good Lord!” says I tomyself, “this would hang him,” and I takes and rolls the gown up tight,and puts it back in the corner, and covers it over with other things,old newspapers and old clothes, and such like, just as it was before.And then I runs downstairs and routs out the key of the closet, andtakes and locks it. I was all[Pg 323] of a tremble while I did it, but I feltthere was a power within me to do it. I had but just put the key in mypocket when there came a loud knocking downstairs. From the time Mr.Desrolles had gone out it wasn’t quite a quarter of an hour, but I feltpretty sure this was him come back again. I pushed back the bed, andran down to the door, still trembling inwardly. “What the——(wickedword)—did you put the chain up for?” he asked angrily, for it was him.I told him that I felt that nervous after last night that I was obligedto do it. He smelt strong of brandy, and I thought that he was lookingstrange, like a man that feels all queer in his inside, and strugglesnot to show it. “I suppose I must put myself into a clean shirt forthis inquest,” he says, and then he goes upstairs, and I wonders tomyself how he feels as he goes by the door where that poor thing lies.’

‘Did he never ask you for the key of the closet?’

‘Never. Whether he guessed what had happened, and knew that I suspectedhim, I can’t tell—but he never asked no questions, and the closet hasbeen locked up to this day, and I’ve got the key, and if you will comeupstairs with me I’ll show you what I saw that dreadful morning.’

‘No, no, there’s no need for that. The police are the people who mustsee the inside of that closet. It’s a strange business,’ said Gerard,‘but I’m more glad than I can say for Treverton’s sake, and for thesake of his lovely young wife. What motive could this Desrolles havehad for such a brutal murder?’

Mrs. Evitt shook her head solemnly.

‘That’s what I never could make out,’ she said, ‘though I’ve lain awakemany a night puzzling myself over it. I know she hadn’t no money—Iknow that him and her was always friendly, up to the last day of herlife. But I’ve got my idea about it.’

‘What is your idea?’ asked Gerard.

‘That it was done when he was out of his mind with delirioustremings.’

‘But have you ever seen him mad from the effects of drink?’

‘No, never. But how can we tell that it didn’t come upon him sudden inthe dead of the night, and work upon him until he got up and rusheddownstairs in his madness, and cut that poor thing’s throat?’

‘That’s too wild an idea. That a man should be raging mad withdelirium tremens between twelve and one o’clock, and perfectlysane at three, is hardly within the range of possibility. No. Theremust have been a motive, though we cannot fathom it. Well, I thank Godthat conscience has impelled you to tell the truth at last, late as itis. I shall get you to repeat this statement to Mr. Leopold to-morrow.And now get back to bed, and[Pg 324] I’ll send Jemima up to you with a cup ofgood beef tea. God grant that this fellow Desrolles may be found.’

‘I hope not,’ said Mrs. Evitt. ‘If they find him they’ll hang him, andhe was always a good lodger to me. I’m bound to speak of him as I foundhim.’

‘You wouldn’t speak very well of him if you had found him at yourthroat with a razor.’

‘Ah,’ replied the landlady, ‘I lived in fear and dread ofhim ever after that horrid time. I’ve woke up in a coldprespiration many a time, fancying that I heardhis breathing close beside my bed, though I always slept with my doorlocked and the kitching table pushed against it. I was right downthankful when he went away, though it was hard upon me to have mysecond-floor empty—and Queen’s taxes, and all my rates coming in justas regular as when my house was full.’

Gerard insisted on his patient going to bed without further delay.She was flushed and excited by her own revelations, and would havewillingly gone on talking till midnight, if her doctor had allowedit. But he wished her good-night, and went downstairs to summon thewell-meaning Jemima, who was a very good sick nurse, having ministeredto a large family of stepbrothers and stepsisters, through teething,measles, chicken-pox, mumps, and all the ills that infant flesh is heirto.

George Gerard communicated early next day with Mr. Leopold, and thatgentleman came at once to Mrs. Evitt’s bedside, where he had a longand friendly conversation with that lady, who was well enough tobe inordinately loquacious. She was quite fascinated by the famouslawyer, whose manners seemed to her the perfection of courtesy, and sheremarked afterwards that if her own neck had been in peril she couldhardly have refused to answer any questions he asked her.

Once master of his facts, at first hand, Mr. Leopold called a hansom,and drove to the shady retreat where his client was languishing indurance. Laura was with her husband when the lawyer came. She startedup, pale and agitated, at his entrance, looking to him as the one manwho was to save an innocent life.

‘Good news,’ said Leopold cheerily.

‘Thank God,’ murmured Laura, sinking back in her chair.

‘We have found the murderer.’

‘Found him,’ cried Treverton; ‘how, and where?’

‘When I say found, I go rather too far,’ said Leopold, ‘but we know whohe is. It’s the man I suspected from the beginning—your second-floorlodger, Desrolles.’

Laura gave a cry of horror.

‘You need not pity him, Mrs. Treverton,’ said Mr. Leopold.

‘He’s a thorough-paced scoundrel. I happen to be acquainted withcirc*mstances that throw a light upon his motive for the[Pg 325] murder.He is quite unworthy of your compassion. I doubt if hanging—in thegentlemanly way in which it’s done now—is bad enough for him. He oughtto have lived in a less refined age, when he would have had his lastmoments enlivened by the yells and profanity of the populace.’

‘How do you know that Desrolles was the murderer?’ asked John Treverton.

Mr. Leopold told his client the gist of Mrs. Evitt’s statement.

Treverton listened in silence. Laura sat quietly by, white as marble.

‘The young surgeon in Cibber Street tells me that Mrs. Evitt will bewell enough to appear in court next Tuesday,’ said Mr. Leopold, inconclusion. ‘If she isn’t, we must ask for another adjournment. I thinkyou may consider that you’re out of it. It would be impossible for anymagistrate to commit you, in the face of this woman’s evidence; butDesrolles will have to be found all the same, and the sooner he’s foundthe better. I shall set the police on his track immediately. Don’t lookso frightened, Mrs. Treverton. The only way to prove your husband’sinnocence is to show that some one else is guilty. I wish you couldhelp me with any information that would put the police on the rightscent,’ he added, turning to John Treverton.

‘I told you yesterday that I could not help you.’

‘Yes, but your manner gave me the idea that you were keeping backsomething. That you could—an’ if you would—have given me a clue.’

‘Your imagination—despite the grim realism of police courts—must bevery lively.’

‘Ah, I see,’ said Mr. Leopold, ‘you mean to stick to your text. Well,this fellow must be found somehow, whether you like it or not. Yourgood name depends upon our getting somebody convicted.’

‘Yes,’ cried Laura, starting up and speaking with sudden energy, ‘myhusband’s good name must be saved at any cost. What is this man to us,John, that we should spare him? What is he to me that his safety shouldbe considered before yours?’

‘Hush, dearest!’ said John soothingly. ‘Let Mr. Leopold and me managethis business between us.’

CHAPTER XLII.

THE UNDERTAKER’S EVIDENCE.

‘My father,’ cried Laura, when Mr. Leopold had taken his departure, andshe and her husband were left alone, ‘my father guilty of this cruelmurder! A crime of the vilest kind, without a shadow of excuse. And tothink that this man’s blood[Pg 326] flows in my veins, that your wife is thedaughter of a murderer. Oh, John, it is too terrible! You must hate me.You must shrink from me with loathing.’

‘Dear love, if you had descended from a long line of criminals, youwould still be to me what you have been from the first hour I knewyou, the purest, the dearest, the loveliest, the best of women.But as to this scoundrel Desrolles, who imposed on your youth andinexperience—who stole into your benefactor’s gardens like a thief,seeking only gain—who extorted from your generous young heart a pityhe did not deserve, and robbed you of your money,—I no more believethat he is your father than that he is mine. While his claim upon youmeant no more than an annuity which it cost us no sacrifice to give, Iwas too careless to trouble myself about his credentials. But now thathe stands revealed as the murderer of that unfortunate woman, it is ourbusiness to explode his specious tale. Will you help to do this, Laura?I can do nothing but advise, while I am tied hand and foot in thiswretched place.’

‘I will do anything, dearest, anything to prove that this hateful manis not the father I lived with when I was a little child. Only tell mewhat I ought to do.’

‘The first thing to be done is to go down to Chiswick, and makeinquiries there. Do you think you could find the house in which youlived, supposing that it is still standing?’

‘I think I could. It was in a very dull, out-of-the-way place. I canjust remember that. It was called Ivy Cottage, and it was in a lanewhere there was never anything to be seen from the windows.’

‘Very well, darling, what you have to do is to go down to Chiswickwith Sampson—we can afford to trust him with all our secrets, forhe’s as true as steel—see if you can find the particular Ivy Cottagewe want,—I dare say there are half-a-dozen Ivy Cottages in Chiswick,all looking out upon nothing particular,—and then discover all youcan about your father’s residence in that house, and how and when hequitted it.’

‘I will go to-day, John. Why should Mr. Sampson go with me? I am notafraid of going alone.’

‘No, dear, I could not bear that. You must have our good Sampson totake care of you. He is as sharp as a needle, and, in a country wherehe is not tongue-tied, will be very useful. He will be here in a fewminutes, and then you and he can start for Chiswick as soon as youlike.’

Half-an-hour later, Laura and Mr. Sampson were seated in a railwaycarriage on their way to Chiswick; and in less than an hour from thetime she left Clerkenwell, Laura was looking wonderingly at the laneswith which her infancy had been familiar.

There had been great changes, and she wandered about for a[Pg 327] long time,unable to recognise a single feature in the scene, except always theriver, which looked at her through the gray mistiness of a winterafternoon, like an old friend. Terraces had been built; villas ofstartling newness stared her in the face in every direction. Where ersthad been a rustic lane there was all the teeming life of a factory.

‘Surely this cannot be Chiswick!’ exclaimed Laura.

Yes, there was the good old church, looking sober, gray, and rusticas of old; and here was the village, but little changed. Laura andher companion rambled on till they left the new terraces and stuccoedvillas behind them, and came at last to a bit of the ancient world,quiet, dull, lonely, as if it had been left forgotten on the bank ofthe swift-rolling river of Time.

‘It must have been hereabouts we lived,’ said Laura.

It was a very dreary lane. There were half-a-dozen scatteredhouses, some of which had a blind look, presenting a blank wall,pierced by an odd window and a door, to the passer-by. These werethe more aristocratic habitations, and had garden fronts lookingthe other way. A little further on the explorers came to a square,uncompromising-looking cottage, with a green door, a bright brassknocker, and five prim windows looking into the lane. It was a cottagethat must have looked exactly the same a hundred and twenty years ago,when Hogarth was living and working hard by.

‘That is the house we lived in!’ cried Laura. ‘Yes, I am sure of it. Iremember those hard-looking windows, staring straight into the lane.I used to envy the children in the house further on, because they hada garden—only a little bit of garden—but just enough for flowers togrow in. There was only a stone yard, with a pump in it, at the back ofour house, and not a single flower.’

‘Had you the whole house, do you think?’ asked Sampson.

‘I am sure we had not, because we were so afraid to take libertiesin it. I remember my poor mother often telling me to be very quiet,because Miss Somebody—I haven’t the faintest recollection of hername—was very particular. I was dreadfully afraid of Miss Somebody.She was tall, and straight, and old, and she always wore a black gownand a black cap. I would not for the world have done anything to offendher. She kept the house very clean—too clean, I’ve heard my fathersay, for she was always about the stairs and passages, on her knees,with a pail beside her. I have often narrowly escaped tumbling intothat pail.’

‘I wonder if she’s alive still,’ said Sampson; ‘the house looks asif it was in the occupation of a maiden lady. I dare say my sister’shouse will look like that, when she has set up housekeeping on her ownaccount.’

[Pg 328]

He lifted the brass knocker and gave a loudish knock. The door wasopened almost immediately by a puffy widow, who had a chubby boy ofthree or four years old clinging to her skirts. The widow was verycivil, and willing to answer any questions that might be asked her, butshe could not give them the information they wanted. She begged them tocome into her parlour, and she was profuse in her offer of chairs; butshe was not the Miss Somebody whom Laura remembered.

That stern damsel, whose name was Fry, after occupying Ivy Cottagewith honour to herself and credit to the parish for eight-and-thirtyyears, had been called to her forefathers just one little year ago,and was taking her rest, after an industrious career, in the quietold churchyard where the great English painter and satirist lies. Shehad left no record of a long line of lodgers, and the amiable widowwho had taken Ivy Cottage immediately after Miss Fry’s death was noteven furnished with any traditions about the people who had livedand died in the rooms now hers. She could only reiterate that MissFry had been a most respectable lady, that she had paid her way, andleft the cottage in good repair, and she hoped that she, Mrs. Pew,would continue to deserve those favours which the public had lavishlybestowed upon her predecessor. If the lady and gentleman should hearof any party wanting quiet lodgings in a rural neighbourhood, withina quarter of an hour’s walk of the station, Mrs. Pew would considerit a great kindness if they would name her to the party in question.She would have a parlour, with bedroom over, vacant on the followingSaturday.

Sampson promised to carry the fact in his mind. Laura thanked the widowfor her civility, and gave the chubby boy half-a-crown, a gift whichwas much appreciated by the mother, who impounded it directly the doorwas shut.

‘Johnny shall have twopence to go and buy brandy snaps, he shall,’cried the matron, when her boy set up a howl at this blatant theft; andthe prospect of that immediate and sensual gratification pacified thechild.

‘Failure number one,’ said Sampson, when they were out in the lane.‘What are we to do next?’

Laura had not the least idea. She felt how helpless she would have beenwithout the kindly little solicitor; and how wise it had been of herhusband to insist upon Mr. Sampson’s companionship.

‘We are not going to be flummoxed—excuse the vulgarity of theexpression—quite so easily,’ said Sampson. ‘Everybody can’t be deadwithin the last seventeen years. Why, seventeen years is nothing to amiddle-aged man. He scarcely feels himself any older for the lapse ofseventeen years; there are a few gray hairs in his whiskers, perhaps,and his waistcoats are a[Pg 329] trifle bigger round the waist, and that’sall. There must be somebody in this place who can remember your father.Let me think it out a bit. We want to know if a certain gentlemanwho was supposed by old Mr. Treverton to have died here, did reallydie, or whether he recovered and left the place, as a certain partyasserts. All the probabilities are in favour of the one fact; and wehave only the word of a very doubtful character for the other. Let mesee, now, Mrs. Treverton, where shall we make our next inquiry? At thedoctor’s? Well, you see, there are a dozen doctors in such a place asthis, I dare say. At the undertaker’s? Yes, that’s it. Undertakers arelong-lived men. We’ll look in upon the oldest established undertakerin the village. If your father died in this place, somebody must haveburied him, and the record of his funeral will be in the undertaker’sbooks. But before I begin this business, which may be rather tedious, Ishould like to put you into a train, and send you back to London, Mrs.Treverton. A cab will take you from the station to your lodgings. Youare looking pale and tired.’

‘No, no,’ said Laura eagerly, ‘I am not tired. I had much rather stay.Don’t think of me. I have no sense of fatigue.’

Sampson shook his head dubiously, but gave way. They went to thevillage, and after making sundry inquiries at the post-office, Mr.Sampson and his companion repaired to a quiet, old-fashioned lookingshop, in whose dingy window appeared the symbols of the gloomy tradeconducted within.

Here they found an old man, who emerged from a workshop in the rear,bringing with him the aromatic odour of elm shavings.

‘Come,’ said Sampson cheerily, ‘you’re old enough to remember seventeenyears ago. You look like an old inhabitant.’

‘I can remember sixty years ago as well as I can remember yesterday,’answered the man, ‘and I shall have lived in this house sixty-nineyears come July.’

‘You’re the man for us,’ said Sampson. ‘I want you to look up yourbooks for the year 1856, and tell me if you buried Mr. Malcolm, of IvyCottage, Markham Lane. You buried Mrs. Malcolm first, you know, and thehusband soon followed her. It was a very quiet funeral.’

The undertaker scratched his head thoughtfully, and seemed to retireinto the shadow-land of departed years. He ruminated for some minutes.

‘I can find out all about it in my ledger,’ he said, ‘but I’ve a prettygood memory. I don’t like to feel dependent upon books. Ivy Cottage?That was Miss Fry’s house. I buried her a year ago. A very prettyfuneral, everything suitable,[Pg 330] and in harmony with the old lady’scharacter. Some of our oldest tradespeople followed. It was quite acreditable thing.’

Sampson waited hopefully while the old man pondered upon past triumphsin the undertaking line.

‘Let me see, now,’ he said musingly. ‘Ivy Cottage. I’ve done a goodbit of business for Ivy Cottage within the last thirty years. I’veburied—there—I should say a round dozen of Miss Fry’s tenants. Theywas mostly elderly folks, with small annuities, who came to Chiswick tofinish up their lives; as a quiet old-fashioned place, you see, wherethey was in nobody’s way. First and last I should say I’ve turned outa round dozen from Ivy Cottage. It was a satisfaction to do thingsnicely for Miss Fry herself, at the wind up. She’d been a good friendto me, and she wasn’t like the doctors, you know. I couldn’t offer hera commission. Malcolm! Malcolm, husband and wife, I ought to rememberthat! Yes, I’ve got it! a sweet young lady, seven-and-twenty at themost, and the husband drooped and died soon afterwards. I remember.She had a very plain funeral, poor dear, for there didn’t seem to bemuch money, and the husband was the only mourner. We buried him inrather superior style, I recollect; for an old friend had turned up atthe last, and there was enough money to pay all the little debts anddo things very nicely, in a quiet way, for the poor gentleman. Therewere only two mourners in his case, the doctor and an elderly ladyfrom London, who followed in her own carriage. I remember the lady,because she called upon me directly after the funeral, and asked me ifI was paid, or sure of being paid, as the deceased was her nephew, andshe would be willing to perform this last act of kindness for him. Ithought it a very graceful thing for the lady to do.’

‘Did she give you her address?’ asked Sampson.

‘I’ve a notion that she left her card, and that I copied the addressinto my book. It would be a likely thing for me to do, for I’m verymethodical in my ways; and with a party of that age there’s always aninterest. She might come to want me herself soon, and might bear it inmind on her death-bed. Well, now I’ve called upon my memory, I’ll lookat my ledger.’

He went to a cupboard in a corner of the shop, and took down a volumefrom a row of tall, narrow books, a series which comprised ‘the storyof his life from year to year.’

‘Yes,’ he said, after turning over a good many leaves, ‘here it is.Mrs. Malcolm, pine, covered black cloth, black nails,——’

‘That’ll do,’ interrupted Sampson, seeing Laura’s distressed look atthese details; ‘now we want Mr. Malcolm.’

‘Here he is, three months later. Stephen Malcolm, Esq., polished oak,brass handles,—a very superior article, I remember.’

[Pg 331]

‘There can be no mistake, I suppose, in an entry of that kind,’ askedSampson.

‘Mistake!’ cried the undertaker, with an offended air. ‘If you can finda false entry in my books, I’ll forfeit five per cent. upon ten years’profits.’

‘There can be no doubt, then, that Mr. Stephen Malcolm died at IvyCottage, and that you conducted his funeral?’

‘Not the least doubt.’

‘Very well. If you will get me a certified copy of the entry of hisdeath in the parish register, I shall be happy to recompense youfor your trouble. The document is required for a little bit of lawbusiness. Is the doctor who attended Mr. Malcolm still living?’

‘No. It was old Dr. Dewsnipp. He’s dead. But young Dewsnipp is alive,and in practice here. He can give you any information you want, I daresay.’

‘Thanks. I think if you get me the copy of the register, that willbe sufficient. Oh, by the way, you may as well find the old lady’saddress.’

‘Ah, to be sure. As you are interested in the family, you may liketo have it; though I dare say the old lady has gone to her long homebefore now. Some London firm had the job, no doubt. London firmsare so pushing, and they contrive to stand so well with the medicalprofession.’

The address was found—Mrs. Malcolm, 97, Russell Square—and copied byMr. Sampson, who thanked the old man for his courtesy, and gave him hiscard, with the Midland Hotel address added in pencil. The short winterday was now closing in, and Sampson felt anxious to get Mrs. Trevertonhome.

‘I might have gone to the parish register in the first instance,’ hesaid, when they had left the undertaker’s, ‘but I thought we should getmore information out of an old inhabitant, and so we have, for we’veheard of this old lady in Russell Square.’

‘Yes, I remember spending a week at her house,’ said Laura. ‘How longago it all seems! Like the memory of another life.’

‘Lor’, yes,’ said Sampson; ‘I remember when I was a little chap, at Dr.Prossford’s grammar school, playing chuck-farthing. I’ve often lookedback and wondered to think that little chap, in a tight jacket andshort trousers, was an early edition of me.’

‘You think the later editions have been improvements on that,’ saidLaura, smiling.

She was able to smile now. A heavy load had been suddenly lifted fromher mind. What infinite relief it was to know that her father had neverbeen the pitiful trickster—the crawling pensioner upon a woman’sbounty—that she had been taught to think him. Her heart was full ofgratitude to heaven for this discovery—so easily made, and yet of suchimmeasurable value.

[Pg 332]

‘Who can that man be?’ she asked herself. ‘He must have been a friendof my father’s, in close companionship with him, or he would hardlyhave become possessed of my mother’s miniature, and of those lettersand papers.’

She determined to go without delay to the house in Russell Square, inthe hope—at best but a faint hope—of finding the old lady in blacksatin still among the living, and not represented by an entry in theledger of some West-end undertaking firm, or by a number in the dismalcatalogue of a suburban cemetery.

CHAPTER XLIII.

AN OLD LADY’S DIARY.

On the following afternoon Laura drove straight from the House ofDetention to Russell Square. Her interview with her husband had beenfull of comfort. Mr. Leopold had been with his client, and Mr. Leopoldwas in excellent spirits. He had no doubt as to the issue of his case,even without Desrolles; and the detectives had very little doubt offinding Desrolles.

‘A man of that age and of those habits doesn’t go far,’ said thelawyer, speaking of this human entity with as much assurance as if hewere stating a mathematical truth.

Laura got out of her cab before one of the dullest-looking housesin the big, handsome old square—a house brightened by no modernembellishment in the way of Venetian blind or encaustic flower-box, butkept with a scrupulous care. Not a speck upon the window panes, not aspot upon the snow-white steps, the varnish of the door as fresh as ifit had been laid on yesterday.

The door was opened by an old man-servant in plain clothes. Laura grewhopeful at the sight of him. He looked like a man who had lived fiftyyears in one service—the kind of man who begins as a knife-boy, andeither stultifies a spotless career by going to America with the plate,or ends as a pious annuitant, in the odour of sanctity.

‘Does Mrs. Malcolm still live here?’ asked Laura.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Is she at home?’

‘I will inquire, ma’am, if you will be kind enough to give me yourcard,’ replied the man, as much as to say that his mistress was a ladywhose leisure was not to be irreverently disturbed. She was to be athome or not at home, as it pleased her sovereign will, and according tothe quality and claims of her visitor.

Laura wrote upon one of her cards, ‘Stephen Malcolm’s[Pg 333] daughter,Laura,’ while the ancient butler produced a solid old George the Secondsalver whereon to convey the card with due reverence to his mistress.

The address upon the card looked respectable, and so did Laura, andupon the strength of these appearances the butler ventured to show thestranger into the dining-room, where the furniture was of the goodold brobdingnagian stamp, and there was nothing portable except thefire-irons. Here Laura waited in a charnel-house atmosphere, while Mrs.Malcolm called up the dim shadows of the past, and finally came to thedetermination that she would hold parley with this young person whoclaimed to be of her kindred.

The butler came back after a chilly interval, and ushered Mrs.Treverton up the broad, ghastly-looking staircase, where drabwalls looked down upon a stone-coloured carpet, to the big, baredrawing-room, which had ever been one of the coldest memories of herchildhood.

It was a long and lofty room, furnished with monumental rosewood. Thecheffoniers were like tombs—the sofa suggested an altar—the centretable looked as massive as one of those Druidic menhirs whichcrop up here and there among the wilds of Dartmoor, or the sandy plainsof Brittany. A pale-faced clock ticked solemnly on the white marblechimney-piece, three tall windows let in narrow streaks of palliddaylight, between voluminous drab curtains.

In this mausoleum-like chamber, beside a dull and miserly-lookingfire, sat an old lady in black satin—the very same figure, the verysame satin gown, Laura remembered years ago; or a gown so like that itappeared the same.

‘Aunt,’ said Laura, approaching timidly, and feeling as if she were alittle child again, and doomed to solitary imprisonment in that awfulroom, ‘have you forgotten me?’

The old lady in black satin held out her hand, a withered white handclad in a black mitten, and adorned with old-fashioned rings.

‘No, my dear,’ she replied, without any indication of surprise, ‘Inever forget anyone or anything. My memory is good, and my sight andhearing are good. Providence has been very kind to me. Your cardpuzzled me at first, but when I came to think it over I soon understoodwho you were. Sit down, my dear. Jonam shall bring you a glass ofsherry.’

The old lady rose and rang the bell.

‘Please don’t, aunt,’ said Laura. ‘I never take sherry. I don’t wantanything except to talk with you a little about my poor father.’

‘Poor Stephen,’ replied Mrs. Malcolm. ‘Sadly imprudent, poor fellow.Nobody’s enemy but his own. And so you are married, my dear? Nevermind, Jonam, my niece will not[Pg 334] take anything.’ This to the butler.‘You were adopted by an old friend of your father’s, I remember. I wentto Chiswick the day after poor Stephen’s death, and found that you hadbeen taken away. I was very glad to know you were provided for; thoughof course I should have done what I could for you in the way of tryingto get you into an institution, or something of that kind. I couldnever have had a child in this house. Children upset everything. I hopeyour father’s friend has carried out his undertaking handsomely?’

‘He was all goodness,’ answered Laura. ‘He was more than a father tome. But I lost him two years ago.’

‘I hope he left you independent?’

‘He made me independent by a deed of trust, when I first went to him.He settled six thousand pounds for my benefit.’

‘Very handsome indeed. And pray whom have you married?’

‘My benefactor’s nephew, and the inheritor of his estate.’

‘You have been a very lucky girl, Laura, and you ought to be thankfulto God.’

‘I hope I am thankful.’

‘I have often noticed that the children of improvident fathers dobetter in life than those whose parents toil to make them independent.They are like the ravens—Providence takes care of them. Well, my dear,I congratulate you.’

‘God has been very good to me, dear aunt, but I have had many troubles.I want you to tell me about my father. Did you see much of him in thelast years of his life?’

‘Not very much. He used to call upon me occasionally, and he usedsometimes to bring your mother to spend the day with me. She was asweet woman—you are like her in face and figure—and she and I used toget on very nicely together. She was not above taking advice.’

‘Had my father many friends and acquaintances at that time?’ askedLaura.

‘Many friends! My dear, he was poor.’

‘Do you know if he had any one particular friend? He could not havebeen quite alone in the world. I recollect there was a gentleman whoused to come very often to the cottage at Chiswick. I cannot rememberwhat he was like. I was seldom in the room when he was there. Iremember only that my father and he were often together. I have a verystrong reason for wishing to know all about that man.’

‘I think I know whom you mean. I have heard your poor mother talk ofhim many a time. She used to tell me all her troubles, and I used togive her good advice. You say you want particularly to know about thisperson.’

[Pg 335]

‘Most particularly, dear aunt,’ said Laura eagerly.

‘Then, my dear, my diary can tell you much better than I can. I ama woman of methodical habits, and ever since my husband’s death,three-and-twenty years ago last August, I have made a point of keepinga record of the course of every day in my life. I dare say the bookwould seem very stupid to strangers. I hope nobody will publish itafter I am dead. But it has been a great pleasure to me to look throughthe pages from time to time, and call up old days. It is almost likeliving over again. Kindly take my keys, Laura, and open the right-handdoor of the cheffonier.’

Laura obeyed. The interior of the cheffonier was divided intoshelves, and on the uppermost of these shelves were neatly arrangedthree-and-twenty small volumes, bound in morocco, and lettered Diary,with the date of each year. The parliamentary records at StrawberryHill are not more carefully kept than the history of Mrs. Malcolm’slife.

‘Let me see,’ she said. ‘Your father died in the winter of ’56; yourpoor mother a few months earlier. Bring me the volume for ’56.’

Laura handed the book to the old lady, who gave a gentle little sigh asshe opened it.

‘Dear me, how neatly I wrote in ’56,’ she exclaimed. ‘My handwritinghas sadly degenerated since then. We get old, my dear; we grow oldwithout knowing it.’

Laura thought that in that monumental drawing-room agemight well creep on unawares. Life there must be a longhybernation.

‘Let me see. I must find some of my conversations with your mother.“June 2. Read prayers. Breakfast. My rasher was cut too thick, and thefrying was not up to cook’s usual mark. Mem.: must speak to cook aboutthe bacon. Read a leading article on indirect taxation in Times,and felt my store of knowledge increased. Saw cook. Decided on a lambcutlet for lunch, and a slice of salmon and roast chicken for dinner.Sent for cook five minutes afterwards, and ordered sole instead ofsalmon. I had salmon the day before yesterday.” Dear me, I don’t seeyour poor mother’s name in the first week of June,’ said the oldlady, turning over the leaves. ‘Here it comes, a little later, on thefifteenth. Now you shall hear your mother’s own words, faithfullyrecorded on the day she spoke them. And yet there are people who wouldridicule a lonely old woman for keeping a diary,’ added Mrs. Malcolm,with mild self-approval.

‘I feel very grateful to you for having kept one,’ said Laura.

‘June 15. Stephen brought his wife to lunch with me, by appointment.I ordered a nice little luncheon; filleted sole, cutlets, a duckling,peas, new potatoes, cherry tart, and a custard.[Pg 336] The poor woman doesnot often enjoy a good dinner, and no doubt my luncheon would be herdinner. But my thoughtfulness was thrown away. The poor thing waslooking pale and worn when she came, and she hardly ate a morsel. Eventhe duckling did not tempt her, though she owned it was the first shehad seen this year. After luncheon Stephen went to the City, to keepan appointment, as he told us, and his wife and I spent a quiet hourin my drawing-room. We had a long talk, which turned, as usual, onher domestic troubles. She calls this Captain Desmond her husband’sevil genius, and says he is a blight upon her life. He is not an oldfriend of Stephen’s, so there is no excuse for that foolish fellow’sinfatuation. They met him first at Boulogne, last year; and from thattime to this he and Stephen have been inseparable. Poor Laura declaresthat this Desmond belongs to a horrid, gambling, drinking set, and thathe is the cause of Stephen’s ruin. “We were poor when we first went toBoulogne,” she said, with tears in her eyes, poor child, “but we couldjust manage to live respectably, and for the first year we were veryhappy. But from the day my husband made the acquaintance of CaptainDesmond things began to go badly. Stephen resumed his old habits ofbilliard-playing, cards, and late hours. He had grown fond of his home,and reconciled to a quiet, domestic life. Darling Laura’s pretty waysand sweet little talk amused and interested him. But after CaptainDesmond came upon the scene Stephen seldom spent an evening at home.I know that it is wicked to hate people,” the poor thing said, in hersimple way, “but I cannot help hating this bad man.”’

‘Poor mother!’ sighed Laura, touched to the heart by this picture ofdomestic misery.

‘I asked her if she knew who and what Captain Desmond was. She couldonly tell me that when Stephen made his acquaintance he was livingat a boarding-house at Boulogne, and had been living there for somemonths. He had spent a considerable part of his life abroad. He hadnobody belonging to him, and he seemed to belong to nobody; though heoften boasted vaguely of grand connections. To poor Laura’s mind he wasnothing more or less than an adventurer. “He flatters my husband,” shesaid, “and he tries to flatter me. He is very often at Chiswick, andwhenever he comes he takes my husband back to London with him, and thenI see no more of Stephen till the next day, or perhaps not for two orthree days after. He has what his friend calls a shake-down at CaptainDesmond’s lodgings in May’s Buildings, St. Martin’s Lane.”’

‘Aunt,’ exclaimed Laura eagerly, ‘will you let me copy that address? Itmight be of use to me, if I should have to trace the past life of thisman.’

[Pg 337]

She wrote the address in a little memorandum book contained in herpurse.

‘My dear, why should you trouble yourself about Captain Desmond,’ saidthe old lady. ‘Whatever harm he did your poor father is past and donewith. Nothing can alter or mend it now.’

‘No, aunt, but as long as this man lives he will go on doing harm. Hewill go from small crimes to great ones. It is his nature. Please goon with the diary, dear aunt. You can have no idea how valuable thisinformation is to me.’

‘I have always felt I was doing a useful act in keeping a diary, mydear. I am not surprised to find this humble record of inestimablevalue,’ said the old lady, who was bursting with gratified vanity.‘Where would history be if people in easy circ*mstances, and withplenty of leisure, did not keep diaries? I do not think there is anymore about Captain Desmond. No; your mother tells me about her ownhealth. She is feeling very low and ill. She fears she will not livemany years, and then what is to become of poor little Laura?’

‘Did you ever go to Chiswick, aunt?’

‘Never, till after your poor father’s death. I attended his funeral.’

‘Was Captain Desmond present?’

‘No; but he was with your father up till the last hour of his life. Iheard that from the landlady. He helped to nurse him.’

‘I thank you, aunt, with all my heart, for what you have told me. Iwill come and see you again in a few days, if I may.’

‘Do, my dear, and bring your husband.’ Laura shivered. ‘I shouldlike to make his acquaintance. If you will mention the day a littlebeforehand, I should be pleased for you to take your luncheon with me.I have the cook who roasted that duckling for your poor mother stillwith me.’

‘I shall be pleased to come, aunt. We are in London upon very seriousbusiness, but I hope it will soon be ended, and when it is over I willtell you all about it.’

‘Do, my dear, I am very glad to see you again. I dare say you rememberspending a week with me when your mother died. I think you enjoyedyourself. This house must have been such a change for you after thatpoor little place at Chiswick, and there is a good deal to amuse achild in this room,’ said Mrs. Malcolm, glancingadmiringly from the monumental clock on the mantelpiece to the group offeather flowers and stuffed birds on the sepulchral cheffonier.

Laura smiled faintly, remembering those interminable days in thatcheerless chamber, compared with which a dirty lane where she couldhave made mud pies would have been Elysium.

‘I’ve no doubt you were extremely kind to me, aunt,’ she said gently,‘but I was very small and very shy.’

[Pg 338]

‘And you did not like going to bed in the dark; which shows that youhave been foolishly brought up. Your mother was a sweet woman, butwanting in strength of mind.’

CHAPTER XLIV.

THREE WITNESSES.

In the forenoon of the following Tuesday John Treverton again appearedbefore the magistrate, at the Police-court in Bow Street.

The same witnesses were present who had been examined on the previousoccasion. Two medical men gave their evidence as to the dagger, whichhad been sent to them for examination. One declared that the blade boreunmistakable traces of blood stains, and gave it as his opinion thatsteel once so sullied never lost the stain. The other stated that asteel blade wiped quickly while the blood upon it was wet would carryno such ineffaceable mark, and that the tarnished appearance of thedagger was referable only to time and atmosphere.

The inquiry dragged itself haltingly towards a futile close, when justas it seemed about to conclude, an elderly woman, wrapped in a thickgray shawl, and a cat-skin sable victorine, and further muffled with aShetland veil tied over a close black bonnet, came forward, escorted byGeorge Gerard, and volunteered her evidence. This was Mrs. Evitt, whowas just well enough to crawl from a cab to the witness-box, leaning onthe surgeon’s arm.

‘Oh,’ said the magistrate, when Jane Sophia Evitt had been duly sworn,‘you are the landlady, are you? Why were you not here last Tuesday? Youwere subpœnaed, I believe.’

‘Yes, your worship, though I was not in a state of health to bear it.’

‘Oh, you were too ill to appear, were you? Well, what have you to sayabout the prisoner?’

‘Please, your worship, he oughtn’t to be a prisoner. I ought to have upand spoke the truth sooner—it has preyed upon me awful that I didn’tdo it—a sweet young wife, too.’

‘What is the meaning of this rambling?’ asked the magistrate,indignantly. ‘Is the poor creature delirious?’

‘No, sir, I ain’t more delirious than your worship. My body has beenall of a shiver—hot fits and cold fits—but thank God my mind has kep’clear.’

‘You really must not tell us about your ailments. What do you know ofthe prisoner?’

‘Only that he’s as innocent as that lamb, yonder,’ said Mrs.[Pg 339] Evitt,pointing to a baby in the arms of a forlorn looking drab, from theadjacent rookeries of St. Giles’s, which had just set up a shrillsquall, and was in process of being evicted by a policeman. ‘He had nomore to do with it than that blessed infant that’s just been carriedout of court.’

And then, continually beginning to wander, and being continually pulledup sharp by the magistrate, Mrs. Evitt told her ghastly story of thehandful of iron-grey hair, and the blood-stained dressing-gown, hiddenin the closet behind the bed in her two-pair back.

‘Which is there to this day, as the police may find for themselves ifthey like to go and look,’ concluded Mrs. Evitt.

‘They will take care to do that,’ said the magistrate. ‘Where is thisDesrolles?’

‘He is being looked for, sir,’ replied Mr. Leopold. ‘If your worshipwill permit, there are two gentlemen in court who are in possession offacts that have a material bearing on this case.’

‘Let them be sworn.’

The first of these two voluntary witnesses was Mr. Joseph Lemuel,the well-known stockbroker and millionaire, on whose appearance inthe witness-box there was a sudden hush in the court, and profoundattention from every one, as at the presence of greatness.

Even that tag-rag and bob-tail from adjacent St. Giles’s had heard ofJoseph Lemuel. His name had been in the penny newspapers. He was a manwho was supposed to make a million of money every time there was war inEurope, and to lose a million whenever there was a financial crisis.

‘Do you know anything of this affair, Mr. Lemuel?’ the magistrateasked, with an off-hand friendliness, when the witness had been sworn,as much as to say, ‘It is really uncommonly good of you to troubleyourself about a fellow-creature’s fate; and I want to make the thingas light and as pleasant as I can, for your sake.’

‘I think I may be able to afford a clue to the motive of the murderer,’said Mr. Lemuel, who seemed more moved than the occasion warranted.‘I presented the unhappy lady with a necklace about a week before herdeath; and I have reason to fear that this gift may have been the causeof her terrible death!’

‘Was the necklace of such value as to tempt a murderer?’

‘It was not. But, to an uneducated eye, it appeared of great value. Itwas a gift which I offered to a lady whose talents I—as one of theoutside public—enthusiastically admired.’

‘Naturally,’ assented the magistrate, as much as to say, ‘Don’tbe frightened, my dear sir. I am not going to ask you any awkwardquestions.’

‘It was a necklace I had bought in Paris, in the Palais Royal,[Pg 340] ashort time before. It was made by a man who had a speciality for thesethings. It would perhaps have deceived any eye except that of a diamondmerchant, and might indeed have deceived a dealer, if he had judged bythe eye alone. I gave fifty pounds for the necklace. It was exquisitelyset, and really a work of art.’

‘Did Madame Chicot suppose the stones were real?’

‘I don’t know, I told her nothing about the necklace. It seemed to me asuitable offering to an actress, to whom appearances are as importantas realities.’

‘Madame Chicot made no inquiry as to the intrinsic value of your gift?’

‘None. It was offered and accepted in silence.’

‘Is that all you have to say?’

‘That is all.’

The next witness was Mr. Mosheh, the diamond merchant. His evidenceconsisted of a straight and succinct narrative of his interview withthe stranger who offered for sale a set of imitation diamonds under theimpression that he was offering real stones of great value.

‘These crystals were some of them equal in size to the largestdiamonds known in the trade,’ said Mr. Mosheh. ‘They would have been atremendous haul for a thief, if they had been real.’

He gave the date of the man’s visit, which was within a week of LaChicot’s murder.

‘Could you identify the man who called upon you with those stones?’asked the magistrate.

‘I believe I could.’

‘Was he the prisoner?’

‘Certainly not. He was a man of between fifty and sixty years of age.’

‘Has anybody a photograph of Desrolles?’

Yes, there was a photograph in court. Mrs. Evitt had furnishedthe police with two, which Desrolles had given her upon differentoccasions. One was in court, the other had been taken by the detectivewho was looking for Desrolles.

The photograph was shown to the witness.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Mosheh, ‘I believe that to be the same face. The manwho came to me wore a large gray beard. All the lower part of the facewas hidden, and the beard made him look older. I conclude that it wasa false beard. But to the best of my belief that is the same man. Theupper part of the face is very striking. I don’t think I could bedeceived in it.’

After this evidence Mr. Leopold urged that there was no ground for anylonger detaining John Treverton. The magistrate, after some littlediscussion, agreed to this, and the prisoner was discharged.

THE HUNT FOR DESROLLES.

When Desrolles left the village under the shadow of Dartmoor, afterbargaining for a handsome annuity, he meant to enter upon a new anddelightful stage of existence. The world was changed for him. Assuredof a handsome income, he felt as it were, new born. He would rove,butterfly-like, from city to city. He would sip of one sweet, andthen fly to the rest. All that was fairest upon earth was at hiscommand. The loveliest spots in southern Europe should be the cradleof his declining years. He would leave off brandy, and live decently.Henceforward he would have a full purse, and freedom from care; forwhat tortures can conscience have in reserve for a man who has set itat nought all his life?

Mr. Desrolles considered Paris as the first stage in that voyage ofpleasure which he had planned for himself; but once having enteredParis, with money in his pocket, and a sense of independence, all hisschemes became as nothing when weighed against the fascinations of thatwonderful city. He had spent some of his most reckless years in Paris;he knew the city by heart, with all her charms, with all her vices, allthose qualities which she possesses in common with the courtesans whospring from her soil. Paris for Desrolles in his decline had all thedelights she had offered him in his youth. She stretched out her manyarms to detain and hold him like an octopus. Her life of the streetsand the café, her dancing places—where the dancing began at elevenat night and ended only at some unearthly hour of the morning—hersinging places, where bare-necked brazen women sat smiling in theglare of the gas—her wine shops at every corner—her billiard-roomsover every café—all these were charms which for Desrolles provedirresistible. There was an all-pervading note of dissipation in theplace that delighted him. In London he had felt himself a scamp. InParis he fancied himself little worse than his fellow men. There weredifferences perhaps; but only differences of degree.

Desrolles had come to Paris with the intention of curing himselfof brandy. He carried out this resolve with laudable firmness. Hecured himself of brandy by taking to absinthe. He entered Paris withninety-five pounds in his pocket, and a promise of a thousand a year.With the future so amply provided for, he was naturally somewhatreckless as to his expenditure in the present. He was not a man whocared for pomp or show. He had out-lived his taste for the refinementsof life.[Pg 342] With his purse full of money he had no inclination to put upat Meurice’s or the Bristol. The elegant luxury of those establishmentswould have seemed fade to his perverted taste, just as brandywithout the addition of cayenne pepper used to seem tasteless to aluckless English marquis, who burned life’s brief candle at both ends,and brought it to speedy extinction.

Desrolles, like the hare, wound back to his old form. Years ago he hadlodged in the students’ quarter, and drunk at the students’ cafés, andlost his money among those profane young reprobates from whom were toissue the future senators, doctors, and lawyers of France. The lodginghad been dirty and disreputable twenty years ago. It was so much themore dirty and no less disreputable after the lapse of twenty years.But Desrolles was grateful to Providence and the Prefect of the Seinefor having left his old quarters standing.

The house, beneath whose weather-worn roof he had spent such wildnights of old, had been spared from demolition by accident only,and was soon to be numbered with the things of the past. Its doomwas fixed, it existed only on sufferance, pending the completereconstruction of the quarter. A mighty Boulevard, marching on withprogress as relentless as Juggernaut’s car, had cut the narrow, dingyold street across, at right angles, letting daylight in upon all itsshabbiness, its teeming life, its contented poverty,its secret crime, squalid miseries, and sordid vices.

The house in which Desrolles had lived had but just escaped demolition.It stood at the corner of the broad, new Boulevard, where mighty stonepalaces were being raised upon the ashes of departed hovels. Its nextdoor neighbour had been razed to the ground, and the gaudy papers thathad lined the vanished rooms were revealed to the open day, showinghow, stage by stage, the rooms had waxed shabbier, lower, smaller, tillon the sixth story they had dwindled to mere pigeon holes. The raggedpaper rotted on the wall; black patches showed where the fire-placeshad stood; and a great black column marked the course of a demolishedchimney-stack. This outside wall had been shored up, but, even thussupported, the tall, narrow, corner house, contemplated from the streetbelow, had an insecure look.

Desrolles was delighted to find his ancient den still standing. Howwell he remembered the little wine-shop on the ground floor, thebright-coloured bottles in the windows, the odour of brandy within, theblouses sitting on the benches against the wall, squabbling loudly overdominoes, or playing écarte with the limpest and smallest ofcards.

He inquired in the wine-shop if there was une chambre degarçon—a bachelor’s room—to be had upstairs.

[Pg 343]

‘There is always room for a bachelor,’ answered the buxom female behindthe counter. ‘Yes, there is a pretty little room on the fifth story,all that there is of the most commodious, où, monsieur aurait toutesses aises.’

Desrolles shrugged his shoulders dubiously.

‘The fifth story,’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you think my legs are as young asthey were twenty years ago?’

‘Monsieur looks full of youth and activity,’ said the woman.

‘Does La Veuve Chomard still keep the house?’

Alas, no. The widow Chomard had departed some nine years ago to thenarrowest of houses in the cemetery of Mount Parnassus. The presentproprietor was a gentleman in the commerce of wines, and also theproprietor of the shop.

That made nothing, Desrolles told the woman. All he wanted was acomfortable room on the first or second floor.

Unhappily the chambrette de garçon on the fifth stage was theonly unoccupied room in the house, and after some hesitation Desrollesfollowed an ancient female of the portress species up the dirty oldstaircase, and into the chambrette.

‘That gives upon the new boulevard,’ said the portress, opening a smallwindow. ‘C’est crânement gai. It is awfully lively!’

Desrolles looked down upon the broad new street, with its omnibuses,and waggons, and builders’ trollies, circulating up and down—itsmonstrous scaffolding, and lofty ladders, and workmen dangling betweenearth and sky, with an appearance of being in immediate peril of death.

The room was small, but to Desrolles’ eye it looked snug. There werecomfortable stuff curtains to the mahogany bedstead, curtains to thewindow, a carpet on the red-tiled floor, a hearth on which a wood firemight burn cheerily, a cupboard for firewood, and a bureau with a lockand key, in which a man might put away a bottle or two for occasionaluse.

‘It’s an infernal way up,’ he said. ‘A man might as well live on thetop of the gate of St. Denis. But I must make it serve. I am a staunchConservative. I like old quarters.’

Of old the house had been free and easy in its habits. A lodger couldcome in at any hour he liked with his pass-key. Desrolles made aninquiry or two of the portress as to the present rule. He found thatthe old order still obtained. The present proprietor was un bonenfant. He asked nothing of his lodgers, but that they should payhim his rent, and not embroil themselves with the police.

Desrolles flung down the small valise which contained all his worldlygear, paid the portress a month’s rent in advance, and went out toenjoy his Paris. That enchantress had him in[Pg 344] her clutch already. Hemade up his mind by this time that he would defer his journey southwardfor a few weeks; perhaps until after the procession of the BœufGras had delighted the lively inhabitants of the liveliest city inthe world.

He went back to his old haunts, loved twenty years ago, and alwaysremembered with fondness. He found many changes, but the atmospherewas still the same. Absinthe was the one great novelty. That murderousstimulant had not attained a universal popularity at the beginning ofthe Second Empire. Desrolles took to absinthe as an infant takes to thegracious fountain heaven has provided for its sustenance. He renouncedbrandy in favour of the less familiar poison. He found plenty of newcompanions in his old haunts. They were not the same men, but they hadthe same habits, the same vices; and Desrolles’ idea of a friend was abundle of sympathetic wickedness. He found men to gamble with and drinkwith, men whose tongues were as foul as his own, and who looked at lifein this world and the next from the same standpoint.

His brutal nature sank even to a lower depth of brutality in suchcongenial company. Money gave him a temporary omnipotence. He wasspending it with royal recklessness, believing himself secure againstall future evils, when one morning chance flung an English newspaper inhis way, and he read the report of John Treverton’s first appearance atthe Bow Street Police-court.

The paper was more than a week old. The adjourned inquiry must havebeen held a day or two ago. Desrolles sat staring at the page in a halfstupid wonderment, his brain bemused with absinthe, trying to considerwhat effect this arrest of John Treverton might exercise upon his ownfortunes.

There was no mention of his own name in the report. So far he wasentirely ignored. So far he felt himself safe.

Yet there was no knowing what might happen. An investigation of thiskind once commenced, might extend its ramifications in the widestdirections.

‘It is a pity,’ Desrolles said to himself. ‘The business was socomfortably settled. It must be the parson’s son, that young coxcomb Isaw in Devonshire, who has set the thing moving again.’

His life in Paris suited him, it was indeed the only kind of lifehe cared for; yet so much was he disturbed by the idea of possiblerevelations to which this new inquiry might lead, that he began toconsider the prudence of going further afield.

‘America is the place,’ he said to himself. ‘Some sea-coast city inSouth America would suit me down to the ground. But that kind of lifewould only be comfortable with an assured income;[Pg 345] and how am I tofeel sure of my income if I leave Europe? As to Treverton being introuble—I can afford to take that coolly. They can’t hang him. Theevidence against him is not strong enough to hang a mongrel dog. No,unless other names are brought up, the thing must blow over. But if Iput the high seas between Mr. and Mrs. Treverton and me, how can I besure of my pension? They may snap their fingers at me when I am on theother side of the herring-pond.’

This was a serious consideration, yet Desrolles had a lurkingconviction that it would be wise for him to get to America as soon ashe could. Paris might suit him admirably, but Paris was unpleasantlynear London. The police of the two cities were doubtless in frequentcommunication.

He went to a shipping office, and got the time bill of the Americansteamers that were to sail from Havre during the next six weeks. Hecarried this document about with him for two or three days, and studiedit frequently in his quiet moments. He knew the names of the steamersand their tonnage by heart, but he had not yet made up his mind towhich vessel he would entrust himself and his fortunes. There was LaReine Blanche, which sailed for Valparaiso in a week’s time. Therewas the Zenobie, which sailed for Rio Janeiro in a fortnight. Hewas divided between these two.

He told himself that he must have an outfit of some kind for hisvoyage. This and his passage would cost at least fifty pounds. Of thehundred which John Treverton had given him he had only sixty remaining.

‘There will not be much left by the time I get to the south,’ he saidto himself. ‘But I don’t think Laura will throw me over. Besides, ifthe money is paid to my account in Shepherd’s Inn—the Trevertons neednever know my whereabouts.’

He made up his mind at last that he would go by the ReineBlanche, the ship which sailed earliest. He went to the BelleJardinière, and laid out ten pounds upon clothing, and bought himself aportmanteau to hold his new garments. He called at the agents to takehis passage and pay the necessary deposit, to secure his berth.

He had intended to go to the New World with a new name, but exhaustednature had required a good deal of stimulant after the purchase of theoutfit, and by the time he reached the office Mr. Desrolles was, inhis own phraseology, rather far gone. It was as much as he could do toreckon his money when he took a handful of loose gold and silver fromhis pocket. The clerk had to help him. When the clerk asked him hisname, he answered without thinking—Desrolles; but in the next moment aray of light flashed through the darkness of his clouded brain, and hecorrected himself.

[Pg 346]

‘Beg pardon,’ he ejacul*ted, spasmodically. ‘Desrolles a friend’sname. My name’s Mowbray. Colonel Mowbray, citizen, United States. Justfinished a grand tour of Europe. ’Mericans very fond of Paris. Charmingcity. Good deal altered since my last tour—twent’ years ago. Notaltered for the better.’

‘Oh, then your name is not Desrolles, but Mowbray,’ said the clerk,scanning the American colonel somewhat suspiciously.

‘Yes, Mowbray. M-o-w-b-r-a-y’ answered Desrolles, laboriously.

He left the office, and being too far gone to have any definite viewsas to his destination, drifted vaguely to the Palais Royal, where hecame to anchor at the Café de la Rotonde, and there called for theusual dose of absinthe, into which he poured half a tumbler of water,with a tremulous hand.

He fell asleep in the snug corner by the stove, and slept off somethingof his intoxication; or at least he awoke so far refreshed as toremember an appointment he had made with one of his new friends ofthe Quartier Latin, to dine at a restaurant on the Quai des GrandsAugustins.

He had plenty of time to spare, so he sauntered round the Palais Royal,and stared idly at the shop windows, till he came to one where therewas a great display of diamonds, when he recoiled as if he had seenan adder, and turned quickly aside into the gravelly garden, where heflung himself upon a bench, trembling from head to foot. ‘Curse them,’he muttered, ‘curse those shining shams. They have ruined me body andsoul. I never took to drinking—hard—until after that.’

Beads of sweat broke out upon his contracted brow as he sat there,staring straight before him, as if at some horrid vision. Then hepulled himself together with an effort, braced his shattered nerves,and left the Palais Royal with something of the old ‘long sword,saddle, bridle’ swagger, which had been peculiar to him twenty yearsago, when he called himself Captain Desmond, and had not yet forgottenhis youthful days in a cavalry regiment.

He kept his appointment, treated his new friend like a prince, dinedluxuriously, and drank deeply of the strongest Burgundy in the winelist, winding up with numerous glasses of Chartreuse. After dinner Mr.Desrolles and his guest repaired to a café on the Boulevard St. Michel,where there was a billiard table; and the rest of the evening wasdevoted to billiards, Desrolles growing noisier, more quarrelsome, andless distinct of utterance as the night wore on.

There were two things which Mr. Desrolles did not know; first, thathis new friend was a distinguished member of the Parisian swell-mob,and was constantly under the surveillance of the police; secondly,that he himself had been watched and[Pg 347] followed by an English detectiveever since he left the Quai des Grands Augustins, which Englishdetective knew all about Mr. Desrolles’ intended voyage in the ReineBlanche.

Desrolles went home to his lodging, not too steady of foot, soon aftermidnight. He was prepared to encounter some slight difficulty inopening the door with his pass-key, and was pleased at finding thatsome other night-bird, returning to his nest a little earlier, had leftthe door ajar. He had only to push it open and go in.

Within all was gloom, save in one corner by the portress’s den, wherea glimmer of gas showed the numbered board whereon hung the keys whichadmitted the lodgers to their several apartments. But Desrolles knewevery twist of the corkscrew staircase. Drunk as he was, he wound hisway up safely enough, with only an occasional lurch and an occasionalstumble. He managed to unlock the door of his room, after trying thekey upside down once or twice, and making some circuitous scratchingson the panel. He managed to strike a lucifer and light his candle,leaning against the mantelpiece as he performed that feat, and givinga drunken chuckle when it was done. But his nerves must have been ina very shaky condition, for when a man, who had crept softly into theroom behind him, laid a strong hand upon his shoulder, he collapsed,and made as if he would have fallen to the ground. ‘What do you want?’he asked in French.

‘You,’ answered the intruder in English. ‘I arrest you on suspicionof being concerned in the murder of La Chicot. You know all about it.You were examined at the inquest. Anything you say now will be used asevidence against you. You had better come quietly with me.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ said Desrolles, still in French. ‘I am aFrenchman.’

‘Oh, very much of that. You’ve been lodging here three weeks. You areknown to be an Englishman. You took your passage to-day for Valparaiso.I called at the office to make inquiries an hour after you left it. Nononsense, Mr. Desrolles. All you’ve got to do is to come quietly withme.’

‘You’ve got some one else outside, I suppose,’ said Desrolles, with asavage glare at the door.

His expression in this moment was diabolical; a wild beast—a beastof a low type, not your kingly lion or your lordly tiger—at bay andknowing escape impossible, might so look; the thin lips curling upwardabove the long sharks’ teeth; the grizzled brows contracted—the eyesemitting sparks of lurid light.

‘Of course,’ answered the man coolly. ‘You don’t suppose I should besuch a fool as to trust myself in a hole like this without help. I’vegot my mate on the landing, and we’ve both got[Pg 348] revolvers. Ah, none ofthat now,’ ejacul*ted the detective suddenly, as Desrolles plunged hislean hand into his breast pocket. ‘Stow that, now. Is it a knife?’

It was a knife, and a murderous one. Desrolles had it out, and thelong-pointed blade ready, before his captor could stop him. The mansprang upon him, caught him by the wrist, before the knife could domischief; and then the two closed, hand against hand, limb againstlimb, Desrolles wrestling with his foe as only rage and despair canwrestle.

He had been a famous bruiser in days of old. To-night he had theunnatural strength given to the overtasked sinews by a mind on the edgeof madness. He fought like a madman: he fought like a tiger. There wasnot a muscle—not a sinew—that was not strained to its utmost in thatsavage conflict.

For some moments Desrolles seemed the victor. The detective had liedwhen he said that he had help at hand. The French policeman who hadplanned to meet him at that house at midnight had not yet come, and theEnglishman had been too impatient to wait, believing himself and hisrevolver more than a match for one drunken old man.

He did not want to use his revolver. It would have been a hazardousthing even to wound his man. It was his duty to take him alive, andsurrender him safe and sound to be dealt with by the law of his country.

‘Come,’ he said, soothingly, having hardly enough breath for so muchspeech, ‘let me put the bracelets on and take you away quietly. What’sthe use of this humbug?’

Desrolles, with his teeth set, answered never a word. He had got hisantagonist very near the door; once across the threshold, a lastvigorous thrust from his lean arms might hurl the man backwards downthe steep staircase—certain death to the intruder. Desrolles’ eyeswere fixed upon the doorway, the door standing conveniently open. Hisbloodshot eyeballs flashed fire. It was in his mind that the thing wasto be done. One more herculean effort, and his foe would be across thethreshold.

Possibly the detective saw that look of triumph in the savage face,and divined his danger. However that might be, he gathered himselftogether, and with a sudden impetus, flinging all his weight againstDesrolles, he drove his foe before him across the narrow room, hurledhim with all his might against the wall, casting him loose for themoment, in order to grip him tighter afterwards.

But as that tall figure fell with terrific force against thegaudy-papered wall, there was a sudden crashing sound, at which thedetective recoiled with a cry of horror. The frail lath and plasterpartition split asunder, the rotten wood crumbled and scattered itselfin a cloud of dust, half that side of the room dropped into[Pg 349] ruin, asif the house had been a house of cards, and, with one hoarse shriek,Desrolles rolled backwards into empty air.

They found him presently upon the pavement below, so battered anddisfigured by that awful fall as to be hardly recognizable even by theeyes that had looked upon him a few minutes before. In falling he hadstruck against the timbers that shored up the rottenold house, and life had been beaten out of him before he touched thestones below. It was a bad end of a bad man. There was nobody to besorry for him except the detective, who had lost the chance of ahandsome reward.

The Parisian journals next day made a feature of the catastrophe. ‘Fallof part of a house in the Boulevard Louis Capet. Horrible death of oneof the inmates.’

The English newspapers of a later date contained the account of thepursuit and arrest of Desrolles, his desperate resistance, and awfuldeath.

EPILOGUE.

Mr. and Mrs. Treverton went back to Hazlehurst Manor, and there wasmuch rejoicing among their friends at John Treverton’s escape from thecritical position in which the hazards of life had placed him. Thesubject was a painful one, and people in their intercourse with Johnand Laura, touched upon it as lightly as possible. Those revelationsabout John Treverton’s first marriage, his Bohemian existence under anassumed name, his poverty, and so on, had created no small sensationamong a community which rarely had anything more exciting to talk aboutthan the state of the weather, or the appearance of the crops. Peoplehad talked their fill by the time Mr. and Mrs. Treverton came back, forthey had spent a month at a Dorsetshire watering-place on their wayhome, for the benefit of Laura’s health, whereby the scandal was staleand almost worn threadbare when they arrived at the Manor House.

Only one event of any importance had happened during their absence.Edward Clare—the poet, the man who sauntered through life hand-in-handwith the muses, dwelling apart from common clay in a world of hisown—had suddenly sickened of elegant leisure, and had started allat once for the Cape to learn ostrich farming, with the deliberateintention of settling for life in that distant land.

‘An adventurous career will suit me, and I shall make money,’ he toldthose few acquaintances to whom he condescended to explain his views.‘My people are tired of seeing me lead an idle life. They have nofaith in my future as a poet. Perhaps they[Pg 350] are right. The rarest andfinest of poets have made very little money. It is only charlatanism inliterature that really pays. A man who can write down to the level ofthe herd commands an easy success. Herrick, if he were alive to-day,would not make a living by his pen.’

So Edward Clare departed from the haunts of his youth, and there was noone save his mother to regret him. The Vicar knew too well that JohnTreverton’s arrest was his son’s work, and treachery so base was a sinhis honest heart could not forgive. He was glad that Edward had gone,and his secret prayer was that the young man might learn honesty aswell as industry in his self-imposed exile.

To the exile himself anything was better than to see the man he hadimpotently striven to injure, happy and secure from all future malice.Weighed against that mortification the possible difficulties andhardships of the life to which he was going were as nothing to him.

The year wore on, and brought a new and strange gladness and a deepsense of responsibility to John Treverton. One balmy May morning hisfirst-born son opened his innocent blue eyes upon a bright youngworld, arrayed in all the glory of spring. The child was placed inhis father’s arms by the good old Hazlehurst doctor, who had attendedJasper Treverton in his last illness.

‘How proud my old friend would have been to see his family name in afair way of being continued in the land for many a long year to come,’he said.

‘Thank God all things have worked round well for us, at last,’ answeredJohn Treverton, gravely.

In the ripeness and splendour of August and harvest, when the heatherwas in bloom on the rolling moor, and the narrow streams were driedup by the fierceness of the sun, George Gerard came down to the ManorHouse to spend a brief holiday; and it happened, by a strangecoincidence, that Laura had invited Celia Clareto stay with her at the same time. They all had a pleasant time inthe peerless summer weather. There were picnics and excursions acrossthe moor, with much exciting adventure, and some risk of losingoneself altogether in that sparsely populated world; and in all theseadventures George and Celia had a knack of finding themselves abandonedby the other two—or perhaps it was they who went astray, though theyalways protested that it was Mr. and Mrs. Treverton who deserted them.

‘I shouldn’t wonder if we came to a bad end, like the babes in thewood,’ protested Celia. ‘Imagine us existing on unripe blackberries fora week or so, and then lying resignedly down to die. I don’t believe abit in the birds putting leaves over us.[Pg 351] That’s a fable invented forthe pantomime. Birds are a great deal too selfish. No one who had everseen a pair of robins fight for a bit of bread would believe in thosebenevolent birds who buried the babes in the wood.’

Being occasionally lost on the moor gave Celia and Mr. Gerard greatopportunities for conversation. They were obliged to find somethingto talk about; and in the end naturally told each other their inmostthoughts. And so it came about, in the most natural way in the world,that one blazing noontide Celia found herself standing before a Druidictable, gazing idly at the big gray stones half embedded in heather andbracken, with George Gerard’s arm round her waist, and with her headplacidly resting against his shoulder.

He had been asking her if she would wait for him. That was all. He hadnot asked her if she loved him, having made up his own mind upon thatquestion, unassisted.

‘Darling, will you wait for me?’ he asked, looking down at her, witheyes brimming over with love.

‘Yes, George,’ she answered, meekly, quite a transformed Celia, all herpertness and flippancy gone.

‘It may be a long while, dear,’ he said gravely; ‘almost as long asRachel waited for Jacob.’

‘I don’t mind that, provided there is no Leah to come between us.’

‘There shall be no Leah.’

So they were engaged, and in the dim cloudland of the future, Celia sawa vision of Harley Street, a landau, and a pair of handsome grays.

‘Doctors generally have grays, don’t they, George?’ she asked,presently, apropos to nothing particular.

George’s thoughts had not travelled so far as the carriage and pairstage of his existence, and he did not understand the question.

‘Yes, dear, there is a Free Hospital in the Gray’s Inn Road,’ heanswered, simply, ‘but I was at Bartlemy’s.’

‘Oh, you foolish George, I was thinking of horses, not hospitals. Whatcolour shall you choose when you start your carriage?’

‘We’ll talk it over, dearest, when we are going to start the carriage.’

Mr. and Mrs. Treverton heard of the engagement with infinite pleasure,nor did the Vicar or his easy-tempered wife offer any objection.

Before the first year of Celia’s betrothal was over, John Trevertonhad persuaded the good old village doctor to retire, and to accept ahandsome price for his comfortable practice, which covered a districtof sixty miles circumference, and offered ample[Pg 352] work for an energeticyoung man. This practice John Treverton gave to George Gerard as a freegift.

‘Don’t consider it a favour,’ he said, when the surgeon wanted it tobe treated as a debt, to be paid out of his future earnings. ‘Theobligation is all on my side. I want a clever young doctor, whom I knowand esteem, instead of any charlatan who might happen to succeed ourold friend. The advantage is all on my side. You will help me in all mysanitary improvements, and my nursery will be safe in the inevitableseason of measles and scarlatina.’

Thus it came to pass that Celia, as well as John Treverton and his wifewas able to say,

‘But in some wise all things wear round betimes,
And wind up well.’

THE END.

LONDON: J. AND W. RIDER.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73931 ***