Name and Fame: A Novel (2024)

A NOVEL

BY ADELINE SERGEANT

Author of "The Great Mill Street Mystery," "A True Friend," "A LifeSentence," etc., etc.

Montreal:
JOHN LOVELL & SON,
23 St. Nicholas Street.

[Handwritten: This is the only edition of "Name and Fame" published inthe United States and Canada with my authority, and the only one by thesale, which I shall profit. Adeline Sergeant.]

Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1890, by John Lovell& Son, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture and Statistics atOttawa.

CONTENTS

NAME AND FAME

BOOK I

CHAPTER I.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

It was a brilliant day in June. The sky was cloudless and dazzlinglyblue, but the heat of the sun's rays was tempered by a deliciously coolbreeze, and the foliage of the trees that clothe the pleasant slopesround the vivacious little town of Aix-les-Bains afforded plenty ofshade to the pedestrian. Aix was, as usual, very crowded and very gay.German potentates abounded: French notabilities were not wanting: it wasrumored that English royalty was coming. A very motley crowd of diversnationalities drank the waters every morning and discussed the latestsociety scandal. Festivity seemed to haunt the very air of the place,beaming from the trim white villas with their smart green jalousies, thetall hotels with crudely tinted flags flying from their roofs, thecheery little shops with their cheerier dames de comptoir smilingcomplacently on the tourists who unwarily bought their goods. Ladies ingay toilets, with scarlet parasols or floating feathers, made vividpatches of color against the green background of the gardens, and thestreets were now and then touched into picturesqueness by the passing ofsome half-dozen peasants who had come from the neighboring villages tosell their butter or their eggs. The men in their blue blouses weremostly lean, dark, and taciturn; the women, small, black-eyed, andvivacious, with bright-colored petticoats, long earrings, and thequaintest of round white caps. The silvery whiteness of the lake,flashing back an answer to the sunlight, gave a peculiarly joyousradiance to the scene. For water is to a landscape what the eye is tothe human countenance: it gives life and expression; without it, themost beautiful features may be blank and uninteresting.

But the brightness of the scene did not find an echo in every heart.

"Dame!" said a French waiter, who stood, napkin in hand, at a window ofthe Hôtel Venat, watching the passers-by, "there they go, that cold,sullen English pair, looking as if nothing on earth would make themsmile again!"

A bullet-headed little man in a white apron stepped up to the window andstared in the direction that Auguste's eyes had taken.

"Tiens, donc! Quelle tournure! But she is superb!" he exclaimed, as ifin remonstrance.

"She is handsome—oui, sans doute; but see how she frowns! I like awoman who smiles, who coquettes, who knows how to divert herself—likeMademoiselle Lisette here, queen of my heart and life."

And Auguste bowed sentimentally to a pretty little chambermaid who cametripping up the stairs at that moment, and laid his hand upon his heart.

"You are too polite, Monsieur Auguste," Lisette responded amicably. "Andat whom are you gazing so earnestly?"

"At the belle Anglaise—you can still see her, if you look—she ischarmingly dressed, but——"

"She is magnificent! simply magnificent," murmured the bullet-headedJean, who was not, like his friend, enamored of the pert Lisette. "Ihave never seen so splendid an Englishwoman, never! nor one who had somuch the true Parisian air!"

Lisette uttered a shrill little scream of laughter. "Do you know thereason, mon ami? She is not English at all: she is a compatriot. He—thehusband—he is English; but she is French, I tell you, French to thefinger-tips."

"Voyons; what rooms have they?"

"They are au quatrième—they are poor—poor," said Lisette, withinfinite scorn. "I wait on them a little—not much; they have been herethree days, and one can see——But the gentleman, he is generous. Whenmadame scolds, he gives me money to buy my forbearance; she has thetemper of a demon, the tongue of a veritable fiend!"

"Ah! He loves her, then!" said Auguste, putting his head on one side.

Lisette snapped her fingers. "Ah, oui! He loves her so well that he willstrangle her one of these days when she says a word too much and he isin his sombre mood! Quiet as he is, I would not go too far with him, cebeau monsieur! He will not be patient always—you will see!"

She went on her way, and the waiters remained at the window in thecorridor. The lady and gentlemen of whom they spoke had turned into thehotel garden, and were walking up and down its gravelled paths,apparently in silence. Auguste and Jean watched them, as if fascinatedby the sight of the taciturn pair, who now and then were lost to sightbehind a clump of trees or in some shady walk, presently reappearing inthe full sunshine, with the air of those who wish for some reason orother to show themselves as much as possible.

This, at least, was the impression produced by the air and gait of thewoman; not by those of the man. He walked beside her gravely, somewhatdejectedly, indeed. There was a look of resignation in his face, whichcontrasted forcibly with the flaunting audacity visible in every gestureof the woman who was his wife.

He was the less noticeable of the two, but still a handsome man in hisway, of a refined and almost scholarly type. He was tall, and althoughrather of slender than powerful build, his movements were characterizedby the mingled grace and alertness which may be seen whenwell-proportioned limbs are trained to every kind of athletic exercise.His face, however, was that of the dreamer, not of the athlete. He had afine brow, thoughtful brown eyes, a somewhat long nose with sensitivenostrils, a stern-set mouth, and resolute chin. The spare outlines ofhis face, well defined yet delicate withal, sometimes reminded strangersof Giotto's frescoed head of Dante in his youth. But the mouth waspartly hidden beneath a dark brown moustache; a pity from the artisticpoint of view. Refinement was the first and predominating characteristicof his face; thoughtful melancholy, the second. It was evident, even tothe most casual observer, that this man was eminently unfitted to be thehusband of the woman at his side.

For a woman she was unusually tall. She was also unusually handsome. Shehad a magnificent figure, a commanding presence, good features, hair,and eyes; yet the impression that she produced was anything butpleasant. The flashing dark eyes were too bold and too defiant; thecarmine on her cheeks was artificially laid on, and her face had beendabbed with a powder puff in very reckless fashion. Her black hair wasfrizzed and tortured in the latest mode, and her dress made in so novela style that it looked outré, even at a fashionable watering-place.Dress, bonnet and parasol were scarlet of hue; and the vivid tint wassoftened but slightly by the black lace which fell in cascades from herclosely-swathed neck to the hem of her dress, fastened here and there bydiamond pins. If it were possible that, as Lisette had said, Mr. andMrs. Alan Walcott were poor, their poverty was not apparent in Mrs.Walcott's dress. Black and scarlet were certainly becoming to her, butthe effect in broad daylight was too startling for good taste. To acritical observer, moreover, there was something unpleasantly suggestivein her movements: the way in which she walked and held her parasol, andturned her head from side to side, spoke of a desire to attractattention, and a delight in admiration even of the coarsest and leastcomplimentary kind.

There was certainly something in the bearing of husband and wife thatattracted notice. Her vivacity and her boldness, a certain weariness andreluctance in his air, as if he were paraded up and down these gardenwalks against his will, led others beside inquisitive French waiters towatch the movements of the pair. And they were in full view of severalgazers when an unexpected and dramatic incident occurred.

A man who had sauntered out of the hotel into the gardens directed hissteps towards them, and met them face to face as they issued from one ofthe side-paths. He was not tall, but he was dapper and agile: hismoustache curled fiercely, and his eyeglass was worn with something ofan aggressive air. He was perfectly dressed, except that—for Englishtaste—he wore too much jewellery; and from the crown of his shining hatto the tip of his polished pointed boot he was essentially Parisian—adandy of the Boulevards, or rather, perhaps, of the Palais Royal—anexquisite who prided himself upon the fit of his trousers and the swingof his Malacca cane.

He paused as he met the Walcotts, and raised his hat with a true Frenchflourish. The lady laughed, showing a row of very white, even teeth, andheld out her hand. Her husband sprang forward, uttering an angry word ofremonstrance or command. The Frenchman grinned insolently, and answeredwith a sneer.

The Englishman seemed to gain in dignity as he replied. His wife laughedloudly and unpleasantly, however, and then, with a quick movement whichproved him agile as a cat, the Frenchman struck him with his cane acrossthe face. In another moment, Alan Walcott had taken him by the collarand wrested the cane from his hand. Whether or no he would haveadministered the thrashing that the man deserved must remain anunsettled question, for hotel servants and functionaries came rushing tothe rescue, guests flocked to the scene in hopes of further excitement,and all was bustle and confusion. Mrs. Walcott began to screamviolently, as soon as she saw signs of an impending conflict, and wasfinally carried into the house in a fit of hysterics.

A very pretty little altercation between the two combatants—who wereseparated with difficulty—and the landlord and his myrmidons thenfollowed. The police arrived rather late on the scene, but were speedilyquieted by assurances that peace was restored, and by the transfer of afew coins from Alan Walcott's pockets to their own. The aggressor, whogave his name as Henri de Hauteville, was politely requested to leavethe Hôtel Venat; and Mr. Walcott declared his own intention ofproceeding to Paris next morning. Accordingly the Frenchman speedilydisappeared, but it was noticed that he dropped a word to his enemy,which Walcott answered by a bend of his head, and that he was seenshortly afterwards arm-in-arm with a young officer who was known to bean enthusiast in the matter of duelling.

An hour later Alan Walcott was crossing the hall with a hurried step anda face expressive of deep anxiety and vexation, when he encountered astout, fair Englishman, who greeted him with effusion.

"You here, Walcott? Never thought of meeting you."

"I'm glad to see you, Dalton. I was longing at that very moment for someone to act as my friend."

"Not in the conventional meaning, I hope," laughed Dalton. "Your way ofputting it suggests a duel—which no Englishman of any sense wouldembark in, I should hope!"

Dalton was a fresh-colored, blue-eyed man, of nearly thirty years ofa*ge. His frankness of manner and shrewdness of expression contrastedforcibly with the subtle dreaminess characteristic of Alan Walcott'sface. Alan eyed him curiously, as if doubtful whether he should proceed.

"I am not altogether an Englishman," he said presently, "which mayaccount in your eyes for some lack of sense. I want you, as a friend, inthe most conventional manner possible. Come out with me and let us talkit over."

The two men went out and talked together for upwards of an hour. Whenthey separated the expression of their faces afforded a curiouscontrast. Alan looked defiant, resolved, almost triumphant; but BrookeDalton went on his way wagging his head in a depressed and melancholymanner, as if his soul were afflicted by misgivings of many kinds.

Mr. Alan Walcott had said that he should leave Aix-les-Bains next day,but the state of his wife's health rendered it impossible for her toquit the hotel, and he could not very well separate himself from her.She continued for some time in shrieking hysterics, varied by faintingfits; and when she became quieter, under the influence of a soporificadministered by the doctor, she declared herself quite too ill andexhausted to rise from her bed. Her husband remained with her night andday, until the second morning, when he escaped from her sight and kenfor a couple of hours, and absolutely refused to tell her where he hadbeen. His refusal seemed to produce a quieting effect upon her. Shebecame very still, and lay watching him, with a sullen, puzzled look inher great dark eyes. He took up a paper and began to read, with anassumption of complete calmness and unconcern; but she saw that he waspaler than usual, and that his hand shook a little as he turned thepages of his Galignani. Presently she asked, in a subdued voice, forsomething to drink. He brought her a glass of claret and water, and sheraised herself a little on one arm to take it from him. Suddenly sheuttered a loud cry, and fell back gasping upon her pillows.

"Mon Dieu!" she cried, "there is blood upon your cuff."

Alan looked down hastily. It was true enough: his white cuff was stainedwith red.

"You have killed him!" she said. "You have murdered him, you wretch, youmurderer——"

"Not at all," said Walcott with the greatest composure. "Upon my word, Irather wish I had. I think he deserved it. He has got off very easily."

"You had a meeting?" his wife shrieked, her eyes beginning to flash withrage.

"We had a meeting. It was for that purpose that I left for two hoursthis morning. You don't suppose that I should let myself be struck inthe face without demanding satisfaction? I have enough French blood inmy veins to think it a very natural way of settling such a quarrel——"

"Was he hurt?" she asked, without waiting for him to finish.

"Very slightly. A sword-cut on the shoulder. The seconds interposed, orwe should have gone on——"

"I have no doubt you wanted to kill him! I shall denounce you to thepolice!"

"As you please" said her husband indifferently, taking up his paper."But M. de Hauteville has retired from the scene: he had a carriagewaiting, and has crossed the frontier by this time. I assure you he isperfectly safe Switzerland."

There was a taunt in his voice which exasperated his wife's temperalmost to madness.

"Scélérat!" she said, in a hissing, unnatural voice. "You would havekilled him if you could? Beware of my vengeance then, for I swear thatyou shall suffer as he has suffered—and worse things too!"

Alan shrugged his shoulders. He had heard threats of this kind too oftento be greatly moved by them. And Mrs. Walcott, after a few ineffectualremarks of the same sort, began to sob violently, and finally to workherself into another hysterical fit, during which her husband coollyrang the bell, and left her to Lisette's not very tender care.

When he returned she was once more quiet and subdued. He noticed thatshe was reading a letter, which, at his entrance, she thrust—somewhatostentatiously—beneath her pillow. He took no notice. He was tired oftaking notice. As a rule, he let her go her own way. He had been marriedfor three years, and he had learned that, save in exceptionalcirc*mstances, it was better not to interfere. He was relieved, andsomewhat surprised, when she suddenly declared herself better, andwishful to leave her bed. Before long she was sitting at an open window,with a cup of black coffee and a flask of cognac on a table before her,while Alan fanned her with a great red fan and occasionally bathed hertemples with eau-de-cologne. He paid her these attentions with an air ofgentle gravity which became him well, but the slight fold between hisbrows betokened irritation and weariness.

Cora Walcott seemed to delight in keeping him at her beck and call. Shedid not let him stir from her side for the whole of that sultry summerday. She put on a soft and languid manner: she shed tears and tried tosay coaxing things, which were very coldly received; for there was ahard and evil look in her fine dark eyes that went far to neutralize theeffect of her câlineries. Once, indeed, when Alan had gone into anadjoining room to fetch a vinaigrette, her true feeling found its ventin a few expressive words.

"Sacré," she muttered, drawing back the red lips from her white teeth,with the snarl of a vicious dog, "how I hate you, cochon! How I wishthat you were dead!"

And then she smoothed her brows, and smiled at him as he re-entered theroom.

In the course of the evening she made the suggestion that they shouldleave Aix-les-Bains next day.

"Certainly," Alan answered, more warmly than usual. "And where shall wego?"

"Oh, to Paris, I suppose. To Dijon first, of course—if I am strongenough to travel so far."

Alan was eager to make his preparations for departure, and pleased tofind that his wife was as ready as he to hasten them. Only in one pointdid her behavior strike him as peculiar. She announced that she meant toleave Aix-les-Bains at an early hour, lunch and rest at Culoz, and go onto Dijon by the afternoon train.

"But why Culoz? Nobody stops at Culoz," he remonstrated.

"Why not Culoz? There is an inn. I suppose we can get some lunch," sheanswered. "Besides, I have always meant to go there, to look at thechâteau on the hill! You English like 'views,' do you not? The 'view'must be magnificent."

She had never formerly shown any interest in scenery, and Alan stared ather for a moment with a puzzled look. If Henry de Hauteville had beenlikely to join her at Culoz he could have understood this whim of hers;but de Hauteville was safely lodged by this time in the nearest Swisscanton, and not at all likely to intercept their journey. He did herbidding, however, without comprehension of her reasons, as he had donemany a time before. Again, he was discomfited by her behavior in thetrain, shortly after their departure from the station at Aix-les-Bains.She suddenly flung herself back in the corner of the coupé and burstinto a prolonged fit of noisy laughter, which seemed as if it wouldchoke her by its violence. Alan questioned and remonstrated in vain.Fortunately, they had the coupé to themselves; but the laughtercontinued so long that he began to doubt his wife's sanity, as well asher self-control. At last she sat up and wiped her eyes.

"You will know why I laugh some day, mon ami," she remarked. "Till then,ask no questions."

Alan was not disposed to ask them. He remained silent, and his silencecontinued until the little station of Culoz was reached.

"We change here, of course," he said. "But why should we leave thestation?"

"Do you want to starve me?" his wife inquired angrily. "We will go tothe inn. There is an inn on the road to the village; I asked about ityesterday."

Very few English tourists think it worth their while to spend any timeat Culoz, pretty little place although it be; and the landlady of thequaint auberge, with its wooden, vine-grown piazza, was somewhat amazedand distracted by the appearance of foreign visitors. The dining-roomseemed to be full of peasants in blue blouses, who had been attending afair; but lunch was served to Mr. and Mrs. Walcott in the open air, onthe verandah. Cora grumbled openly at the simple fare provided; and Alanthought how charming would be the scene and the rustic meal if only hiscompanion were more congenial. For himself, he was quite satisfied withthe long French loaf, the skinny chicken, the well-salted cream cheese,and the rough red vin du pays. The blue sky, the lovely view ofmountain and valley, lake and grove, the soft wind stirring the vineleaves on the trellis-work of the verandah, would have given him unmixeddelight if he had been alone. But all was spoiled by the presence of anunloved and unloving wife.

The road to the château leads upwards from Culoz, and is a trifle hotand dusty. Alan wondered dumbly whether Cora had an object in dragginghim so far away from the inn, and what that object was. But he tooksmall annoyances patiently. It was something gained, at least, that hiswife should seem content. Anything was better than tearing rage orviolent hysterical weeping, which were the phases of temper mostfrequently presented to his view. On this occasion she appeared pleasedand happy. He surprised a touch of malignity in her tones, a glance ofevil meaning now and then; but he did not greatly care. Cora could notkeep a secret. If she had any ill-will or ill intention towards him hewas sure to know it before long.

"I am tired," she said at last, abruptly. "Let us sit down and rest.Look, here is an entrance into the park of the château. Shall we go in?"

"Is it open to the public?" said Alan, with an Englishman's instinctivefear of trespassing. For, although he had had a French grandmother, andsometimes boasted himself of French descent, he was essentially Englishin his ideas. Cora laughed him to scorn.

"I go where I will," she said, "and nobody finds it in his heart to turnme out. Courage, mon ami, I will protect you, if necessary. Follow me!"

Piqued by her tone, he opened the gate for her, and they passed from thehot, white road into the green demesnes of the Count who owned thechâteau above Culoz. It struck Alan that his wife knew the waywonderfully well. She turned without hesitation into a path which ledthem to a wooden seat shaded by two great trees, and so situated that itcould not be seen by anyone passing on the high road. Here she seatedherself and looked up at her husband with a defiant smile.

"You have been here before?" he said suddenly.

She nodded. "Precisely, mon ami, I have been here before. And with whom?With M. de Hauteville, when you imagined me suffering from a migraine afew days ago. Surely you did not think that it was his first appearancewhen he arrived at the hotel, the day before yesterday?"

"I do not wish to discuss M. de Hauteville," said Alan turning away.

"But perhaps I wish to discuss him. We discussed you at fulllength—that day last week. We chronicled your vices, your weaknesses,your meannesses in detail. One thing I might have told him, which I leftout—the fact that you are no gentleman, not even bourgeois—a merepeasant clown. He would not have let you measure swords with him if hehad known the baseness of your origin, my friend!"

Alan's lips moved as if he would have spoken, but he restrained himself.He saw that she wanted him to respond, to lose his temper, to give hersome cause of complaint, some opening for recrimination; and he resolvedthat he would not yield to her desire. She might abuse him as she wouldand he would not reply. She would cease when she was tired—and not tillthen.

"You are a mean-spirited creature!" she said, her eyes flashing hatredat him as she spoke. "You have chained me to you all these years,although you know that I loathe the very sight of you, that I haveworshiped Henri, my lover, all the while. Who but a base, vile wretchwould not have given me my freedom? You have known all the time that heloved me, and you have pretended ignorance because you did not want tolet me go. From the moment I found this out, I have hated and despisedyou. You have no courage, no spirit; there is nothing even to be afraidof in you. You would be brutal if you dared, but you do not dare. Youcan be spiteful and treacherous and villainous, that is all. And I hateyou for all that you are and all that you do not dare to be!"

Alan ground his teeth, in a moment's raging desire to bring the woman toher senses by some actual exertion of his physical strength. But theimpulse of anger lasted only for a moment. He knew that half her ragewas simulated—that she was lashing herself up in preparation for sometremendous crisis, and all that he could do was to wait for it insilence. She had risen to her feet as she spoke. He rose too and leanedagainst the trunk of a tree, while she stormed and raved like a madwomanfor some minutes in front of him.

"Now," she said at last, "you know what I think of you, how I hate you,how I despise you. But it is not enough. My father shot down twenty ofhis enemies in the siege of Paris. Do you think that his daughter is acoward, to be trampled on by a brutal, cold-blooded Englishman? No!Because I hate you, and because you have tried to kill the man I love,and because you are too mean and vile to live—I will kill you!"

Her hand darted to the bosom of her dress. Before Alan could stopher—almost before he realized what she was doing—she had drawn out alittle pistol, co*cked it, and pulled the trigger. But her hurry at thelast moment spoiled her aim. Alan felt a sting in the left arm, and knewthat she had so far succeeded in her intentions; but with his right handhe was able to snatch the pistol from her, and to fling it far into thebrushwood.

Then came the reaction. She burst into loud, screaming sobs and tears,and flung herself on the ground, where she writhed for a time like onein convulsions. Alan seated himself, feeling somewhat sick and faint,and waited for the storm to spend itself. Some time elapsed before shebecame calm; but at last she raised herself panting from the ground andlooked half timorously at her husband. His coolness and quietness oftenenraged, but now and then it frightened her.

"If you have not another pistol with you," said Alan, "you cannot killme just now. Perhaps you have done enough to satisfy yourself for themoment. What do you propose to do next?"

"What do you mean to do?" she asked sullenly. "Of course, you canfollow me and give me up to the police."

"I shall not do that."

"I will not return with you," she said in a furious tone.

"That is natural," Alan agreed politely. "What then?"

"I told you I knew this place," she answered. "I am to meet a friendupon the road, half a mile further on. I am going there now. He willtake me to the next station on the line."

"Admirably planned!" said Alan. "Every detail fits in to perfection."

"And I shall never come back," she said, looking at him spitefully.

For answer, he raised his hat. She turned on her heel, went down theslope towards the road, and disappeared. It was a strange partingbetween husband and wife. Not a single feeling of reluctance existed inthe mind of either; only a fixed resolve to have done with each otherhenceforth and for ever.

Alan bound up his wounds as well as he could, and retraced his steps toCuloz. He would have done better, possibly, to avoid the place. Peoplestared at him curiously as he passed them by. Why had he come backalone? What had he done with the beautiful lady who had accompanied himwhen he set forth?

"Hé, monsieur," tried the black-eyed dame of the auberge, leaning overthe rail of the verandah, as he passed: "ou donc est madame? Est-cequ'elle ne revient pas?"

"Madame est partie," said Alan continuing his walk without turninground. The aubergiste looked after him in amaze. Where could madame havegone? There was no other road to the station, and she had been watchingfor the English milord and his lady for the last hour and a half! Whathad he done with madame?

It was a matter of speculation which lasted her for many a day, and wasoften recounted to new comers. It became the general opinion at Culozthat the Englishman had in some unaccountable manner killed his wife anddisposed mysteriously of her body. But although search was made for ithigh and low, the murdered body was never found. Nevertheless, thestranger's guilt remained a tradition of the neighborhood, and the storyof that marvelous disappearance is related by the villagers unto thisday.

Alan went on his way rejoicing, although in somewhat grim andshame-faced wise. For three years he had been a miserable slave. Now hewas free! And he determined that he would never submit to bonds again.

CHAPTER II.

AT THE RECTORY.

About the very time when Alan Walcott, at the age of three-and-twenty,was making a hasty match with the daughter of a French refugee—a matchbitterly deplored before the first few weeks of married life wereover—events, which afterwards very greatly affected his career, werequickly shaping themselves in a sleepy little English village not farfrom the place where he was born.

Angleford, a mere handful of red-brick cottages, five miles from arailway station, was little known to the outer world. Its nearestmarket-town was Dorminster, and the village of Thorley lay betweenAngleford and the county town. Birchmead, a hamlet which had some reputeof its own as a particularly healthy place, stood further down the riveron which Angleford was built, and its merits generally threw those ofneighboring villages into the shade.

But Angleford was in itself a pretty little nook, and its inhabitantssomewhat prided themselves on its seclusion from the world. Theseinhabitants, it must be confessed, were few. It had once been a largerand more important place, but had gradually dwindled away until thevillage contained less than three hundred persons, chiefly laborers andsmall shop-keepers. Beside these, there were the doctor, and his wife,the rector and his family, and the squire—a childless widower, who wasof rather less account than anybody else in the parish.

The Rectory was a rambling, long, low, red-brick house standing inprettily-wooded grounds, bordered by the river, on the other side ofwhich lay the park belonging to the squire. The park ran for somedistance on both sides of the stream, and the Rectory grounds were, soto speak, taken out of the very midst of the squire's, demesne. Thecontinuation of wooded ground on either side the narrow winding rivermade the place particularly picturesque; and it was a favorite amusem*ntfor the rector's son and daughter to push a rather crazy boat out of thelittle boat-house at the foot of the garden, and row up and down thosereaches of the stream "between the bridges," which were navigable. Oneof the bridges warned them of the weir, which it was not very safe toapproach; and beyond the other, three miles further down and close toBirchmead, the stream was shallow and clogged with reeds. But withinthese limits there was a peaceful tranquil beauty which made the boat afavorite resting place for the Rectory people during the long summerevenings and afternoons.

It was two o'clock on a late autumn afternoon, when a girl of sixteencame out of the Rectory door, which always stood hospitably open in fineweather, and walked to the boat-house, as if intending to launch outupon the water. The day was sunny on the whole, but not cloudless: thesun shone out brightly every now and then, and was again obscured by afilmy haze, such as rises so easily from the low-lying land in Essex.But the golden haze softened the distant outlines of wood and meadow,and the sun's beams rested tenderly upon the rapidly stripping branches,where a few rustling leaves still told of their departed glories. Thelong undefined shadows of the trees stretched far across the wide lawn,scarcely moving in the profound stillness of the air; and a wholeassembly of birds kept up a low-toned conversation in the bushes, as ifthe day were hardly bright enough to warrant a full chorus of concertedsong. It was a tender, wistful kind of day, such as comes sometimes inthe fall of the year, before the advent of frost. And a certain affinitywith the day was visible in the face of the girl who had walked down tothe riverside. There was no melancholy in her expression: indeed, a verysweet and happy smile played about the corners of her sensitive mouth;but a slightly wistful look in the long-lashed grey eyes lent anunconscious pathos to the delicate face. But, although delicate, theface was anything but weak. The features were clearly cut; the mouth andchin expressed decision as well as sensibility; and beneath the thick,fine waves of shining brown hair, the forehead was broad andwell-developed. Without pretension to actual beauty or any kind ofperfection, the face was one likely to attract and then to charm;gentleness, thoughtfulness, intellectual power, might be read in thosefair features, as well as an almost infantine candor and innocence, andthe subtle and all too-transient bloom of extreme youth. Her hair, whichconstituted one of her best "points," was simply parted in the middle,fastened with a clasp at the nape of her neck, and then allowed to fallin a smooth, shining shower down to her waist. Mrs. Campion, who hadbeen something of a beauty in her young days, was given to lamentingthat Lettice's hair was not golden, as hers had been; but the clear softbrown of the girl's abundant tresses had a beauty of it's own; and, asit waved over her light woollen frock of grey-green hue, it gave her anair of peculiar appropriateness to the scene—as of a wood-nymph, whobore the colors of the forest-trees from which she sprang.

Such, at any rate, was the fancy of a man whose canoe came shooting downthe river at this moment, like an arrow from a bow. He slackened pace ashe came near the Rectory garden, and peered through the tangled brancheswhich surrounded the old black boat-house, to catch another glimpse ofLettice. He wondered that she did not notice him: his red and whiteblazer and jaunty cap made him a somewhat conspicuous object in thisquiet country place; and she must have heard the long strokes of hisoars. But she remained silent, apparently examining the fastenings ofthe boat; absorbed and tranquil, with a happy smile upon her lips.

"Good afternoon, Miss Campion: can I help you there in any way?" heshouted at last, letting his boat slide past the boat-house entrance,and then bringing it round to the little flight of grassy steps cut inthe bank from the lawn to the river.

"Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Dalton. Thank you, no; I don't want any help,"said Lettice; but the young man had already set foot upon the lawn andwas advancing towards her. He was the nephew and heir of the childlessSquire at Angleford Manor, and he occasionally spent a few weeks withhis uncle in the country. Old Mr. Dalton was not fond of Angleford,however, and the Campions did not see much of him and his nephew.

Brooke Dalton was six-and-twenty, a manly, well-looking young fellow,with fair hair and bright blue eyes. He was not very tall, and hadalready begun to develop a tendency towards stoutness, which gave himconsiderable trouble in after years. At present he kept it down by heavydoses of physical exercise, so that it amounted only to a little unusualfullness of body and the suspicion of a double chin. His enemies calledhim fat. His friends declared that his sunshiny look of prosperity andgood-humor was worth any amount of beauty, and that it would be apositive loss to the world if he were even a trifle thinner. And BrookeDalton was a man of many friends.

Lettice greeted him with a smile. "So you are here again," she said.

"Yes, I've been here a day or two. Have you heard from Sydney yet?"

"No, and we are dreadfully anxious. But papa says we shall hear verysoon now."

"I don't suppose you need have the slightest anxiety. Sydney is sure todo well: he was always a clever fellow."

"Yes, but he has had no teaching except from papa: and papa tormentshimself with the idea that there may be better teachers than himself atCambridge—which I am sure there couldn't be. And I am sure he will bedisappointed if Sydney does not get at least an exhibition, although hetries to pretend that he will not mind."

"If he does not get it this year, he will be the surer of it next time."

"Yes," said Lettice rather doubtfully. "But I wish papa were not quiteso anxious."

"Did he go to Cambridge with Sydney?"

"Yes, and stayed for a day or two; but he said he was rather glad to gethome again—there had been so many changes since he was there."

"Here he comes," said Brooke, turning round.

The rector was a dignified-looking man, with a tall figure, handsomefeatures, and hair and beard which had of late been growing very grey.He greeted Dalton cordially, and at once began to speak of his hopes andexpectations for his son. To all of these Dalton respondedgood-humoredly. "Sydney has plenty of brains: he is is sure to do well,"he said.

"Oh, I don't know—I don't know. I've been his only tutor, and I may nothave laid the foundations with sufficient care. I shall not be at allsurprised if he fails. Indeed"—with a transparent affectation ofindifference—"I shall not be sorry to have him back for another year.He is not quite eighteen, you know. And Lettice will be glad to have himagain."

"But I want him to succeed!" said Lettice eagerly.

"Of course you do. And he will succeed," said Brooke; an assurancewhich caused her to flash a glad look of gratitude to him in reply.

"Lettice has been Sydney's companion in his studies," said Mr. Campion,patting her hand gently with his long white fingers. "She has been veryindustrious and has got on very well, but I daresay she will be pleasedto have a holiday when he is gone."

"Yes, I daresay," said Brooke; and then, looking at Lettice, he saw themanifestation of some strong feeling which he did not understand. Thegirl flushed hotly and withdrew her hand from her father's arm. Thetears suddenly came into her eyes.

"I never wanted a holiday," she said, in a hurt tone.

"No, no, you were always a good girl," returned her father absently—hiseyes had wandered away from her to the high-road beyond the glebe. "Butof course there is a limit to a girl's powers; she can't compete with aboy beyond a certain point. Is not that a cab, Lettice? Surely it mustbe Sydney, and he has came at last. Well, now we shall know the result!"

"I'll go to the fence and look," said Lettice, running away. The tearsof mortification and distress were still smarting in her eyes. Whyshould her father depreciate her to their neighbor because she was agirl? She did not mind Mr. Dalton's opinion of her, but it was hard thather father should give her no credit for the work that she had done inthe study at his side. Step by step she had kept pace with her brother:sometimes he had excelled her, sometimes she thought that she wasoutstripping him. Now in the hour of his possible success (of which shewould be proud and glad), why should her father seem to undervalue herpowers and her industry? They would never bring her the guerdon thatmight fall to Sydney's lot; but she felt that she, too, had a right toher father's praise.

She had been vaguely hurt during Sydney's absence to find that Mr.Campion did not seem disposed to allow her to go on working alone withhim. "Wait, my dear, wait," he had said to her, when she came to him asusual, "let us see how Sydney's examination turns out. If he comes backto us for another year you can go on with him. If not—well, you are agirl, it does not matter so much for you; and your mother complainsthat you do not sit with her sufficiently. Take a holiday just now, wewill go on when Sydney comes back."

But in this, Lettice's first separation from her beloved brother, shehad no heart for a holiday. She would have been glad of hard work totake her out of herself. She was anxious, sad, dés[oe]uvrée, and ifshe had not been taught all her life to look on failure in anexamination as something disgraceful, she would have earnestly hopedthat Sydney might lose the scholarship for which he was competing.

Brooke Dalton saw that his presence was scarcely desired just then, andtook his leave, meditating as he pulled up the river on Lettice'sreddened cheeks and pretty tear-filled eyes. "I suppose she thinksshe'll miss her brother when he goes away," he decided at length, "andno doubt she will, for a time; but it is just as well—what does a girlwant with all that Latin and Greek? It will only serve to make herforget to brush her hair and wear a frock becomingly. Of course she'sclever, but I should not care for that sort of cleverness in asister—or a wife." He thought again of the girl's soft grey eyes. Buthe had a hundred other preoccupations, and her image very soon fadedfrom his brain.

Lettice ran to the fence to look at the cab, but Mr. Campion turned atonce to the gateway and walked out into the road. He had not beenmistaken, it was Sydney, indeed; and as soon as the young fellow saw hisfather he stopped the vehicle, told the driver to go on to the Rectorywith his portmanteau, and turned to his father with a triumphant smile.Lettice did not meet the pair for a minute or two, so the son'scommunication was made first to Mr. Campion alone.

"Here I am, sir!" was the young man's greeting, "turned up again like abad half-penny."

"Welcome anyhow, my boy," said the rector, "and sterling coin, I'llwarrant, however much you may malign yourself." He was too nervous toask a direct question about his son's success. "We have been very dullwithout you. Lettice is counting on your help to break in her pony tothe saddle."

"You mustn't be dull after a week's absence. What would you do if I hadto be more than half the year at Cambridge?"

"Ah, that would be a different thing. Have they given you an exhibitionthen?"

"Well, not exactly that." The rector's face fell, but it brightened asSydney proceeded with a touch of youthful pomposity. "Your old pupil isa Scholar of Trinity."

The rector was carrying his cane as he walked along, and when Sydney hadtold his good news he stopped short, his face aglow, and for lack of anymore eloquent mode of expressing his satisfaction, raised it in the airand brought it down with sounding emphasis on his companion's back.

Sydney laughed.

"Laudatur et alget," he said. "How many stripes would it have been if Ihad come home disgraced?"

"The stripes would have been my portion in that case," the rectoranswered, with a hearty laugh. He had not been so jovial for manymonths.

Then Lettice came running up, and had to be told the news, and clung toSydney's neck with kisses, which he graciously permitted rather thanreturned. But he was gratified by her affection, as well as by the prideand pleasure which his father took in his success, and the lessdiscriminating, but equally warm congratulations and caresses showeredupon him by his mother.

Indeed for the rest of the day, Sydney was caressed and complimented tohis heart's content. He preferred the compliments to the caresses, andhe was not unloving to his parents, although he repulsed Lettice whenshe attempted to kiss him more than once. He had come back fromCambridge with an added sense of manliness and importance, which did notsit ill upon his handsome face and the frank confidence of his manner.It was Sydney who had inherited the golden hair and regular featureswhich, as his mother said, ought to have belonged to Lettice and not tohim; but she loved him all the more dearly for his resemblance to herfamily and to herself. It escaped her observation that Sydney'sblue-grey eyes were keener, his mouth more firmly closed and his jawsquarer than those of most boys or men, and betokened, if physiognomygoes for anything, a new departure in character and intellect from theways in which Mrs. Campion and her family had always walked. A fair,roseate complexion, and a winning manner, served to disguise thesepoints of difference; and Mrs. Campion had not quick sight for anythingwhich did not lie upon the surface, in the character of those with whomshe had to do.

She was usually to be found in the drawing-room—a faded, pretty woman,little over fifty years of age, but with the delicate and enfeebled airof the semi-invalid—a white shawl round her shoulders, a bit ofknitting or embroidery between her incapable, uncertain fingers. Herhair was very grey, but the curliness had never gone out of it, and itsprang so crisply and picturesquely from her white, unwrinkled foreheadthat it seemed a pity to hide any of the pretty waves even by the crownof fine old lace which Mrs. Campion loved. She was a woman at whom noone could look without a sense of artistic satisfaction, for her facewas still charming, and her dress delicately neat and becoming. As forher mental and moral qualities, she was perfectly well satisfied withthem, and her husband was as satisfied as she—although from a somewhatdifferent point of view. And as she very properly remarked, if herhusband were satisfied with her, she did not know why she should becalled upon to regard any adverse opinion of the outer world. At thesame time she was an ardent disciple of Mrs. Grundy.

How this woman came to be the mother of a child like Lettice, it were,indeed, hard to say. Sydney was fashioned more or less after Mrs.Campion's own heart: he was brisk, practical, unimaginative—of a typethat she to some extent understood; but Lettice with her large heart,her warm and passionate nature, her keen sensibilities and tenderconscience, was a continual puzzle to her mother. Especially at thisperiod of the girl's life, when new powers were developing and newinstincts coming into existence—the very time when a girl most needsthe help and comfort of a mother's tender comprehension—Mrs. Campionand Lettice fell hopelessly apart. Lettice's absorption in her studiesdid not seem right in Mrs. Campion's eyes: she longed with all her soulto set her daughter down to crewel-work and fancy knitting, and her onecomfort in view of Sydney's approaching separation from his home was herhope that, when he was gone, Lettice would give up Latin and Greek andbecome like other girls. She was ignorantly proud of Sydney's successes:she was quite as ignorantly ashamed of Lettice's achievements in thesame lines of study.

"I can never forget," she said to Lettice that evening, when therector and his son were discussing Cambridge and examination papersin the study, while the mother and her daughter occupied thedrawing-room—Lettice, indeed, wild to join her father and brother inthe study and glean every possible fragment of information concerningthe place which she had been taught to reverence, but far too dutiful toher mother to leave her alone when Mrs. Campion seemed inclined totalk—"I can never forget that Sydney learned his alphabet at my knee. Itaught him to spell, at any rate; and if your father had not insisted ontaking the teaching out of my hands when he was seven years old, I amconvinced that I should have done great things with him."

"Surely he has done great things already, mamma!" Lettice said withenthusiasm.

"Oh, yes!" said Mrs. Campion with a sigh. "But I don't think your fatherhas given quite the bias to his mind that I should have liked best. Ihave always hoped that he would spend his strength in the service of theChurch; but——You have not heard him say much about his future career,have you, Lettice?"

"I don't think he has considered it particularly," Lettice answered."But he never speaks of taking Orders; he talked of the Bar the otherday. There's no reason why he should make up his mind so soon, is there,mamma?"

"No, dear, no. But I am quite sure that if he went into the Church hewould be a Bishop," said Mrs. Campion, with conviction. "And I shouldlike him to be a Bishop."

"Well, perhaps he will be Lord Chancellor instead," said Lettice,merrily.

"There can be no doubt, my dear," said her mother, "that a Bishop of theAnglican Church is able to carry himself with more dignity anddistinction in everyday life than a Lord Chancellor, who is onlydignified when he is on the Bench. I think that Sydney would make anexcellent Bishop—quite the most distinguished Bishop of the day."

It was not until next morning that Lettice had time to ply her brotherwith questions as to his examination and his Cambridge experiencesgenerally. She did not ask about the visit to London which he had alsopaid. She had been to London herself, and could go there any day. ButCambridge!—the goal of Sydney's aspirations—the place where (the girlbelieved) intellectual success or failure was of such paramountimportance—what was that like?

Sydney was ready to hold forth. He liked the position of instructor andwas not insensible to the flattery of Lettice's intentness on hisanswers. But he was a little dismayed by one of her questions, whichshowed the direction of her thoughts.

"Did you hear anything about the women's college, Sydney?" For Girtonand Newnham were less well known then than they are now.

"Women's colleges! No, indeed. At least, I heard them laughed at severaltimes. They're no good."

"Why not?" said Lettice, wistfully.

"Now, Lettice," said the youthful mentor, severe in boyish wisdom, "Ihope you are not going to take fancies into your head about going toCambridge yourself. I should not like it at all. I'm not going to havemy sister laughed at and sneered at every time she walks out. I don'twant to be made a laughing-stock. Nice girls stay at home with theirmothers; they don't go to colleges and make themselves peculiar."

"I am not going to be peculiar; but I don't want to forget all I havelearned with you," said Lettice, quickly.

"You have learned too much already," said the autocrat, whose viewsconcerning women's education had developed since his short stay inCambridge. "Girls don't want Latin and Greek; they want music andneedlework, and all that sort of thing. I don't want my sister to be ablue-stocking."

Lettice felt that her lot in life ought not to be settled for her simplyas Sydney's sister—that she had an individuality of her own. But thefeeling was too vague to put into words; and after Syndey had left her,in obedience to a call from his father, she sat on in the long, low roomwith its cushioned window-seats and book-covered walls—the dear oldroom in which she had spent so many happy hours with her teacher and herfellow-pupil—and wondered what would become of her when Sydney wasreally gone; whether all those happy days were over, and she musthenceforth content herself with a life at Mrs. Campion's side, where itwas high treason to glance at any book that was neither a devotionalwork nor a novel. Lettice loved her mother, but the prospect did notstrike her as either brilliant or cheering.

It was the beginning, although at first she knew it not, of a newera in her life. Her happy childhood was over; she was bound henceforthto take up the heavy burden which custom lays on the shoulders of somany women: the burden of trivial care, unchanging routine, pettyconventionalities—

Sydney went out into the world to fight; Lettice sat in idleness athome; and society, as well as the rector and his wife, judged thisdivision of labor to be fair and right. But to Lettice, whose couragewas high and whose will and intellect were strong, it seemed a terribleinjustice that she might not fight and labor too. She longed forexpansion: for a wider field and sharper weapons wherewith to contestthe battle; and she longed in vain. During her father's lifetime itbecame more and more impossible for her to leave home. She wasfive-and-twenty before she breathed a larger air than that of Angleford.

CHAPTER III.

PROGRESS.

In due time, Sydney proceeded to Cambridge, and Lettice was left alone.The further development of brother and sister can scarcely be understoodwithout a retrospective glance at their own and their parents' history.

The Reverend Lawrence Campion, Rector of Angleford, was at this time aprosperous and contented man. Before he reached his fortieth year, hehad been presented by an old college friend to a comfortable living.Married to the woman of his early choice, he had become the father oftwo straight-limbed, healthy, and intelligent children; and then, foranother twenty years, he felt that he would not care to change his lotwith that of the most enviable of his fellow-creatures.

Being himself a scholar and a student, he determined that his boy andgirl, so far as he could shape their lives, should be scholars also. Toteach them all he knew was henceforth his chief occupation; for he wouldnot hand over to another a task which for him was a simple labor oflove. Day by day he sat between them in his comfortable study, whereroses tapped at the lozenge-shaped window panes all through the summer,and in winter the glow of the great logs upon the hearth was reflectedfrom the polished binding and gilt lettering of his books in a thousandautumnal hues, as pleasing to his eyes as the tints of the summerflowers. Day by day he sat between his children, patiently laying thefoundation of all they could thereafter learn or know. He made nodistinction for age or sex; and in their case, at any rate, nature hadset no stigma of inferiority on the intelligence of the girl. Sydney wasthe older of the two by eighteen months, and at first it seemed asthough his mind was readier to grasp a new idea; but there awoke inLettice a spirit of generous rivalry and resolution, which saved herfrom being far out-stripped by her brother. Together they studied Greekand Latin; they talked French and read German; they picked up as much ofmathematics as their father could explain to them—which was littleenough; and, best of all, they developed a literary faculty such as doesnot always accompany a knowledge of half-a-dozen dead and livinglanguages.

The day came when Mr. Campion, not without misgiving, resolved to testthe value of the education which he had given to his children. He hadheld a fellowship at Peterhouse up to the time of his marriage, and hadintended that Sydney should try for a scholarship at the same college.But the boy aimed at a higher mark; he was bent on being a Scholar ofTrinity. Perhaps it might have done him good to fail once or twice onthe threshold of his life, had his father assured himself beforehandthat he would not be disappointed if his pupil was sent back to him foranother year of preparation. But, as we have already seen, Sidneysucceeded, and, if the truth must be told, Mr. Campion was in no waysurprised at his success.

From that time forward none of the Campions ever dreamed of failure inconnection with Sydney's efforts. He certainly did not dream of failurefor himself. He had that sublime confidence which swells the heart ofevery young man in the flush of his first victory. We laugh in themiddle age at the ambitions which we nursed at twenty; but we did notlaugh when the divine breath was in us, and when our faith removedmountains of difficulty from our path.

Sydney's career at Cambridge was one long triumph. He gained the Cravenand Porson scholarships; his epigrams were quoted by college tutors asmodels of vigor and elegance; he was President of the Union; he took anexcellent degree, and was elected to a fellowship in due course. He had,in fact, done brilliant things; and at the age of twenty-four he was—tothose who knew him best, and especially to those who liked himleast—that shining, glorified, inspired, and yet sophisticated productof modern university culture, an academic prig. The word is not ofnecessity a term of reproach. Perhaps we are all prigs at some season inour lives, if we happen to have any inherent power of doing greatthings. There are lovable prigs, who grow into admirable men and women;but, alas! for the prig whose self-love coils round him like a snake,until it crushes out the ingenuous fervor of youth, and perverts thenoblest aspirations of manhood!

From Cambridge Sydney went to London, and was called to the bar. Here,of course, his progress was not so rapid. Briefs do not come forwishing, nor even for merit alone. Nevertheless he was advancing year byyear in the estimation of good judges; and it was known to his father,and to his intimate friends, that he only waited a favorable opportunityto stand for a seat in parliament.

At Angleford, in the meantime, they watched his career with proud heartsand loving sympathy. Mrs. Campion, in particular, doted on her son. Sheeven scanned the paper every morning, never by any chance missing anitem of law intelligence, where occasionally she would be rewarded bycoming across Sydney's name. She would not have considered anydistinction, however great, to be more than his due.

Lettice never thought of disagreeing with her mother when she sang thepraises of Sydney; but it must be confessed that both the rector and hiswife displayed less than their ordinary balance of judgment indiscussing the merits of their son. They unconsciously did muchinjustice to the girl, by their excessive adulation of her brother, andher interests were constantly sacrificed to his. She would have been thelast to admit that it was so; but the fact was clear enough to the fewpersons who used to visit them at Angleford. Her friend, Clara Graham,for instance, the wife of a London journalist, who came down now andthen to spend a holiday in her native village, would attempt tocommiserate Lettice on the hardness of her lot; but Lettice would notlisten to anything of the kind. She was too loyal to permit a word to bespoken in her presence which might seem to reflect upon her parents orher brother.

Yet it would have been impossible that she should not be in some wayaffected by the change which had come over her life since Sydney went toCambridge. From that day her regular reading with her father had ceased,and she was left to direct her studies as she thought best. Mr. Campionwas almost entirely absorbed in the prospects of his son, and if Letticeneeded his assistance she had to ask for it, often more than once. Theconsequence was that she soon gave up asking, and her mind, left to itsown devices, gradually found its true bent. She did not read much moreLatin or Greek, but devoured all the Modern literature that came in herway. After that she began to write—not fiction in the first instance,but more or less solid essays on criticism and social philosophy,following the pattern of certain writers in the half-crown monthlymagazines, which her father was wont to take in. If she had known thatthe time would come when she would have to earn her living by her pen,she could scarcely have adopted a better plan to prepare herself for thetask.

In the first instance, whatever she did in this way had been for her ownpleasure and distraction, without any clear idea of turning herabilities to practical account. She had no inclination for an idle life,but there was a limited period during which it rested with her father tosay what her occupation as a woman should be. When Sidney went toCambridge, Lettice had entreated that she might be sent to Girton orNewnham; but the young Scholar of Trinity had fought shy of the notion,and it was dropped at once. That, indeed, was the beginning of Lettice'sisolation—the beginning of a kind of mental estrangement from herbrother, which the lapse of time was to widen and perpetuate.

Mr. Campion and his wife were by no means unkind to their daughter; theysimply put Sydney first in all their plans and anticipations of thefuture. Her education was supposed to be complete; her lot was to becast at home, and not in the rough outer world, where men compete andstruggle for the mastery. If she had complained, they might not havebeen shocked, but they would have been immeasurably astonished. Therector had given her an excellent training, and though his strongestmotive was the desire to stimulate and encourage his son, no doubt hehad her interests in view at the same time. But when he finished withSydney he finished with Lettice, and it never occurred to him that therewas any injustice in suddenly withdrawing from her the arm on which hehad taught her to lean.

She did not complain. Yet as time went on she could not shut her eyes toSydney's habit of referring every question to the test of personalexpediency. It was her first great disillusion, but the pain which itcaused her was on her parents' behalf rather than on her own. They werethe chief sufferers; they gave him so much and received so little inreturn. To be sure, Sydney was only what they had made him. They badehim "take," in language which he could easily understand, but theircraving for love, for tenderness, for a share in his hopes, ambitions,resolutions, and triumphs, found no entrance to his understanding.

Sydney had spent a large sum of money at Cambridge, and had left heavydebts behind him, although his father had paid without remonstrance allthe accounts which he suffered to reach the old man's hands. He had whatare called expensive tastes; in other words, he bought what he coveted,and did not count the cost. The same thing went on in London, and Mr.Campion soon found that his income, good as it was, fell short of thedemands which were made upon it.

The rector himself had always been a free spender. His books, hispictures, his garden, his mania for curiosities, had run away withthousands of pounds, and now, when he surreptitiously tried to convertthese things into cash again there was a woeful falling off in theirvalue. He knew nothing of the art of driving a bargain; and, whereothers would have made a profit with the same opportunities, heinvariably lost money. He had bought badly to begin with, and he solddisastrously. Being hard pressed on one occasion for a hundred pounds tosend to Sydney, he borrowed it of a perfect stranger, who took for hissecurity what would have sufficed to cover ten times the amount.

This was in the third year after Sydney was called to the bar. Letticewas in London that autumn, on a visit to the Grahams; and perhapssomething which she contrived to say to her brother induced him to writeand tell his father that briefs were coming in at last, and that hehoped to be able to dispense with further remittances from home. Mr.Campion rejoiced in this assurance as though it implied that Sydney hadmade his fortune. But things had gone too far with him to admit ofrecovery, even if the young man had kept to his good resolutions—whichhe did not.

The fact is that Sydney's college debts hung like a weight round hisneck, and he had made no effort to be rid of them. The income of hisfellowship and his professional earnings ought to have been ample forall his needs, and no excuse can be urged for the selfishness which madehim a burden to his father after he had left Cambridge. But chambers inPiccadilly, as well as at the Inner Temple, a couple of West End clubs,a nightly rubber at whist, and certain regular drains upon his pocketwhich never found their way into any book of accounts, made up aformidable total of expenditure by the year's end. He was too clever aman of the world to let his reputation—or even his conscience—sufferby his self-indulgence, and, if he lived hard in the pursuit ofpleasure, he also worked hard in his profession. In short, he was awell-reputed lawyer, against whom no one had a word to say; and he wassupposed to have a very good chance of the prizes which are wont to fallto the lot of successful lawyers.

At the beginning of 1880, when Sydney Campion was in his twenty-seventhyear, there came to him the opportunity for which he had waited. Mr.Disraeli had dissolved Parliament somewhat suddenly, and appealed to thecountry for a renewal of the support accorded to him six years before.He had carried out in Eastern Europe a policy worthy of an Imperialrace. He had brought peace with honor from Berlin, filled the bazaars ofthree continents with rumors of his fame, and annexed the Suez Canal. Hehad made his Queen an Empress, and had lavished garters and dukedoms onthe greatest of Her Majesty's subjects. But the integrity of the empire,safe from foes without, was threatened on either shore of St. George'sChannel—by malignant treason on one side, and on the other by exuberantverbosity. It was a moment big with the fate of humanity—and hestrongly advised the constituencies to make him Prime Minister again.

Then the country was plunged into the turmoil of a General Election.Every borough and shire which had not already secured candidateshastened to do so. Zealous Liberals and enthusiastic Tories ran up totown from the places where local spirit failed, or local funds were notforthcoming, convinced that they would find no lack of either in theclubs and associations of the metropolis. Young and ambitiouspoliticians had their chance at last, and amongst others the chance camefor Sydney Campion.

There is no difficulty about getting into Parliament for a young man whohas friends. He can borrow the money, the spirit, the eloquence, thepolitical knowledge, and he will never be asked to repay any of them outof his own resources. Now Sydney had a friend who would have seen himthrough the whole business on these terms, who would at any rate havefound him money, the only qualification in which he was deficient. Buthe fell into a trap prepared for him by his own vanity, and, as ithappened, the mistake cost him very dear.

"You see, Campion," his friend had said to him, after suggesting that heshould go down as Conservative candidate for Dormer, "our people knowvery well what they would get for their money if you were elected. Youwould make your mark in the first session, and be immensely useful to usin ever so many ways."

"Would it cost much?" asked Sydney, rather nettled by the mention ofmoney. He had known Sir John Pynsent at Cambridge, and had never allowedhimself to be outdressed or outshone by him in any way. But Pynsent hadbeaten him in the race for political honors; and Sydney, like a showyplayer at billiards who prefers to put side on when he might make astraightforward stroke, resolved to take a high tone with his would-bepatronizing friend.

"Much?" said Sir John. "Well, no, not much, as things go. But theseworthies at Dormer have their own traditional ways of working theoracle. The Rads have got hold of a stockjobber who is good for athousand, and Maltman says they cannot fight him with less than that.The long and short of it is that they want a strong candidate with fivehundred pounds, and we are prepared to send you down, my boy, and to begood for that amount."

Sydney took out his cigar case, and offered the beaming baronet a choiceVillar.

"It's uncommonly good of you, Pynsent, to give me a look in at Dormer,and to suggest the other thing in such a friendly way. Now, lookhere—can you let me have two days to say yes or no to Maltman?"

"I am afraid I can't. He must have his answer in twenty-four hours."

"Well, say twenty-four hours. He shall have it by this time to-morrow.And as for the five hundred, you may be wanting that by and by. Keep itfor some fellow who is not in a position to fight for his own hand."

Sir John Pynsent left his friend with a greatly increased opinion of hisspirit and professional standing—a result of the interview with whichSydney was perfectly satisfied.

Then came the serious question, how he was to deal with the emergencywhich had arisen—perhaps the most critical emergency of his life.Within twenty-four hours he must know when and how he could put his handupon five hundred pounds.

He might easily have saved twice the sum before now; but he had neverlearned the art of saving. He thought of his father, whom he had notseen or written to for more than a month, and determined that he wouldat all events go down and consult the rector. He had not realized thefact that his father's resources were already exhausted, and that merehumanity, to say nothing of filial duty, required him to come to the oldman's assistance, instead of asking him for fresh sacrifices.

"If he has not the money," Sydney said, "no doubt he can help me toraise it. It will be an excellent investment of our joint credit, and avery good thing for us both."

So he telegraphed to Angleford—

"I am going to contest a borough. Must make provision. Shall be with youby next train."

CHAPTER IV.

FATHER AND SON.

Sydney's telegram reached Angleford at an awkward time. Things had beengoing from bad to worse with Mr. Campion, who had never had as muchmoney as he needed since he paid the last accounts of the Cambridgetradesmen. In the vain hope that matters would mend by and by—though hedid not form any precise idea as to how the improvement would takeplace—he had been meeting each engagement as it came to maturity byentering on another still more onerous. After stripping himself of allhis household treasures that could be converted into money, he hadpledged his insurance policy, his professional and private income, andat last even his furniture; and he was now in very deep waters.

A great change had come over him. At sixty, when Sydney took his degree,he was still handsome and upright, buoyant with hope and energy. Atsixty-six he was broken, weak, and disheartened. To his wife anddaughter, indeed, he was always the same cheerful, gentle, sanguine man,full of courtesy and consideration. In the village he was more belovedthan ever, because there was scarcely a man or woman who was notfamiliar with the nature and extent of his troubles. In a country parishthe affairs of the parson, especially when they do not prosper, are aptto become the affairs of the congregation as well. Who should knowbetter than a man's butcher and baker when the supply of ready moneyruns short, when one month would be more convenient than another for thesettlement of a bill, or when the half-year's stipend has beenforestalled and appropriated long before it fell due?

However great his trouble, the rector had generally contrived to put agood face on things. He considered his difficulties as entirely theresult of his own improvidence, and rejoiced to think that Sydney'sposition was assured, no matter what might happen to himself. Yet oftenin the silence of the night he would toss upon his restless bed, or vexhis soul with complicated accounts in the privacy of his study, and nonebut the two faithful women who lived with him suspected what he sufferedin his weakest moments.

He had come to lean more and more constantly on the companionship ofLettice. Mrs. Campion had never been the kind of woman to whom a manlooks for strength or consolation, and when she condoled with herhusband he usually felt himself twice as miserable as before. Some wiveshave a way of making their condolences sound like reproaches; and theymay be none the less loving wives for that. Mrs. Campion sincerely lovedher husband, but she never thoroughly understood him.

When the boy arrived with Sydney's telegram, Lettice intercepted him atthe door. She was accustomed to keep watch over everything that enteredthe house, and saved her father a great deal of trouble by reading hisletters, and, if need be, by answering them. What he would have donewithout her, he was wont to aver, nobody could tell.

Time had dealt gently with Lettice, in spite of her anxieties, in spiteof that passionate revolt against fate which from time to time hadshaken her very soul. She was nearly five-and-twenty, and she certainlylooked no more then twenty-one. The sweet country air had preserved thedelicate freshness of her complexion: her dark grey eyes were clear, herwhite brow unlined by trouble, her rippling brown hair shining andabundant. Her slender hands were a little tanned—the only sign thatcountry life had laid upon her—because she was never very careful aboutwearing gloves when she worked in the garden; but neither tan norfreckle ever appeared upon her face, the bloom of which was tender andrefined as that of a briar-rose. The old wistful look of her sweet eyesremained unchanged, but the mouth was sadder in repose than it had beenwhen she was a child. When she smiled, however, there could not havebeen a brighter face.

Notwithstanding this touch of sadness on her lips, and a faint shadow ofthought on the clear fine brows, the face of Lettice was noticeable forits tranquillity. No storm of passion had ever troubled thosetranslucent eyes: patience sat there, patience and reflection; emotionwaited its turn. One could not doubt her capabilities of feeling; but,in spite of her four-and-twenty years, the depths of her heart had neveryet been stirred. She had lived a somewhat restricted life, and therewas yet very much for her to experience and to learn. Who would be herteacher? For Lettice was not the woman to go ignorant of life's fullestbliss and deepest sorrow to the grave.

She looked particularly slender and youthful as she stood that day atthe hall window when Sydney's telegram arrived. She had a double reasonfor keeping guard in the hall and glancing nervously down thecarriage-drive that led from the main road to the rectory front.Half-an-hour before, a hard-featured man had swaggered up the avenue,fired off a volley of defiance on the knocker, and demanded to see Mr.Campion.

"What do you want?" said Lettice, who had opened the door and stoodboldly facing him.

"I want to see the parson. At once, miss, if you please."

"Perhaps I can do what is necessary, if you will tell me what yourbusiness is. You cannot see my father."

"Oh," said the man, with a little more respect. "You are his daughter,are you? Well, if you can do the needful I am sure I have no objection.Three hundred and twenty pound seventeen-and-six"—here he took out astamped paper and showed it to Lettice. "That's the figure, miss, and ifyou'll oblige with coin—cheques and promises being equallyinconvenient—I don't mind waiting five minutes to accommodate a lady."

"We have not the money in the house," answered Lettice, who had beenreading the formidable document, without quite understanding what itmeant.

"Ah, that's a pity," said the man. "But I didn't expect it, so I ain'tdisappointed."

"It shall be sent to you. I will see that you have it—within a weekfrom this date—only go away now, for my father is unwell."

"Very sorry, miss, but I can't go without the money. This business won'twait any longer. The coin or the sticks—those are my orders, and that'smy notion of what is fair and right."

"The sticks?" said Lettice faintly.

"The goods—the furniture. This paper is a bill of sale, and as thereverend gentleman doesn't find it convenient to pay, why, of course, myprincipal is bound to realize the security. Now, miss, am I to see thegentleman, or am I not?"

"Oh no," said Lettice, "it is useless."

"Then what I am going to do," said the man, "is this. I am going to getthe vans, and fetch the goods right away. I may be back this afternoon,or I may be back to-morrow morning; but you take my advice, miss. Talkit over with the old gentleman, and raise the money somehow, for itreally would go against me to have to sell you up. I'm to be heard of atthe 'Chequers,' miss—William Joskins, at your service."

Then he had gone away, and left her alone, and she stood looking throughthe window at the dreary prospect—thinking, and thinking, and unable tosee any light in the darkness.

One thing, at all events, she must do; a message must be sent to Sydney.It would not be just, either to him or to his father, that the extent ofthe disaster should be any longer concealed. She had just arrived atthis determination, and was turning away to write the telegram, when themessenger from the post-office made his appearance.

In five minutes all the house was astir. A visit from Sydney was a rareoccurrence, and he must be treated royally, as though he were a kingcondescending to quarter himself on his loyal subjects—which indeed, hewas. When Lettice went to tell her father the news she found him seatedby the fire, pondering gloomily on what the immediate future might havein store for him; but as soon as she showed him Sydney's telegram hesprang to his feet, with straightened body and brightly shining eyes. Inone moment he had passed from despondency to the height of exultation.

"Two o'clock," he said, looking at his watch, "and he will be here atfive! Dinner must be ready for him by six; and you will take care,Lettice, that everything is prepared as you know he would like to haveit. Going into Parliament, is he? Yes, I have always told you that hewould. He is a born orator, child; he will serve his countrybrilliantly—not for place, nor for corrupt motives of any kind, but asa patriot and a Christian, to whom duty is the law of his nature."

"Yes, papa. And you will be satisfied when he is a member ofParliament?"

"So long as Sydney lives, my dear, I know that he will grow in favorwith God and man; and so long as I live, I shall watch his course withundiminished joy and satisfaction. What else have we left to live for?Wife!" said the rector, as Mrs. Campion entered the room, "do you knowthat our boy is to dine with us to-night?"

"Yes, Lawrence, I have seen his telegram; and Mollie is doing all shecan at short notice. It will not be the kind of dinner I should like toput before him; but times are changed with us—sadly changed! I hope hewill not miss the plate, Lawrence; and as for wine and dessert——"

"Oh, mother dear," said Lettice, interrupting, "I quite forgot to tellyou about my letter this morning. Look here! It contained a cheque forten pounds, for that article of mine in the Decade. I mean to go intoDorminster, and get one or two things we shall be wanting, and I shallprobably drive back in Sydney's cab. So you can leave the wine anddessert to me. And, mother dear, be sure you put on your silver-greypoplin, with the Mechlin cap. Nothing suits you half as well!"

Lettice's earnings had sufficed for some years past for her dress andpersonal expenses; but latterly she had contrived to have a fair marginleft for such emergencies as that which had now arisen. She was morethan thanked by the gleam of love which lightened the eyes of herparents as she spoke. Even though Sydney was coming, she thought, thatsmile at any rate was all for her.

So she went into the town and made her purchases, and waited at thestation, shivering in the cold March wind, for Sydney's train.

How much should she tell him to begin with? Or should she say nothingtill after dinner? How would he take it? How would it affect him? Andsuppose for a moment that he had to choose between getting intoParliament and rescuing his father from ruin?

Clearly as she saw the worst sides of Sydney's character, yet she lovedhim well, and was proud of him. How often she had yearned for tendernessin the days gone by! What excuses she had framed for him in her ownheart, when he seemed to forget their existence at Angleford for monthstogether! And now, when she had this terrible news to tell him, was itnot possible that his heart would be softened by the blow, and that goodwould come for all of them out of this menaced evil? What a happy placethe old Rectory might be if her father's mind were set at rest again,and Sydney would come down and stay with them from time to time!

The train was at the platform before Lettice had decided what to do.Sydney looked rather surprised to see her, but gave her his cheek tokiss, and hurried her off to the cab stand.

"What brought you here?" he said. "How cold you are! All well at home?"

"Yes, they are well. But, oh, Sydney, they are growing old?"

"Growing old, child? Why, of course they are. We must expect it. Do youmean they look older than they are?"

"Yes—older, and—and more——"

"Well?"

He looked at her sharply, for she could not quite command her voice, andleft the sentence unfinished. Then Sydney had an uncomfortable feeling.He saw that there was something amiss, but did not care at the moment toinsist on further confidences. No doubt he would hear all that there wasto be said by and by. Meanwhile he turned the conversation, and sooncontrived to interest her, so that they reached the Rectory in excellentspirits. All that day poor Lettice alternated between despair and giddylightness of heart.

So the hero came home and was feasted, and his father and mother didobeisance to him, and even he for an hour or two thought it good that heshould now and then renew his contract with the earth from which hesprang, and remember the chains of duty and affection which bound him tothe past, instead of dwelling constantly in the present and the future.

Throughout dinner, and at dessert, and as they drank the wine whichLettice had provided, Sydney spoke of his position and prospects,dazzling those who listened to him with his pictures of victory atDormer, of Conservative triumphs all along the line, of Ministerialfavor for himself, of "Office—why not?—within a twelvemonth." It wouldhave been treason for any of his audience to doubt that all these goodthings would come to pass. If Lettice felt that there was a skeleton atthe feast, her father at any rate had forgotten its existence. Or,rather, he saw deliverance at hand. The crisis of his boy's fortune hadarrived; and, if Sydney triumphed, nothing that could happen to Sydney'sfather could rob Mr. Campion of his joy.

At last the women left the room, and Sydney proceeded to tell his fatherwhat he wanted. He must return to town by the first train in themorning, having made an appointment with Mr. Maltman for two o'clock. Ofcourse he meant to contest Dormer; but it was desirable that he shouldknow for certain that he could raise five hundred pounds within a week,to supplement his own narrow means.

His face fell a little when his father confessed—as though it wereclearly a matter for shame and remorse—that he could not so much asdraw a cheque for twenty pounds. But, in fact, he was not surprised.Recklessly as he had abstained from inquiring into the old man's affairssince Lettice spoke to him in London two years ago, he had taken it forgranted that there were difficulties of some kind; and men indifficulties do not keep large balances at their bankers'.

"Well, father," he said, "I am sorry for that. Yes—it certainly makesthe thing rather hard for me. I hoped you might have seen me fairlylaunched on my career; and then, you know, if the worst came to theworst, I could soon have repaid you what you advanced. Well, what Isuggest is this. I can probably borrow the money with your assistance,and I want to know what security we could offer between us for theloan."

Mr. Campion looked mournfully at his son, but he was not ready with areply.

"You see," said Sydney, "it would never do for me to miss this chance.Everything depends upon it, and I was bound to refuse Pynsent's offer ofthe money. But if you have something that we can lodge as security——"

Mr. Campion shook his head. The look of distress that came upon his facemight have softened Sydney's heart, if he had been less intent on hisobject.

"There will be an insurance policy I suppose?"

"No, my boy! The fact is, I was obliged to assign it a few years ago, tocover a former engagement."

"Dear me!" said Sydney, in a tone of vexation, "what a nuisance! I amafraid our signatures alone would hardly suffice. A bill of sale is outof the question, for that would have to be registered."

Something in the old man's appearance, as he sank back in his chair andwrung his hands, struck Sydney with a sudden conviction. He sprang tohis feet, and came close to his father's side, standing over him in whatlooked almost like an attitude of menace.

"Good heaven!" he cried. "Don't tell me that it has gone so far asthat!"

The door opened, and Lettice stood before them, with pale cheeks andglistening eyes. She had guessed what would come of their conversation,and had held herself in readiness to intervene.

Sydney turned upon her at once.

"You," he said, as deliberate now as he had been excited a minutebefore, "you, with your fine head for business, will doubtless know asmuch about this as anybody. Has my father given a bill of sale on hisfurniture?"

"He has," said Lettice.

"When?"

"Months ago. I must have known it, for I read all his correspondence;but I hardly knew what a bill of sale meant. And Sydney," she continued,laying her hand on his arm, and whispering so that her father should nothear, "it may be only a threat, but a man was here this morning, whosaid he should come to-morrow and take the things away."

When he heard this, Sydney lost his self-command, and spoke certainwords for which he never quite forgave himself. No doubt the blow was aheavy one, and he realized immediately all that it implied. But he didnot foresee the effect of the harsh and bitter words which he flung athis father and sister, charging them with reckless extravagance, anddeclaring that their selfishness had ruined his whole career.

Lettice was stung to the quick, not so much by her brother's unjustaccusations as by the suffering which they inflicted on her father. Hischildishness had increased upon him so much of late that he was intruth, at this moment, more like a boy under correction than a father inpresence of his children. He buried his face in his hands, and Letticeheard a piteous groan.

Then she stood beside him, laid her arm upon his neck, and faced Sydneywith indignant eyes.

"Look!" she said. "This is your work. Can you not see and understand?You accuse him of selfishness—him, whose life has been one longsacrifice for you! I tell you, Sydney, that your cruel neglect, youringrained love of self, have dragged our father down to this. He gaveyou all that you have, and made you all that you are, and when youshould have come to his succor, and secured for him a happy old age, youhave left him all these years to struggle with the poverty to which youreduced him. He never murmured—he will never blame you as long as helives—he is as proud of you to-day as he was ten years ago—and youdare, you dare to reproach him!"

Lettice ended in magnificent wrath; and, then, being a woman after all,she knelt by her father's side and burst into tears.

If Sydney's pride had not got the better of him he would have owned thejustice of her words, and all might have been well. Instead of that, hewent to his room, brooding upon his misfortune, and soothing his woundedfeelings in an intense self-pity.

And next morning, when he came remorsefully to his father's bedside,intending to assure him that he would make it the first business of hislife to rescue him from his difficulties, he found him rescued indeed,with placid face and silent heart, over which the cares of earth had nofurther dominion.

CHAPTER V.

SEVERANCE.

The rector's death was a terrible shock to Sydney. For a time hisremorse for his own conduct was very great, and it bore good fruit in aperceptible softening of his over-confident manner and a more distinctshow of consideration for his mother and sister. Little by little hedrew from Lettice the story of her past anxieties, of his father'sefforts and privations, of his mother's suffering at the loss ofluxuries to which she had always been accustomed—suffering silentlyborne because it was borne for Sydney. Lettice spared him as far as shecould; but there was much that she was obliged to tell, as she had beenfor so long the depositary of her father's secrets and his cares.Man-like, Sydney showed his sorrow by exceeding sharpness of tone.

"Why did you not write to me? Why was I never told?"

"I told you as much as I dared, when I was in London."

"As much as you dared?"

"Dear father would not let me tell very much. He laid his commands on meto say nothing."

"You should have disobeyed him," said Sydney marching up and down thedarkened study, in which this conference took place. "It was your dutyto have disobeyed him, for his own good——"

"Oh, Sydney, how can you talk to me of duty?" said Lettice, with a sob."Why did you not come and see for yourself? Why did you stay away solong?"

The reproach cut deeper than she knew. "I thought I was acting for thebest," said the young man, half defiantly, half apologetically. "I didwhat it was the desire of his heart that I should do—But you, you wereat home; you saw it all, and you should have told me, Lettice."

"I did try," she answered meekly, "but it was not very easy to make youlisten."

In other circ*mstances he would, perhaps, have retorted angrily; andLettice felt that it said much for the depth of his sorrow for the pastthat he did not carry his self-defence any further. By and by he pausedin his agitated walk up and down the room, with head bent and handsplunged deep into his pockets. After two or three moments' silence,Lettice crept up to him and put her hand within his arm.

"Forgive me, Sydney, I spoke too bitterly; but it has been very hardsometimes."

"I would have helped if I had known," said Sydney gloomily.

"I know you would, dear. And he always knew it, too. That was the reasonwhy he told me to keep silence—for fear of hampering you in yourcareer. He has often said to me that he wished to keep the knowledge ofhis difficulties from you, because he knew you would be generous andkind——"

Tears choked her voice. Her brother, who had hitherto been quiteunresponsive to her caresses, put out his right hand and stroked thetrembling fingers that rested on his left arm. He was leaning againstthe old oak table, where his father's books and papers had stood for somany years; and some remembrances of bygone days when he and Lettice, asboy and girl, sat together with their grammars and lexicons at that veryplace, occurred a little dimly to his mind. But what was a dim memory tohim was very clear and distinct to Lettice.

"Oh, Sydney, do you remember how we used to work here with father?" shebroke out. "How many hours we spent here together—reading the samebooks, thinking the same thoughts—and now we seem so divided, so veryfar apart! You have not quite forgotten those old days, have you?"

"No, I have not forgotten them," said Sydney, in a rather unsteadyvoice. Poor Lettice! She had counted for very little in his life for thelast few years, and yet, as she reminded him, what companions they hadbeen before he went to Cambridge! A suddenly roused instinct ofcompassion and protection caused him to put his arm round her and tospeak with unusual tenderness.

"I won't forget those old times, Lettice. Perhaps we shall be able tosee more of each other by and bye than we have done lately. You havebeen a good girl, never wanting any change or amusem*nt all these years;but I'll do my best to look after you now."

"I began to think you did not care for any of us, Sydney."

"Nonsense," said Sydney, and he kissed her forehead affectionatelybefore he left the study, where, indeed, he felt that he had stayed alittle too long, and given Lettice an unusual advantage over him. He wasnot destitute of natural affections, but they had so long been obscuredby the mists of selfishness that he found it difficult to let themappear—and more difficult with his sister than with his mother. Letticeseemed to him to exact too much, to be too intense in feeling, toocritical in observation. He was fond of her, but she was not at all hisideal woman—if he had one. Sydney's preference was for what he called"a womanly woman": not one who knew Greek.

He made a brave and manly effort to wind up his father's affairs and payhis outstanding debts. He was so far stirred out of himself that ithardly occurred to his mind that a slur would be left on him if thesedebts were left unpaid: his strongest motive just now was the sense ofright and wrong, and he knew, too late, that it was right for him totake up the load which his own acts had made so heavy.

The rector had died absolutely penniless. His insurance policy, hisfurniture, the whole of his personal effects, barely sufficed to coverthe money he had borrowed. What Sydney did was to procure the means ofdischarging at once all the household bills, and the expenses connectedwith the funeral.

"And now," he said to Lettice, when the last of these dues had been paidoff and they took their last stroll together through the already halfdismantled rooms of the desolate old Rectory, "I feel more of a man thanI have felt since that terrible night, and I want to get back to mywork."

"I am afraid you will have to work very hard, dear!" said Lettice,laying her hand on his arm, rather timidly. How she still yearned forthe full measure of mutual confidence and sympathy!

"Hard work will be good for me," he said, his keen blue eyes lighting upas if with ardor for the fray. "I shall soon wipe off old scores, andthere's nothing like knowing you have only yourself to look to. Mypractice, you know, is pretty good already, and it will be very good byand bye."

"I am so glad!"

"Yes. And, of course, you must never have any anxiety about mother andyourself. I shall see to all that. You are going to stay with theGrahams for a while, so I can come over one day and discuss it. I don'tsuppose I shall ever marry, but whether I do or not, I shall always setapart a certain sum for mother and you."

"I have been thinking about the future," said Lettice, quietly. Shealways spoke in a low, musical voice, without gesture, but not withoutanimation, producing on those who heard her the impression that she hadformed her opinions beforehand, and was deliberate in stating them. "Doyou know, Sydney, that I can earn a very respectable income?"

"Earn an income! You!" he said, with a wrinkle in his forehead, and acurl in his nostrils. "I will not hear of such a thing. I cannot have mysister a dependent in other people's houses—a humble governess orcompanion. How could you dream of it!"

"I have not dreamed of that," said Lettice. "I do not think I shouldlike it myself. I simply stay at home and write. I earned seventy poundslast year, and Mr. Graham says I could almost certainly earn twice asmuch if I were living in London."

"Why was I not told of this?" said Sydney, with an air of vexation."What do you write?"

"Essays, and now and then a review, and little stories."

"Little stories—ouf!" he muttered, in evident disgust. "You don't putyour name to these things!"

"I did to one article, last March, in The Decade."

"That is Graham's magazine, and I daresay Graham asked you to sign yourname. When I see him I shall tell him it was done without sufficientconsideration."

"All articles are signed in The Decade," said Lettice. She did notthink it worth while to mention that Graham had written her a veryflattering letter about her article, telling her that it had attractednotice—that the critics said she had a style of her own, and was likelyto make her mark. The letter had reached her on the morning before herfather's death, and she had found but a brief satisfaction in it at thetime.

"I think you had better not say anything to Mr. Graham," she continued."They have both been very kind, and we shall not have too many friendsin London."

"Why do you want to live in London?"

"I think I should like it, and mother would like it too. You know shehas fifty pounds a year of her own, and if what Mr. Graham says is rightwe shall be able to live very comfortably."

"I can't say I like this writing for a living," he said.

"I suppose we cannot have everything as we like it. And, besides, I dolike it. It is congenial work, and it makes me feel independent."

"It is not always good for women to be independent. It is dangerous."

She laughed—a pleasant little rallying laugh.

"I hope you will not be shocked," she said. "I have set my heart onbeing perfectly independent of you and everybody else."

He saw that she would have her way, and let the subject drop.

A few weeks afterwards, Lettice and her mother had packed up theirbelongings and went to London. The Grahams were delighted to have them,for Lettice was a great favorite with both. James Graham was a literaryman of good standing, who, in addition to editing The Decade, wrotefor one of the weekly papers, and reviewed books in his special linesfor one of the dailies. By dint of hard work, and carefully nursing hisconnection, he contrived to make a living; and that was all. Literarywork is not well paid as a rule. There is fair pay to be had on thestaff of the best daily papers, but that kind of work requires a specialaptitude. It requires, in particular, a supple and indifferent mind,ready to take its cue from other people, with the art of representingthings from day to day not exactly as they are, but as an editor orpaymaster wants them to appear. If we suffered our journalists to signtheir articles, they would probably write better, with more self-respectand a higher sense of responsibility; they would become stronger inthemselves, and would be more influential with their readers. As it is,few men with vigorous and original minds can endure beyond a year or twoof political leader-writing.

Graham had tried it, and the ordeal was too difficult for him. Now hehad a greater scope for his abilities, and less money for his pains.

Clara Graham was the daughter of a solicitor in Angleford, and had knownLettice Campion from childhood. She was a pretty woman, thoroughlygood-hearted, with tastes and powers somewhat in advance of hereducation. Perhaps she stood a little in awe of Lettice, and wonderedoccasionally whether her husband considered a woman who knew Latin andGreek, and wrote clever articles in The Decade, superior to one whohad no such accomplishments, though she might be prettier, and themother of his children, and even the darner of his stockings. But Clarawas not without wits, so she did not propound questions of that sort toher husband; she reserved them for her own torment, and then expiatedher jealousy by being kinder to Lettice than ever.

Lettice's plans were far more fixed and decided than Sydney knew. Shehad corresponded very fully and frankly with the Grahams on the subject,and Mr. Graham was already looking about for a place where she could setup her household gods. It was no use to consult Mrs. Campion on thesubject. Her husband's death had thrown her into a state of mentaltorpor which seemed at first to border upon imbecility; and although sherecovered to some extent from the shock, her health had been too muchshaken to admit of complete recovery. Thenceforward she was an invalidand an old woman, who had abnegated her will in favor of her daughter's,and asked for nothing better than to be governed as well as cared for.The change was a painful one to Lettice, but practically it left herfreer than ever, for her mother wanted little companionship, and wasquite as happy with the maid that Lettice had brought from Angleford aswith Lettice herself. The visit to the Grahams was an excellent thingboth for Mrs. Campion and for her daughter. Clara managed to win the oldlady's heart, and so relieved her friend of much of her anxiety. Therelief came not a moment too soon, for the long strain to which Letticehad been subjected began to tell upon her and she was sorely in need ofrest. The last three or four years had been a time of almost incessantworry to her. She had literally had the care of the household on hershoulders, and it had needed both courage and endurance of no ordinarykind to enable her to discharge her task without abandoning that innerand intellectual life which had become so indispensable to herwell-being. The sudden death of her father was a paralyzing blow, butthe care exacted from her by her mother had saved her from the physicalcollapse which it might have brought about. Now, when the necessity forimmediate exertion had passed away, the reaction was very great, and itwas fortunate that she had at this crisis the bracing companionship ofJames Graham, and Clara's friendly and stimulating acerbities.

Lettice had reached the age of five and twenty without experiencingeither love, or intimate friendship, or intellectual sympathy. She hadhad neither of those two things which a woman, and especially anintellectual woman, constantly craves, and in the absence of which shecannot be happy. Either of the two may suffice for happiness, bothtogether would satisfy her completely, but the woman who has not one orthe other is a stranger to content. The nature of a woman requireseither equality of friendship, a free exchange of confidence, trust andrespect—having which, she can put up with a good deal of apparentcoldness and dryness of heart in her friend; or else she wants thecontrasted savor of life, caressing words, demonstrations of tenderness,amenities and attentions, which keep her heart at rest even if they donot satisfy her whole nature. If she gets neither of these things thelove or friendship never wakes, or, having been aroused, it dies ofinanition.

So it was with Lettice. The one oasis in the wilderness of her existencehad been the aftermath of love which sprang up between her and herfather in the last few years, when she felt him depending upon her,confiding and trusting in her, and when she had a voice in the shapingof his life. But even this love, unsurpassable in its tenderness, wasonly as a faint shadow in a thirsty land. Such as it was, she had lostit, and the place which it had occupied was an aching void.

The one desire left to her at present was to become an absolutelyindependent woman. This meant that she should work hard for her livingin her own way, and that she should do what seemed good and pleasant toher, because it seemed good and pleasant, not because it was the way ofthe world, or the way of a house, or the routine of a relative or anemployer. It meant that she should keep her mother under her own eye, incomfort and decency, not lodged with strangers to mope out her life indreary solitude. It meant also that she should not be a burden onSydney—or, in plain terms, that she should not take Sydney's money,either for herself or her mother.

Indeed, the consciousness that she had to work for another, and to beher protection and support, was not only bracing but cheering in itseffects, and Lettice now turned towards her writing-table with an energywhich had been wanting when her efforts were for herself alone.

The Rectory household had been reduced as much as possible during thelast few months, and only two servants remained at the time of therector's death: one, an elderly cook, who was content for the love of"Miss Lettice" to do the work of a general servant; and a young girl ofeighteen, who had lived at the Rectory and been trained for domesticservice under Mrs. Campion's eye ever since her parents' death, whichhad occurred when she was fifteen years of age. Emily, or MillyHarrington, as she was generally called, was a quick, clever girl, veryneat-handed and fairly industrious; and it seemed to Lettice, when shedecided upon going to London, that she could not do better than askMilly to go too. The girl's great blue eyes opened with a flash ofpositive rapture. "Go with you to London? Oh, Miss Lettice!"

"You would like it, Milly?" said Lettice, wondering at her excitement,and thinking that she had never before noticed how pretty MillieHarrington had grown of late.

"Oh, of all things in the world, miss, I've wanted to go to London!"said Milly, flushing all over her face through the clear white skinwhich was one of her especial beauties. There was very little trace ofcommonness in Milly's good looks. Three years of life at the Rectory hadrefined her appearance, as also her manners and ways of speech; andLettice thought that it would be far pleasanter to keep Milly about herthan to go through the agonies of a succession of pert London girls. Yetsomething in Milly's eagerness to go, as well as the girl's fresh,innocent, country air, troubled her with a vague sense of anxiety. Wasnot London said to be a place of temptation for inexperienced countrygirls? Could she keep Milly safe and innocent if she took her away fromAngleford?

"You would have all the work of the house to do, and to look after Mrs.Campion a little as well," she said seeking to put her vague anxietyinto the form of a warning or an objection. But Milly only smiled.

"I'm very strong, Miss Lettice. I am sure I can do all that you want.And I should like to go to London with you. One hears such fine tales ofLondon—and I don't want to leave mistress and you." Though this wasevidently an afterthought.

"You will see very little of London, Milly; I shall live in a very quietpart," said Lettice. "And I shall want you to be very good and steady,and take care of my mother when I am busy. I shall have to work hardnow, you know; quite as hard as you."

Milly looked up quickly; there was inquiry in her eyes. But she answeredonly by protestations of good behavior and repeated desires to go withher young mistress; and Lettice gave her a promise, subject to theconsent of Milly's grandmother, who lived at Birchmead, that she wouldtake the girl with her when she went away.

Old Mrs. Harrington had no objection at all to Milly's going to London."Indeed, Miss Lettice," she said, "I'm only too glad to think of yourlooking after her, for Milly's not got much sense, I'm afraid, althoughshe's a woman grown."

"I always thought her unusually clever and sensible," said Lettice, insome surprise.

"Clever, miss, she always was, but sensible's a different affair. Herhead's filled with foolishness, all along of her reading story books, Itell her; and she's got an idea that her pretty face will bring her arich husband, and I don't know what beside. I shall be obliged to you,miss, if you'll kindly keep a sharp eye and a tight hand over Milly. Notbut what she's a good kind-hearted girl," said the old woman, relentinga little, as she saw a rather startled expression on Miss Campion'sface, "and I don't think there's any harm in her, but girls are alwaysbetter for being looked after, that is all."

"I'll try to take care of Milly," said Lettice, as she rose to go. "Butmy care will be of very little use if she does not take care ofherself."

She was fated on the same day to hear a remonstrance from the doctor'swife, Mrs. Budworth, on the subject of her choice of a servant. Mrs.Budworth was a noted busybody, who knew everybody's business better thanthe rest of the world.

"Oh, Lettice, dear," she said, "I do hope it's not true that you aregoing to take that silly girl, Milly Harrington, up to London with you."

"Why not? You cannot know anything against her," said Lettice, who wasbecoming a little angry.

"Well, perhaps not—only she is so very pretty, and London is so full oftemptations for a pretty girl of that class!"

"We shall live so quietly that she will have no more temptations therethan here, Mrs. Budworth."

"You can't tell that, my dear—once you get a girl away from her friendsand relations. However, she has only her old grandmother to fall backon, and she seems a well-meaning girl enough, and perhaps she won't beconsidered so pretty in London as she has the name of being here. I hopeshe will keep straight, I'm sure; it would be such a worry to you,Lettice, if anything went wrong."

"Poor Milly!" said Lettice to herself, as she walked home in a state ofblazing indignation; "how easily that woman would undermine yourreputation—or that of anybody else! Milly is a dear, good little girl;and as for her being so pretty—well, it is not her fault, and I don'tsee why it should be her misfortune! I will look well after her when weare in London, and it will be for her good, I believe, to stay with us.What an absurd fuss to make about such a trifle!"

So she dismissed the matter from her mind, remembering it only from timeto time when she was making her new household arrangements, andcarefully planning to keep Milly out of every possible danger.

But dangers are oftener from within than from without. While Letticewalked homeward after her talk with Mrs. Budworth, Milly Harrington hadlocked herself into her own room, and was experimenting with her prettycurling hair before the looking-glass. She wanted to see herself with a"fringe"—a thing that was strictly forbidden at the Rectory, and shehad brushed the soft little curls that were generally hidden beneath hercap well over her forehead. Then she stood and gazed at the reflectionof the fair locks, the large blue eyes, the graceful neck and shoulders."I suppose I look pretty," she was saying to herself. "I've been told sooften enough. Mr. Sydney thought so when he was here at Christmas, I'msure of that. This time, of course, he was so taken up with his father'sdeath, and other things, that he never noticed me. But I shall see himagain."

A faint color mantled in her cheeks, and her eyes began to sparkle.

"Beauty's a great power, I've heard," she said to herself, still lookingat that fair image in the glass. "There's no knowing what I mayn't do ifI meet the right person. And one meets nobody in Angleford. InLondon—things may be different."

Different, indeed, but not as poor Milly fancied the difference.

And then she brushed back her curls, and fastened up her black dress,and tied a clean muslin apron round her trim little figure before goingdownstairs; and when she brought in the tea-tray that afternoon, Letticelooked at her with pleasure and admiration, and thought how sweet andgood a girl she was, and how she had won the Prayer-Book prize at theDiocesan Inspector's examination, and of the praise that the rector hadgiven her for her well-written papers at the Confirmation Class, and ofher own kindly and earnest teaching of all things that were good inLettice's eyes; and she decided that Mrs. Harrington and Mrs. Budworthwere mere croakers, and that poor Milly would never come to harm.

BOOK II.

CHANGE.

CHAPTER VI.

NEW BEGINNINGS.

"Poor dear Lettice! how she must have suffered!" said Clara Graham.

"Less than you suppose," rejoined her husband.

"Jim, what do you mean? You are very hard-hearted."

"No, I'm not! I'm only practical. Your friend, Miss Campion, has been asource of lamentation and woe to you ever since I made youracquaintance. According to you, she was always being sacrificed to thatintolerable prig of a brother of hers. Then she was immolated on thealtar of her father's money difficulties and her mother's ill-health.Now she has got a fair field, and can live where she likes and exerciseher talents as she pleases; and as I can be as unfeeling as I like inthe bosom of my family, I will at once acknowledge that I am very gladthe old man's gone."

"I do hope and trust, Jim——"

"That I am not a born fool, my dear?"

"—That you won't say these things to Lettice herself."

"Exactly. That is what I knew you were going to say."

"If it weren't that I am certain you do not mean half you say——"

"I mean all that I say: every word of it. But I'll tell you what, Clara:I believe that Lettice Campion is a woman of great talent—possibly evenof genius—and that she has never yet been able to give her talents fullplay. She has the chance now, and I hope she'll use it."

"Oh, Jim, dear, do you think she is so sure to succeed?"

"If she doesn't, it will be pure cussedness on her part, and nothingelse," said Jim.

Clara reflected that she would tell Lettice what her husband said. Shemoved to the window and looked out. She was waiting for her guests,Lettice and Mrs. Campion, in the soft dusk of a sweet May evening, andshe was a little impatient for their arrival. She had had a comfortable,nondescript meal, which she called dinner-tea, set ready for them in thedining-room, and as this room was near the hall-door, she had installedherself therein, so that she could the more easily watch for hervisitors. Mr. Graham, a tall, thin man, with coal-black beard, deep-setdark eyes, and marked features, had thrown himself into a greatarm-chair, where he sat buried in the current number of a monthlymagazine. His wife was universally declared to be a very pretty woman,and she was even more "stylish," as women say, than pretty; for she hadone of those light, graceful figures that give an air of beauty toeverything they wear. For the rest, she had well-cut features, brightdark eyes, and a very winning smile. A brightly impulsive andaffectionate nature had especially endeared her to Lettice, and this hadnever been soured or darkened by her experiences of the outer world,although, like most people, she had known reverses of fortune and wasnot altogether free from care. But her husband loved her, and her threebabies were the most charming children ever seen, and everybody admiredthe decorations of her bright little house in Edwardes Square; and whatmore could the heart of womankind desire?

"I wonder," she said presently, "whether Sydney will come with them. Hewas to meet them at Liverpool Street; and of course I asked him to comeon."

"I would have gone out if you had told me that before," said Mr. Graham,tersely.

"Why do you dislike Sydney Campion so much, Jim?"

"Dislike? I admire him. I think he is the coming man. He's one of themost successful persons of my acquaintance. It is just because I feel sosmall beside him that I can't stand his company."

"I must repeat, Jim, that if you talk like that to Lettice——"

"Oh, Lettice doesn't adore her precious brother," said Graham,irreverently. "She knows as well as you and I do that he's a selfishsort of brute, in spite of his good looks and his gift of the gab. Isay, Clara, when are these folks coming? I'm confoundedly hungry."

"Who's the selfish brute now?" asked Clara, with triumph. "But you won'tbe kept waiting long: the cab's stopping at the door, and Sydney hasn'tcome."

She flew to the door, to be the first to meet and greet her visitors.There was not much to be got from Mrs. Campion that evening excepttears—this was evident as soon as she entered the house, leaning onLettice's arm; and the best thing was to put her at once to bed, anddelay the evening meal until Lettice was able to leave her. Graham wasquite too good-natured to grumble at a delay for which there was sovalid a reason; for, as he informed his wife, he preferred MissCampion's conversation without an accompaniment of groans. He talkedlightly, but his grasp of the hand was so warm, his manner sosympathetic, when Lettice at last came down, that Clara felt herselfrebuked at having for one moment doubted the real kindliness of hisfeeling.

Lettice in her deep mourning looked painfully white and slender inClara's eyes; but she spoke cheerfully of her prospects for the future,as they sat at their evening meal. Sad topics were not broached, and Mr.Graham set himself to give her all the encouragement in his power.

"And as to where you are to set up your tent," he said, "Clara and Ihave seen a cottage on Brook Green that we think would suit youadmirably."

"Where is Brook Green?" asked Lettice, who was almost ignorant of anysave the main thoroughfares of London.

"In the wilds of Hammersmith——"

"West Kensington," put in Clara, rather indignantly.

"Well, West Kensington is only Hammersmith writ fine. It is about tenminutes' walk from us——"

"Oh, I am glad of that," said Lettice.

"—And it is not, I think, too large or too dear. You must go and lookat it to-morrow, if you can."

"Is there any garden?"

"There is a garden, with trees under which your mother can sit when itis warm. Clara told me you would like that; and there is a grass-plot—Iwon't call it a lawn—where you can let your dog and cat disportthemselves in safety. I am sure you must have brought a dog or a catwith you, Miss Campion. I never yet knew a young woman from the countrywho did not bring a pet animal to town with her."

"Jim, you are very rude," said his wife.

"I shall have to plead guilty," Lettice answered, smiling a little. "Ihave left my fair Persian, Fluff, in the care of my maid, Milly, who isto bring her to London as soon as I can get into my new home."

"Fluff," said Clara, meditatively, "is the creature with a tail as bigas your arm, and a ruff round her neck, and Milly is the pretty littlehousemaid; I remember and approve of them both."

The subject of the new house served them until they went upstairs intoClara's bright little drawing-room, which Graham used to speak ofdisrespectfully as his wife's doll's house. It was crowded with prettybut inexpensive knick-knacks, the profusion of which was ratherbewildering to Lettice, with her more simple tastes. Of one thing shewas quite sure, that she would not, when she furnished her own rooms,expend much money in droves of delicately-colored china pigs andelephants, which happened to be in fashion at the time. She also doubtedthe expediency of tying up two peaco*cks' feathers with a yellow ribbon,and hanging them in solitary glory on the wall flanked by plates of Kagaware, at tenpence-halfpenny a-piece. Lettice's taste had been formed byher father, and was somewhat masculine in its simplicity, and she caredonly for the finer kinds of art, whether in porcelain or painting. Butshe was fain to confess that the effect of Clara's decorations was verypretty, and she wondered at the care and pains which had evidently beenspent on the arrangement of Mrs. Graham's "Liberty rags" and Orientalware. When the soft yellow silk curtains were drawn, and a subdued lightfell through the jewelled facets of an Eastern lamp upon the peaco*ckfans and richly-toned Syrian rugs, and all the other hackneyedornamentation by which "artistic" taste is supposed to be shown, Letticecould not but acknowledge that the room was charming. But her thoughtsflew back instantly to the old study at home, with its solid oakfurniture, its cushioned window-seats, its unfashionable curtains of redmoreen; and in the faint sickness of that memory, it seemed to her thatshe could be more comfortable at a deal table, with a kitchen chair setupon unpolished boards, than in the midst of Clara's pretty novelties.

"You are tired," Mr. Graham said to her, watching her keenly as she satdown in the chair that he offered her, and let her hands sink languidlyupon her lap. "We won't let you talk too much. Clara is going to seeafter her bairns, and I'm going to read the Pall Mall. Here's the Maynumber of The Decade: have you seen it?"

She took it with a grateful smile; but she did not intend to read, andMr. Graham knew it. He perused his paper diligently, but he wassufficiently interested in her to know exactly at what point she ceasedto brood and began to glance at the magazine. After a little while, shebecame absorbed in its pages; and only when she laid it down at last,with a half suppressed sigh, did he openly look up to find that her eyeswere full of tears.

"I hope that you discovered something to interest you," he said.

"I was reading a poem," Lettice answered, rather guiltily.

"Oh—Alan Walcott's 'Sorrow'? Very well done, isn't it? but a triflemorbid, all the same."

"It is very sad. Is he—has he had much trouble?"

"I'm sure I couldn't tell you. Probably not, as he writes about it,"said Graham, grimly. "He's a pessimist and a bit of a dilletante. If hewould work and believe in himself a little more, I think he might dogreat things."

"He is young?"

"Over thirty. He comes to the house sometimes. I daresay you will meethim before long."

Lettice said nothing. She was not in a mood to enjoy the prospect ofmaking new acquaintances; but the poem had touched her, and she felt aslight thrill of interest in its writer.

"Yes," she said, "I shall be pleased to make his acquaintance—someday." And then the conversation dropped, and Graham understood from hertone that she was not disposed as yet to meet new faces.

The house on Brook Green proved eminently satisfactory. She agreed totake it as soon as possible, and for the next few weeks her mind wasoccupied with the purchase and arrangement of furniture, and the manydetails which belong to the first start in a new career. Although hertastes differed widely from those of Clara Graham, she found herfriend's advice and assistance infinitely valuable to her; and many werethe expeditions taken together to the Kensington shops to supplyLettice's requirements. She had not Clara's love for shopping, orClara's eagerness for a bargain; but she took pleasure in her visits tothe great London store-houses of beautiful things, and made herpurchases with care and deliberation.

So at the end of June she settled down with her mother in the pleasantcottage which was thenceforth to be their home. In addition to the newplenishing, there were in the house a few favorite pieces of furniturewhich had been saved from the wreck at Angleford; and Sydney—perhaps asa sign that he recognized some redeeming features in her desire to beindependent—had made one room look quite imposing with an old-fashionedbookcase, and a library table and chair. There was a well-establishedgarden behind the house, with tall box and bay-trees of more than ageneration's growth, and plenty of those old English border plantswithout which a garden is scarcely worthy of its name. On the whole,Lettice felt that she had not made a bad selection out of the million orso of human habitations which overflow the province of London; and evenMrs. Campion would occasionally end her lamentations over the past byadmitting that Maple Cottage was "not a workhouse, my dear, where Imight have expected to finish my life."

The widow had a fixed idea about the troubles which had fallen upon her.She would talk now and then of the "shameful robberies" which had brokenher husband's heart, and declare that sooner or later the miscreantswould be discovered, and restitution would be made, and they would "allend their days in peace." As for Sydney, he was still her hero ofheroes, who had come to their rescue when their natural protector wasdone to death, and whose elevation to the woolsack might be expected atany moment.

Lettice's friends, the Grahams, had naturally left her almostundisturbed during her visit to them, so far as invited guests wereconcerned. Nevertheless, she casually met several of Mr. Graham'sliterary acquaintances, and he took care to introduce her to one or twoeditors and publishers whom he thought likely to be useful to her. JamesGraham had plenty of tact; he knew just what to say about Miss Campion,without saying too much, and he contrived to leave an impression in theminds of those to whom he spoke that it might be rather difficult tomake this young woman sit down and write, but decidedly worth theirwhile to do it if they could.

"Now I have thrown in the seeds," Graham said to her before she leftEdwardes Square, "and by the time you want to see them the blades willbe springing up. From what you have told me I should say that you havequite enough to do in the next three months. There is that article forme, and the translation of Feuerbach, and the Ouf stories."

This reminiscence of Sydney's criticism made Lettice laugh—she wasbeginning to laugh again—and Graham's forecast of her future as a womanof letters put her into a cheerful and hopeful mood.

The summer passed away, and the autumn, and when Lettice lighted herfirst study fire, one cold day at the end of October, she could lookforward to the coming winter without misgiving. In four months she haddone fifty pounds' worth of work, and she had commissions which wouldkeep her busy for six months more, and would yield at least twice asmuch money. Mr. Graham's seeds were beginning to send up their blades;and, in short, Lettice was in a very fair way of earning not only aliving, but also a good literary repute.

One call, indeed, was made upon her resources in a very unexpectedmanner. She had put by four five-pound notes of clear saving—it is atsuch moments that our unexpected liabilities are wont to find usout—and she was just congratulating herself on that first achievementin the art of domestic thrift when her maid Milly knocked at her door,and announced a visitor.

"Please, miss, here is Mrs. Bundlecombe of Thorley!"

Mrs. Bundlecombe was a bookseller in her own right, in a village somethree miles from Angleford. Her husband had died four years before Mr.Campion, and his widow made an effort to carry on the business. Therector in his palmy days had had many dealings with Mr. Bundlecombe, whowas of some note in the world as a collector of second-hand books; but,as Lettice had no reason to think that he had bought anything of Mrs.Bundlecombe personally, she could not imagine what the object of thisvisit might be.

"Did she say what her business was, Milly?"

"No, miss. Only she said she had heard you were living here, and shewould like to see you, please."

Milly's relations had lived in Thorley. Thus she knew Mrs. Bundlecombeby sight, and, being somewhat inquisitive by nature, she had alreadytried to draw the visitor into conversation, but without success.

"Show her in," said Lettice, after a moment's pause. It was pleasant,after all, to meet a "kent face" in London solitudes, and she felt quitekindly towards Mrs. Bundlecombe, whom she had sometimes seen over thecounter in her shop at Thorley. So she received her with gentlecordiality.

Mrs. Bundlecombe showed symptoms of embarrassment at the quietfriendliness of Lettice's manners. She was not a person of aristocraticappearance, for she was short and very stout, and florid into thebargain; but her broad face was both shrewd and kindly, and her greyeyes were observant and good-humored. Her grey hair was arranged inthree flat curls, fastened with small black combs on each side of herface, which was rosy and wrinkled like a russet apple, and her fullpurple skirt, her big bonnet, adorned with bows of scarlet ribbon, andher much be-furbelowed and be-spangled dolman, attested the fact thatshe had donned her best clothes for the occasion of her visit, and thatThorley fashions differed from those of the metropolis. She wore gloveswith one button, moreover, and boots with elastic sides.

Mrs. Bundlecombe seemed to have some difficulty in coming to the point.She told Lettice much Angleford news, including a piece of informationthat interested her a good deal: namely, that the old squire, after manyyears of suffering, was dead, and that his nephew, Mr. Brooke Dalton,had at last succeeded to the property. "He's not there very much,however: he leaves the house pretty much to his sister, Miss EdithDalton; but it's to be hoped that he'll marry soon and bring a lady tothe place."

Lettice wondered again why Mrs. Bundlecombe had called upon her. Thereseemed very little point in her remarks. But the good woman had a verysufficient reason for her call. She was a practical-minded person, andshe was moreover a literary woman in her way, as behoved the widow of abookseller who had herself taken to selling books. It is true that heracquaintance with the works of British authors did not extend far beyondtheir titles, but it was to her credit that she contrived to make somuch as she did out of her materials. She might have known as manyinsides of books as she knew outsides, and have put them to lesspractical service.

"Well," she said, after a quarter of an hour's incessant talk, "you willbe wondering what brought me here, and to be sure, miss, I hardly liketo say it now I've come; but, as I argued with myself, the rights of manare the rights of man, and to do your best by them who depend on you isthe whole duty of man, which applies, I take it, to woman also. And whenmy poor dear husband died, I thought the path of duty was marked out forme, and I went through my daily exercises, so to speak, just as he haddone for forty years. But times were bad, and I could make nothing ofit. He had ways of selling books that I could never understand, and Isoon saw that the decline and fall was setting in. So I have sold thebusiness for what it would fetch, and paid all that was owing, and I canassure you that there is very little left. I have a nephew in London whois something in the writing way himself. He used to live with us atThorley, and he is a dear dutiful boy, but he has had great troubles; soI am going to keep his rooms for him, and take care of his linen, andlook after things a bit. I came up to-day to talk to him about it.

"Well, Miss Campion, the long and short of it is that as I was lookingover my husband's state documents, so to speak, which he had kept in aprivate drawer, and which I had never found until I was packing up togo, I found a paper signed by your respected father, less than threemonths before my good man went to his saint's everlasting rest. You see,miss, it is an undertaking to pay Samuel Bundlecombe the sum of twentypounds in six months from date, for value received, but owing to myhusband dying that sudden, and not telling me of his private drawer,this paper was never presented."

Lettice took the paper and read it, feeling rather sick at heart, fortwo or three reasons. If her father had made this promise she felt surethat he would either have kept it or have put down the twenty pounds inhis list of debts. The list, indeed, which had been handed to Sydney wasin her own writing, and certainly the name of Bundlecombe was notincluded in it. Was the omission her fault? If the money had never beenpaid, that was what she would prefer to believe.

"I thought, miss," her visitor continued, "that there might be somemention of this in Mr. Campion's papers, and, having heard that all theaccounts were properly settled, I made bold to bring it to your notice.It is a kind of social contract, you see, and a solemn league andcovenant, as between man and man, which I am sure you would like tosettle if the means exist. Not but what it seems a shame to come to alady on such an errand; and I may tell you miss, fair and candid, that Ihave been to Mr. Sydney Campion in the Temple, who does not admit thathe is liable. That may be law, or it may not, but I do consider thatthis signature ought to be worth the money."

Lettice took the paper again. There could be no doubt as to itsgenuineness, and the fact that Sydney had denied his liabilityinfluenced her in some subtle manner to do what she had already halfresolved to do without that additional argument.

She looked at the box in which she had put her twenty pounds, and shelooked at her father's signature. Then she opened the box and took outthe notes.

"You did quite right in coming, Mrs. Bundlecombe. This is certainly myfather's handwriting, and I suppose that if the debt had been settledthe paper would not have remained in your husband's possession. Here isthe money."

The old woman could scarcely believe her eyes; but she pocketed thenotes with great satisfaction, and began to express her admiration forsuch honorable conduct in a very voluble manner. Lettice cut her shortand got rid of her, and then, if the truth must be confessed, she satdown and had a comfortable cry over the speedy dissipation of hersavings.

CHAPTER VII.

MRS. HARTLEY AT HOME.

After her first Christmas in London, Lettice began to accept invitationsto the houses of her acquaintance.

She dined several times at the Grahams', where there were never morethan eight at table, and, being a bright talker and an appreciativelistener—two qualities which do not often go together—she was alwaysan impressive personality without exactly knowing it. Clara wasaccustomed to be outshone by her in conversation, and had become used toit, but some of the women whom Lettice was invited to meet looked at herrather hard, as though they would have liked to draw her seriousattention to the fact that they were better looking, or better dressed,or older or younger than herself, as the case might be, and that it wasconsequently a little improper in her to be talked to so much by themen.

Undoubtedly Lettice got on well with men, and was more at her ease withthem than with her own sex. It was not the effect of forwardness on herpart, and indeed she was scarcely conscious of the fact. She conversedreadily, because her mind was full of reading and of thought, and hermoral courage was never at a loss. The keenness of her perception ledher to understand and respond to the opinions of the cleverest men whomshe met, and it was not unnatural that they should be flattered.

It does not take long for a man or woman to earn a reputation in theliterary circles of London, provided he or she has real ability, and iswell introduced. The ability will not, as a rule, suffice without theintroductions, though introductions have been known to create areputation, lasting at any rate for a few months, without any realability. Lettice advanced rapidly in the estimation of those whose goodopinion was worth having. She soon began to discriminate between thepeople who were worth cultivating and the people who were not. If aperson were sincere and straightforward, could say what he meant and sayit with point and vivacity, or if he possessed for her those vaguelyattractive and stimulating qualities which draw people together withouttheir exactly knowing why (probably through some correlation oftemperament), Lettice would feel this person was good to know, whetherthe world approved her choice of friends or not. And when she wanted toknow man or woman, she exerted herself to please—mainly by showing thatshe herself was pleased. She did not exactly flatter—she was neverinsincere—but it amounted to much the same thing as flattery. Shelistened eagerly; her interest was manifested in her face, her attitude,her answers. In fact she was her absolute self, without reserve andwithout fence. No wonder that she incurred the jealousy of half thewomen in her set.

But this is how an intellectual woman can best please a man who haspassed the childish age, when he only cared for human dolls and dolls'houses. She must carry her intellect about with her, like a bravecostume—dressing, of course, with taste and harmony—she must not beslow to admire the intellectual costume of others, if she wants her ownto be admired; she must be subtle enough at the same time to forget thatshe is dressed at all, and yet never for a moment forget that hercompanion may have no soul or heart except in his dress. If he has, itis for him to prove it, not for her to assume it.

It was because Lettice had this art of intellectual intercourse, andbecause she exercised it in a perfectly natural and artless manner, thatshe charmed so many of those who made her acquaintance, and that theyrarely paused to consider whether she was prettier or plainer, taller orshorter, more or less prepossessing, than the women who surrounded her.

In due time she found herself welcomed at the houses of those dear andestimable ladies, who—generally old and childless themselves—love togather round them the young and clever acolytes of literature and art,the enthusiastic devotees of science, the generous apprentices ofconstructive politics, for politicians who do not dabble in thereformation of society find other and more congenial haunts. Thismany-minded crowd of acolytes, and devotees, and apprentices, owe muchto the hospitable women who bring them together in a sort of indulgentdame's school, where their angles are rubbed down, and whence theymerge, perhaps, as Arthur Hallam said, the picturesque of man and man,but certainly also more fitted for their work in the social mill than ifthey had never known that kindly feminine influence.

Lettice became especially fond of one of these minor queens of literarysociety, who received her friends on Sunday afternoon, and whosedrawing-room was frequently attended by a dozen or a score ofwell-reputed men and women. Mrs. Hartley was an excellent hostess. Shewas not only careful, to begin with, about her own acquaintance,cultivating none but those whom she had heard well spoken of bycompetent judges, but she knew how to make a second choice amongst thechosen, bringing kindred spirits together with a happy, instinctivesense of their mutual suitabilities. In spite of her many amiable andagreeable qualities, however, it took Lettice a little time to believethat she should ever make a friend of Mrs. Hartley, whose habit ofassorting and labelling her acquaintances in groups struck her at firstas artificial and conventional. Lettice objected, for her own part, tobe classified.

She had been entreated so often by Clara to go to one of Mrs. Hartley'safternoons that it was with some compunction of heart that she preparedat last to fulfil her long-delayed promise. She walked from Brook Greento Edwardes Square, about three o'clock one bright Sunday afternoon, inFebruary, and found Clara waiting for her. Clara was looking very trimand smart in a new gown of inexpensive material, but the latest, and shesurveyed Lettice in a comprehensive manner from top to toe, as if toascertain whether a proper value had been attached to Mrs. Hartley'sinvitation.

"You look very nice," was her verdict. "I am so glad that you haverelieved your black at last, Lettice. There is no reason why you shouldnot wear a little white or lavender."

And indeed this mitigation of her mourning weeds was becoming toLettice, whose delicate bloom showed fresh and fair against the blackand white of her new costume. She had pinned a little bunch of sweetviolets into her jacket, and they harmonized excellently well with thegrave tranquillity of her face and the soberness of her dress.

"I don't know why it is, but you remind me of a nun," Clara said,glancing at her in some perplexity. "The effect is quite charming, butit is nun-like too——"

"I am sure I don't know why; I never felt more worldly in my life," saidLettice, laughing. "Am I not fit for Mrs. Hartley's drawing-room?"

"Fit? You are lovely; but not quite like anybody else. That is the bestof it; Mrs. Hartley will rave of you," said Clara, as they set forth.And the words jarred a little on Lettice's sensitive mind; she thoughtthat she should object to be raved about.

They took an omnibus to Kensington High Street, and then they made theirway to Campden Hill, where Mrs. Hartley's house was situated. And asthey went, Clara took the opportunity of explaining Mrs. Hartley'sposition and claims to distinction. Mrs. Hartley was a widow, childless,rich, perfectly independent: she was very critical and very clever (saidMrs. Graham), but, oh, so kind-hearted! And she was sure that Letticewould like her.

Lettice meekly hoped that she should, although she had a guilty sense ofwayward dislike to the woman in whose house, it appeared, she was to beexhibited. For some words of Graham's lingered in her mind. "Mrs.Hartley? The lion-hunter? Oh! so you are to be on view this afternoon,I understand." Accordingly, it was with no very pleasant anticipationthat Lettice entered the lion-hunter's house on Campden Hill.

A stout, little grey-haired lady in black, with a very observant eye,came forward to greet the visitors. "This is Miss Campion, I feel sure,"she said, putting out a podgy hand, laden with diamond rings. "Dear Mrs.Graham, how kind of you to bring her. Come and sit by me, Miss Campion,and tell me all about yourself. I want to know how you first came tothink of literature as a profession?"

This was not the way in which people talked at Angleford. Lettice feltposed for a moment, and then a sense of humor came happily to herrelief.

"I drifted into it, I am afraid," she answered, composedly.

"Drifted? No, I am sure you would never drift. You don't know howinterested I am, Miss Campion, in the development of the human mind, oryou would not try to evade the question. Now, which interests you most,poetry or prose?"

"That depends upon my mood; I am not sure that I am permanentlyinterested in either," Lettice said, quietly.

Her hostess' observant eye was upon her for a moment; then Mrs.Hartley's face expanded in a benignant smile.

"Ah, I see you are very clever," she said. "I ask the question—not fromidle curiosity, because I have representatives of both in the room atthe present moment. There is a poet, whom I mean to introduce you to byand by, if you will allow me; and there is the very embodiment of proseclose beside you, although I don't believe that he writes any, and, likeM. Jourdain, talks it without knowing that it is prose."

Lettice glanced involuntarily at the man beside her, and glanced again.Where had she seen his face before? He was a rather stout, blonde man,with an honest open countenance that she liked, although it expressedgood nature rather than intellectual force.

"Don't you remember him?" said Mrs. Hartley, in her ear. "He's a cousinof mine: Brooke Dalton, whose uncle used to live at Angleford. He hasbeen wanting to meet you very much; he remembers you quite well, hetells me."

The color rose in Lettice's face. She was feminine enough to feel that aconnecting link between Mrs. Hartley and her dear old home changed herviews of her hostess at once. She looked up and smiled. "I remember Mr.Dalton too," she said.

"What a sweet face!" Mrs. Hartley said to herself. "Now if Brooke wouldonly take it into his head to settle down——"

And aloud she added: "Brooke, come and be introduced to Miss Campion.You used to know her at Angleford."

"It seems a long time since I saw you," Mr. Dalton said, ratherclumsily, as he took Lettice's hand into a very cordial clasp. "It wasthat day in December when your brother had just got his scholarship atTrinity."

"Oh, yes; that day! I remember it very well," said Lettice, drawing along breath, which was not exactly a sigh, although it sounded like one."I gave up being a child on that day, I believe!"

"There have been many changes since then." Brooke Dalton was notbrilliant in conversation.

"You have heard of them all, I suppose? Yes, my mother and I are inLondon now."

"You will allow me to call, I hope?"

Lettice had but time to signify her consent, when Mrs. Hartley seized onher again, but this time Lettice did not so much object to becross-examined. She recognized the fact that Mrs. Hartley's aim waskindly, and she submitted to be asked questions about her work and herprospects, and to answer them with a frankness that amazed herself. Butin the very midst of the conversation she was conscious of being muchobserved by two or three people in the room; notably by Brooke Dalton,who had planted himself in a position from which he could look at herwithout attracting the other visitors' remark; and also by a tall manwith a dark, melancholy face, deep-set eyes, and a peaked Vandyke beard,whose glances were more furtive than those of Dalton, but equallyinterested and intent. He was a handsome man, and Lettice found herselfwondering whether he were not "somebody," and somebody worth talking to,moreover; for he was receiving, in a languid, half-indifferent manner, agreat deal of homage from the women in the room. He seemed bored by it,and was turning away in relief from a lady who had just quotedhalf-a-dozen lines of Shelley for his especial behoof, when Mrs.Hartley, who had been discussing Feuerbach and the German materialistswith Lettice, caught his eye, and beckoned him to her side.

"Mr. Walcott," she said, "I never heard that you were a materialist, andI don't think it is very likely; so you can condole with Miss Campion onhaving been condemned to translate five hundred pages of Feuerbach. Now,isn't that terrible?"

"I don't know Feuerbach," said the poet, after he had bowed to Lettice,"but it sounds warm and comfortable on a wintry day. Nevertheless, I docondole with her."

"I am not sure that I need condolence," said Lettice. "The work wasreally very interesting, and one likes to know what any philosopher hasto say for himself, whether one believes in his theories or not. I mustsay I have enjoyed reading Feuerbach,—though he is a German with atranslatable name."

This was a flippant speech, as Lettice acknowledged to herself; but,then, Mr. Walcott's speech had been flippant to begin with, and shewanted to give as good as she got.

"You read German, then?" said Walcott, sitting down in the chair thatMrs. Hartley had vacated, and looking at Lettice with interest, althoughhe did not abandon the slight affectation of tone and manner that shehad noted from the beginning of her talk with him. "How nice that mustbe! I often wish I knew something more than my schoolboy's smattering ofGreek, Latin, and French."

Lettice had read Mr. Walcott's last volume of poems, which were justthen exciting considerable interest in the literary world, and she couldnot help recalling one or two lyrics and sonnets from Uhland, Filicaja,and other Continentals. As though divining her thoughts, Walcott went onquickly, with much more sincerity of tone:

"I do try now and then to put an idea that strikes me from German orItalian into English; but think of my painful groping with a dictionary,before the cramped and crippled idea can reach my mind! I am thetranslator most in need of condolence, Miss Campion!"

"Yet, even without going to other languages," said Lettice, "there is anunlimited field in our own, both for ideas and for expression—as wellas a practically unlimited audience."

"The artists and musicians say that their domains are absolutelyunlimited—that the poet sings to those who happen to speak hislanguage, whilst they discourse to the whole world and to all time. Isuppose, in a sense, they are right."

He spoke listlessly, as if he did not care whether they were right orwrong.

But Lettice's eyes began to glow.

"Surely in a narrow sense! They would hardly say that Handel orBeethoven speaks to a wider audience than Homer or Shakspeare, andcertainly no musician or painter or sculptor can hope to delight mankindfor as many centuries as a poet. And, then, to think what an idea canaccomplish—what Greek ideas have done in England, for instance, orRoman ideas in France, or French ideas in nearly every country ofEurope! Could a tune make a revolution, or a picture destroy areligion?"

"Perhaps, yes," said Walcott, wishing to draw her out, "if the tunes orthe pictures could be repeated often enough, and brought before the eyesand ears of the multitude."

"I do not think so. And, at any rate, that could not be done by way ofsystematic and comprehensive teaching, so that your comparison onlysuggests another superiority in literary expression. A poet can teach awhole art, or establish a definite creed; he can move the heart andmould the mind at the same time; but one can hardly imagine such aneffect from the work of those who speak to us only through the eye orear."

By this time Alan Walcott was fairly interested. What Lettice said mightbe commonplace enough, but it did not strike him so. It was her mannerthat pleased him, her quiet fervor and gentle insistance, which showedthat she was accustomed to think for herself, and suggested that shewould have the honesty to say what she thought. And, of course, heapplied to himself all that she said about poets in general, and wasdelighted by her warm championship of his special vocation. As they wenton talking for another quarter of an hour he recognized, without framingthe admission in words, that Miss Campion was an exceedingly well-readperson, and that she knew many authors—even poets—with whom he had theslightest acquaintance. Most of the people whom he met talked idlenonsense to him, as though their main object was to pass the time, orelse they aired a superficial knowledge of the uppermost thoughts andtheories of the day, gleaned as a rule from the cheap primers andmagazine articles in which a bustled age is content to study itsscience, art, economy, politics, and religion. But here was a woman whohad been a voracious reader, who had gone to the fountain-head for herfacts, and who yet spoke with the air of one who wanted to learn, ratherthan to display.

"We have had a very pleasant talk," he said to her at last. "I mean thatI have found it very pleasant. I am going now to dine at my club, andshall spend my evening over a monologue which has suggested itself sinceI entered this room. As you know the Grahams I may hope to meet youagain, there if not here. A talk with you, Miss Campion, is what thecritics in the Acropolis might call very suggestive!"

Again Lettice thought the manner and the speech affected, but there wasan air of sincerity about the man which seemed to be fighting down theaffectation. She hardly knew whether she liked him or not, but she knewthat he had interested her and made her talk—for which two things shehalf forgave him the affectation.

"I knew you two would get on together," said Mrs. Hartley, who came upat the moment and dropped into Alan Walcott's chair. "I am not easilydeceived in my friends, and I was sure you would have plenty to say toeach, other. I have been watching you, and I declare it was quite a caseof conversation at first sight. Now, mind you come to me often, MissCampion. I feel that I shall like you."

And the fat good-natured little woman nodded her grey head to emphasizethe compliment.

"It is kind of you to say that," said Lettice, warmly. "I will certainlytake you at your word."

"My dear," said Mrs. Hartley, when Alan Walcott had left them, "he is avery nice and clever man—but, oh, so melancholy! He makes me feel quiteunhappy. I never saw him so animated as he was just now, and it must bethoroughly good for him to be drawn out in that way."

"I suppose it is the natural mood of poets," Lettice answered with asmile. "It is an old joke against them."

"Ah, but I think the race is changing its characteristics in these days,and going in for cheerfulness and comfort. There is Mr. Pemberton, forinstance—how aggravatingly prosperous he looks! Do you see how he beamswith good nature on all the world? I should say that he is a jovialman—and yet, you know, he has been down there, as they said of Dante."

"Perhaps it goes by opposites. What I have read of Mr. Walcott's poetryis rather light than sad—except one or two pieces in The Decade."

"Poor man! I think there is another cause for his melancholy. He losthis wife two or three years ago, and I have been told that she was acharming creature, and that her death upset him terribly. He has onlyjust begun to go about again."

"How very unfortunate!" said Lettice. "And that makes it still morestrange that his poems should be so slightly tinged with melancholy. Hemust live quite a double life. Most men would give expression to theirpersonal griefs, and publish them for everybody to read; but he keepsthem sacred. That is much more interesting."

"I should think it is more difficult. It seems natural that a poet,being in grief, should write the poetry of grief."

"Yes—no doubt it is more difficult."

And Lettice, on her way home and afterwards, found herself pondering onthe problem of a man who, recently robbed of a well-beloved wife, wrotea thousand verses without a single reference to her.

She took down his "Measures and Monologues," and read it through, to seewhat he had to say about women.

There were a few cynical verses from Heine, and three bitter stanzas onthe text from Balzac:—"Vous nous promettiez le bonheur, et finissiezpar nous jeter dans une précipice;" but not one tender word applied to awoman throughout the book. It was certainly strange; and Lettice feltthat her curiosity was natural and legitimate.

Alan Walcott, in fact, became quite an interesting study. During thenext few months Lettice had many opportunities of arriving at a betterknowledge of his character, and she amused herself by quietly pushingher inquiries into what was for her a comparatively new field ofspeculation. The outcome of the research was not very profitable. Themore she saw of him the more he puzzled her. Qualities which appearedone day seemed to be entirely wanting when they next met. In some subtlemanner she was aware that even his feelings and inclinations constantlyvaried; at one time he did not conceal his craving for sympathy, atanother he was frigid and almost repellent. Lettice still did not knowwhether she liked or disliked him. But she was now piqued as well asinterested, and so it happened that Mr. Walcott began to occupy more ofher thoughts than she was altogether willing to devote to him.

So far, all their meetings were in public. They had never exchanged aword that the world might not hear. They saw each other at the Grahams'dinner-parties, at Mrs. Hartley's Sunday afternoon "at homes," and atone or two other houses. To meet a dozen times in a London seasonconstitutes intimacy. Although they talked chiefly of books, sometimesof men and women, and never of themselves, Lettice began to feel that aconfidential tone was creeping into their intercourse—that shecriticized his poems with extraordinary freedom, and argued her opinionswith him in a way that would certainly have staggered her brother Sydneyif he had heard her. But in all this friendly talk, the personal notehad never once been struck. He told her nothing of his inner self, ofhis past life, or his dreams for the future. All that they said mighthave been said to each other on their first meeting in Mrs. Hartley'sdrawing-room. It seemed as if some vague impalpable barrier had beenerected between them, and Lettice puzzled herself from time to time toknow how this barrier had been set up.

Sometimes—she did not know why—she was disposed to associate it withthe presence of Brooke Dalton. That gentleman continued to display hisusual lack of brilliance in conversation, together with muchgood-heartedness, soundness of judgment, and thoughtfulness for others;and in spite of his slowness of speech Lettice liked him very much. Butwhy would he persist in establishing himself within earshot when Alanwas talking to her? If they absolutely eluded him, he betrayeduneasiness, like that of a faithful dog who sees his beloved mistress insome danger. He did not often interrupt the conversation. He sat silentfor the most part, unconsciously throwing a wet blanket over bothspeakers, and sometimes sending Walcott away in a state of almostirrepressible irritation. And yet he seemed to be on good terms withAlan. They spoke to each other as men who had been acquaintances, if notfriends, for a good number of years; and he never made an allusion toAlan, in his absence, which could in the least be deemed disparaging.And yet Lettice felt that she was watched, and that there was somemysterious anxiety in Dalton's mind.

Having no companions (for Clara was too busy with her house and herchildren to be considered a companion for the day-time), Letticesometimes went for solitary expeditions to various "sights" of London,and, as usual in such expeditions, had never once met anybody she knew.She had gone rather early one summer morning to Westminster Abbey, andwas walking slowly through the dim cloistered shades, enjoying thecoolness and the quietness, when she came full upon Alan Walcott, whoseemed to be doing likewise.

They both started: indeed, they both changed color. For the first timethey met outside a drawing-room; and the change in their environmentseemed to warrant some change in their relation to one another. Afterthe first greeting, and a short significant pause—for what can be moresignificant than silence between two people who have reached that stageof sensitiveness to each other's moods when every word or movement seemslike self-revelation?—Alan spoke.

"You love this place—as I do; I know you love it."

"I have never been here before," said Lettice, letting her eyes straydreamily over the grey stones at her feet.

"No, or I should have seen you. I am often here. And I see you soseldom——"

"So seldom?" said Lettice in some natural surprise. "Why, I thought wemet rather often?"

"Under the world's eye," said Alan, but in so low a voice that she wasnot sure whether he meant her to hear or not. However, they both smiled;and he went on rather hurriedly, "It is the place of all others where Ishould expect to meet you. We think so much alike——"

"Do we?" said Lettice doubtfully. "But we differ very much."

"Not in essentials. Don't say that you think so," he said, in a tonethat was almost passionately earnest? "I can't tell you how much it isto me to feel that I have a friend who understands—who sympathizes—whowould sympathize, I am sure, if she knew all——"

He broke off suddenly, and the emotion in his voice so far touchedLettice that she remained silent, with drooping head and lowered eyes.

"Yes," he went on, "you owe me your sympathy now. You have given me somuch that you must give me more. I have a right to it."

"Mr. Walcott!" said Lettice, raising her head quickly, "you can have noright——"

"No right to sympathy from a friend? Well, perhaps not," he answeredbitterly. "I thought that, although you were a woman, you could allow methe claim I make. It is small enough, God knows! Miss Campion, forgiveme for speaking so roughly. I ask most earnestly for your friendship andyour sympathy; will you not give me these?"

Lettice moved onward towards the door. "Do you think that we ought todiscuss our personal concerns in such a place as this?" she asked,evading the question in a thoroughly feminine manner.

"Why not? But if not here, then in another place. By the bye"—with asudden change of manner, as they stepped into the light of day—"I havea rare book that I want to show you. Will you let me bring it to yourhouse to-morrow morning? I think that you will be interested. May Ibring it?"

"Yes," said Lettice mechanically. The change from fierce earnestness tothis subdued conventionality of tone bewildered her a little.

"I will come at twelve, if that hour will suit you?"

"It will suit me very well."

And then he raised his hat and left her. Lettice, her pulses throbbingstrangely, took her way back to Hammersmith. As she grew calmer, shewondered what had agitated her so much; it must have been something inhis look or in his tone, for every effort to assure herself by arepetition of his words that they were mere commonplaces of conversationset her heart beating more tumultuously than ever. She walked all theway from Westminster to Brook Green without once reflecting that shemight save herself that fatigue by hailing a passing omnibus.

CHAPTER VIII.

AT THE OLIGARCHY CLUB.

Sydney Campion had done a year's hard and remunerative work since hepaid his last visit to Angleford, and the result more than answered hisexpectations.

When the courts were sitting he was fully absorbed in his briefs; butnow and again he took life easily enough—at any rate, so far as the lawwas concerned. In the autumn it had been his custom to live abroad for amonth or two; at Christmas and Easter he invariably found his way to hisclub in the afternoon, and finished the evening over a rubber of whist.

It was a rare occasion when Sydney was able, in the middle of term, toleave his chambers between three and four o'clock, and stroll in aleisurely way along the Embankment, peacefully smoking a cigar. Thechance came to him one sultry day in June. There was no case for him tomaster, nothing proceeding in which he was specially interested, and hedid not feel disposed to sit down and improvise a case for himself, ashe used to do in his earlier days. He was minded to be idle; and we mayaccompany him in his westward walk along the river side to HungerfordBridge, and up the Avenue to Pall Mall.

On the steps of the Oligarchy Club he found his old friend, Pynsent,just starting for the House. The time was one of great excitement forthose who had not lost their interest in the politics of the day. TheIrish Land Bill was in Committee, and the Conservatives had strenuouslyopposed it, fighting, as they knew, a losing battle, yet not withoutconsolations. This very week they had run the Government so close thatthe transfer of three votes would have put them in a minority; and SirJohn Pynsent, who was always a sanguine man, had convinced himself thatthe Liberal party was on the point of breaking up.

"They are sure to go to pieces," he said to Campion; "and it would be astrange thing if they did not. What Heneage has done already some otherWhig with a conscience will do again, and more effectually. You will seewe shall be back in office before the year is out. No Ministry and nomajority could bear the strain which the Old Man is putting on hisfollowers—it is simply impossible. The worth and birth of the countryare sick of this veiled communism that they call justice toIreland—sick of democratic sycophancy—deadly sick of the Old Man. Youmark my words, dear boy: there will be a great revolt against him beforemany months have passed. I see it working. I find it in the House, inthe clubs, in the drawing-rooms; and I don't speak merely as my wisheslead me."

"No doubt you are right as to London; but how about the country?"

"The provinces waver more than the metropolis, I admit; but I don'tdespair of seeing a majority even in the English boroughs. Ah, Campion Inever see you without saying to myself, 'There goes the man who lost usDormer.' You would have won that election, I am certain."

"Well," said Sydney, "you know why I could not fight. The will, themoney, everything was ready: but——"

"True, I forgot. I beg your pardon!"

"Not at all! But I will fight for you some day—as soon as you like.Bear that in mind, Pynsent!"

"To be sure I will, my dear fellow. We must have you in the House. Ihave often said so."

And the energetic baronet hurried away, whilst Sydney entered the Club,and made straight for the smoking-room. Here he found others just aseager to predict the downfall of the Government as Sir John Pynsent hadbeen; but he was not in the mood to listen to a number of young men allof the same mind, all of-doubtful intellectual calibre, and all sure tosay what he had heard a dozen times already. So he passed on to thebilliard-room, and finding that a pool was just beginning, took a balland played.

That served to pass the time until six o'clock, when he went upstairsand read the evening papers for an hour; and at seven he had his dinnerand a bottle of wine. Meanwhile he had met two or three friends, withwhom he kept up a lively conversation on the events of the day, seasonedby many a pungent joke, and fatal (for the moment) to many a reputation.It is a habit fostered by club life—as, no doubt, it is fostered in thelife of the drawing-room, for neither sex is exempt—to sacrifice therepute of one's absent acquaintance with a light heart, not in malice,but more as a parrot bites the finger that feeds it, in sport, or evenin affection. If we backbite our friends, we give them free permissionto backbite us, or we know that they do it, which amounts to pretty muchthe same thing. The biting may not be very severe, and, as a rule, itleaves no scars; but, of course, there are exceptions to the rule.

The secret history of almost every man or woman who has mixed at all inpolite society is sure to be known by some one or other in the clubs anddrawing-rooms. If there is anything to your discredit in your past life,anything which you would blot out if you could with rivers of repentanceor expiation, you may be pretty sure that at some time, when you mightleast expect it, this thing has been, or will be, the subject ofdiscourse and dissection amongst your friends. It may not be told in aninjurious or exaggerated manner, and it may not travel far; but none theless do you walk on treacherous shale, which may give way at any momentunder your feet. The art of living, if you are afraid of the passing ofyour secret from the few who know to the many who welcome a new scandal,is to go on walking with the light and confident step of youth, never somuch as quailing in your own mind at the thought that the ground maycrumble beneath you—that you may go home some fine day, or to yourclub, or to Lady Jane's five o'clock tea, and be confronted by thegrinning skeleton on whom you had so carefully turned your keys and shotyour bolts.

No doubt there are men and women so refined and kindly in their naturethat they have absolutely no appetite for scandal—never speak it, orlisten to it, or remember what they have overheard. Sydney and hisfriends were troubled by no such qualms, and, if either of them hadbeen, he would not have been so ill-mannered as to spoil sport for therest.

After dinner they had gone upstairs to the members' smoking room, in acomfortable corner of which they were lazily continuing theirconversation. It turned by chance on a certain barrister of Sydney'sinn, a Mr. Barrington Baynes, whom one of the party not incorrectlydescribed as "that beautiful, bumptious, and briefless barrister, B. B."

"He gives himself great airs," said Captain Williams, a swaggering,supercilious man, for whom Sydney had no affection, and who was not oneof Sydney's admirers. "To hear him talk one would imagine he was a highauthority on every subject under the sun, but I suspect he has verylittle to go upon. Has he ever held a brief, Campion?"

"I never heard of it, if he did. One of those poor devils who take tojournalism, and usually end by going to the dogs. You will find his nameon the covers of magazines, and I fancy he does something, in thereviewing way."

It was an unfortunate speech for Sydney to make, and Captain Williamsdid not fail to seize his opportunity of giving the sharp-tonguedlawyer—who perhaps knew better how to thrust than to parry in suchencounters—a wholesome snub.

Fortune favored him. The current number of The Decade was lying on thetable beside him. He took it up in a casual sort of way, and glanced atthe list of contents.

"By the bye, Campion," he said, "you are not a married man, are you? Isee magazine articles now and then signed Lettice Campion; no relation,I suppose."

"That is my sister," Sydney answered, quietly enough. But it was plainthat the hit had told; and he was vexed with himself for being sosnobbish as to deserve a sneer from a man like Williams.

"I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Campion two or three timeslately at Mrs. Hartley's, in Kensington," said another of the quartette.This was none other than Brooke Dalton, whom Sydney always liked. Hespoke in a confidential undertone, with the kindly intention of coveringSydney's embarrassment. "Mrs. Hartley is a cousin of mine; and, though Isay it, she brings some very nice people together sometimes. By the way,have you ever seen a man of the name of Walcott—Alan Walcott: a man whowrites poetry, and so forth?"

"I know him by name, that is all. I have heard people say he is one ofthe best poets we have; but I don't pretend to understand our latter-daybards."

"You never met him?"

"No."

"Well, then," said Mr. Dalton, who, though a justice of the peace, andthe oldest of the four, could give them all points and beat them as aretailer of gossip; "well, then, that leaves me free to tell you ascurious a little history as any I know. But mind, you fellows," hecontinued, as the others pricked up their ears and prepared to listen,"this is not a story for repetition, and I pledge you to silence beforeI say another word."

"Honor bright!" said Charles Milton; and the captain nodded his head.

"The facts are these: Five or six years ago, I knew a little of AlanWalcott. I had made his acquaintance in a fortuitous way, and he oncedid me a good turn by coming forward as a witness in the police court."

"Confession is good for the soul," Milton interjected.

"Well, I was summoned for thrashing a cabman, and I should certainlyhave been fined if Walcott had not contrived to put the matter in itsproper light. For a month or two we saw a good deal of each other, and Irather liked him. He was frank and open in his ways, and though not awell-to-do man, I never observed anything about him that was mean orunhandsome. I did not know that he was married at first, but gradually Iput two and two together, and found that he came out now and again toenjoy a snatch of personal freedom, which he could not always make sureof at home.

"Once I saw his wife, and only once. She was a strikingly handsomeFrenchwoman, of that bold and flaunting type which generally puts anEnglishman on his guard—all paint and powder and cosmetics; you knowthe style!"

"Not exactly a poetic ideal," said Sydney.

"That is just what I thought at the time; and she seems to have beenstill less so in character. When I saw her she was terribly excitedabout some trifle or other—treated Walcott like a dog, without theslightest consideration for his feelings or mine, stood over him with aknife, and ended with a fit of shrieking hysterics."

"Drink or jealousy?" Captain Williams asked.

"Perhaps a little of both. Walcott told me afterwards that that was hisdaily and nightly experience, and that he was making up his mind to endit. I never knew what he meant by that, but it was impressed upon mymemory by the cool sort of way in which he said it, and a quiet look inhis eyes which evidently meant mischief. About a fortnight later theywent abroad, rather in a hurry; and for some time I heard nothing moreof them. Then I went to Aix-les-Bains, and came on the scene just aftera frightful row. It seems that a French admirer of hers had followed herto Aix, and attacked Walcott, and even struck him in the hotel gardens.The proprietor and the police had to interfere, and I came acrossWalcott just as he was looking for some one to act as second. There hadbeen a challenge, and all that sort of thing; and, un-English as itseems, I thought Walcott perfectly right, and acted as his friendthroughout the affair. It was in no way a remarkable duel: the Frenchfellow was shot in the arm and got away to Switzerland, and we managedto keep it dark. Walcott was not hurt, and went back to his hotel."

"What did the woman do?" asked Williams, curiously.

"That's the odd part of it. Husband and wife seem to have made it up,for in a day or two they went on to Culoz, had luncheon there, and wentout for a walk together. From that walk, Mrs. Alan Walcott did notreturn. Now comes the mystery: what happened in the course of that walknear Culoz? All that is known is that the landlady saw Walcott returningby himself two or three hours later, and that when she questioned him hereplied that madame had taken her departure. What do you think of thatfor a bit of suggested melodrama?"

"It lacks finish," said Milton.

"I can't see where the poetry comes in," observed the captain.

"It certainly looked black for Walcott," Sydney remarked. "I supposethere was a regular hue and cry—a search for the body, and all thatkind of thing?"

"So far as I know, there was nothing of the sort. Nobody seems to havehad any suspicion at the time. The peasants at Culoz seemed to havetalked about it a little, and some weeks afterwards the English peopleat Aix-les-Bains got hold of it, and a friend of mine tried to extractinformation from the landlady. But he was unsuccessful: the landladycould not positively affirm that there was anything wrong. And—perhapsthere was not," Mr. Dalton concluded, with a burst of Christian charitywhich was creditable to him, considering how strong were his objectionsto Walcott's friendship with Miss Campion.

The captain leaned his head back, sent a pillar of smoke up to theceiling, and laughed aloud.

"There is no question about it," said Milton, "that Walcott got out ofit cheaply. I would not be in his shoes for any money, even now."

"Is this business widely known?" Sydney asked. "It is strange that Inever heard anything about it."

He was thinking that the acquaintance of Mr. Alan Walcott could not inany case be a desirable thing for Miss Lettice Campion. From the mannerin which Dalton had introduced the subject he felt pretty sure that theattention paid by this man to his sister had been noticed, and that hisfriend was actuated by a sense, of duty in giving him warning as to thefacts within his knowledge.

"I don't wonder you never heard of it," said Dalton. "I am not aware ofanyone in England who ever did, except myself. I have not mentioned itbefore, because I am not sure that it is fair to Walcott to do so. But Iknow you men will not repeat what I have been telling you."

"Not a word," said Captain Williams and Charles Milton, in a breath.

Yet in less than a week from that time the whole story made itsappearance in one of the baser personal journals, and people werediscussing who the "well-known poet" was, and whether "the buriedsecret" would presently come to light again.

And Alan Walcott saw the paragraph, and felt that he had not yet quitedone with his past, and wondered at the dispensation of Providence whichpermitted the writers of such paragraphs to live and thrive.

But a good deal was to happen before that paragraph was printed; and inthe meantime Dalton and Campion went off to look for partners in arubber, without supposing for a moment that they had delivered a stab inthe back to one who had never done an injury to either of them.

CHAPTER IX.

LETTICE RECEIVES A VISITOR.

The day following that on which Sydney Campion paid his afternoon visitto his club in Pall Mall was one of considerable importance to hissister Lettice.

She was an early riser, and generally contrived to write half-a-dozenpages of easy translation or straightforward fiction before ten o'clock.That was the hour when she was due in her mother's room, to help her indressing, and to settle her comfortably in her arm-chair, with her Bibleand spectacles at her side, and a newspaper or magazine waiting its turnafter the lessons for the day had been read. Mrs. Campion was growingvery feeble, both in mind and in body, but she got through her wakinghours with a fair amount of satisfaction, thanks to the attention whichwas paid to all her wants and wishes. Lettice did not suffer anything tointerfere with the regular routine which she had marked out for hermother's comfort. She and her maid Milly between them kept the old ladyin peace of mind and constant good humor; and if Mrs. Campion stillbelieved that Sydney was their great benefactor, and that it behoved herto comport herself with dignity and grace as the mother of a LordChancellor, Lettice did not attempt the hopeless task of undeceivingher.

On this particular day there had been a poor pretence of morning work.She had arranged her papers, the ink and pen were ready to her hand, anda few lines were actually written. But her ideas were all in confusion,and eluded her when she tried to fix them. She could not settle toanything, and instead of writing she found herself drawing figures onthe blotting-pad. She knew that of old as a bad symptom, and gave uptrying to be industrious. The French window stood open, and the balmyJune morning tempted her out into the garden. She picked some flowersfor her vases, and pinned a rosebud on the collar of her soft greydress. It was a simple, straight-flowing dress, of the make which suitsevery woman best, tall or short, handsome or plain, depending for itsbeauty on shape and material alone, without any superfluous trimmings;for Lettice had a man's knack of getting her dressmaker to obey orders,and would have scorned to wear and pay for, as a matter of course,whatever trappings might be sent home to her in lieu of what she wanted.

Clearly there were special reasons for her perturbation of mind, and ifany other woman had been at her side, and watched her in and out of thehouse for ten minutes at a time, she would have had no difficulty indivining that Lettice expected a visitor. She would probably go furtherthan this, and draw some confident conclusion as to the kind of welcomelikely to be accorded to the visitor; but here, at any rate, thecriticism would have been premature. Lettice did expect a visitor—Mr.Alan Walcott to wit; but she had not the slightest notion as to how sheshould receive him, or whether she would prefer that he should come orstay away.

Her friendship with the poet had grown steadily since their firstmeeting, and they were now on tolerably familiar terms. His manner hadmade it impossible for her to doubt that he liked to talk and listen toher, that he sought her company, and even considered himself entitled toher sympathy. But when on the previous day he had gone so far as toassert his title in words, he had done so with what seemed to herremarkable audacity. And, although she had given him permission to cometo her house this morning, she was thinking now whether it would nothave been better if she had suggested the transfer of the volume ofwhich he spoke at Mrs. Hartley's on the following Sunday, or if she hadmade her hint still broader by praising the cheapness and despatch ofthe Parcels Delivery Company.

She had done nothing of this kind. She had been neither rude noreffusive, for it was not in her nature to be either. He was coming "sometime after twelve," and in fact, punctually as the clock struck twelve,Mr. Alan Walcott was at the door.

Milly announced him demurely. She observed him carefully, however, asshe admitted him into Lettice's room, and studied his card with interestwhile carrying it to Miss Campion. No man so young and handsome had evercalled at Maple Cottage in her time before.

Lettice had been sitting with her mother, and she came down to her studyand received her visitor with a frank smile.

"It is really, very kind of you," she said, taking the innocent bookwhich he held out as a sort of warrant for his intrusion, "to be at allthis trouble. And this is a splendid copy, it reminds me of the volumesmy father used to be so fond of. I will take great care of it. How longdid you say I might keep it?"

"Till you have read it, at any rate. Or till I ask you for itagain—which I don't think I shall. You say that you used to see volumeslike this on your father's bookshelves. I should not wonder if you hadseen this very book there. It is a strange coincidence that I shouldhave had it in my possession for some time, and yet never noticed untilthis morning, when I took it down to bring to you, that it had your nameon the fly-leaf. Look!"

He opened the book and held the fly-leaf against the window. The namehad been rubbed out with a wet finger, after the manner of second-handbooksellers, but the "Lawrence Campion" was still easily legible.Lettice could not restrain a little cry of delight.

"Yes, that is his dear handwriting, I know it so well! And this is hisbook-plate, too, and his motto—'Vive ut vivas in vitam æternam.' Oh,where did you get the book? But I suppose my father's library wasscattered all over the country."

"No doubt it was. I have a few—perhaps twenty—with the same plate. Myuncle gave me them. I—a—Miss Campion—I came this morning—"

Apparently he did not quite know why he came, or at any rate he did notfind it easy to say. Lettice spoke again in order to relieve hisembarrassment, which she did not understand.

"It is so strange that I should have one of his books in my hand again.You can imagine what a grief it was to him when he had to let them go."

"I am so glad to have restored to you something that was your father's.I want you to give me a great pleasure, Miss Campion. These books—thereare not more than forty outside—I want you to have them. They areyours, you know, because they were his, and he ought never to have beendeprived of them."

"I could not take them, indeed, Mr. Walcott. You are most kind to thinkof it, but I could not!"

"Why?"

"That is hardly a reasonable question," she said, with a quiet littlelaugh. "How could I?"

"I see very well how you could, but why should you not? It will be agood deed, and there is no good deed without a sacrifice."

"And you want to sacrifice these books, which are so valuable!"

"No, it is no sacrifice to me, as I could easily prove to you. Believethat it pleases me, and sacrifice your own feelings by taking them."

"I don't see why you should ask me. It is too great a present to make,and—oh, dear me, I am afraid I do not know how to say what I mean! Butif you will give me this one book, with my father's name in it, I willtake it from you, and thank you very much for it."

"I shall not be satisfied if I may not send the rest. Miss Campion, Icame to say——"

Again he stammered and broke down. Lettice, who thought that he hadalready delivered himself of his mental burden, was a little startlednow, especially as he got up and stood by her chair at the window.

"What a lovely little garden!" he said. "Why, you are quite in thecountry here. What delightful roses! I—I want to say something else,Miss Campion!"

"Yes," said Lettice, faintly, and doing her best to feel indifferent.

"We have not known each other long, but it seems to me that we know eachother well—at any rate that I know you well. Before I met you I hadnever made the acquaintance of a woman who at the same time commanded myrespect, called my mind into full play, and aroused my sympathy. Theselast few months have been the happiest of my life, because I have beenlifted above my old level, and have known for the first time what theworld might yet be to me. There is something more I want to say to you.I think you know that I have been married—that my wife is—is no more.You may or may not have heard that miserable story, of my folly,and——"

"Oh, no!" cried Lettice, impulsively. "It is true that Mrs. Hartley toldme of the great trouble which fell upon you in the loss of which youspeak."

"The great trouble—yes! That is how Mrs. Hartley would put it. And theGrahams, have they told you nothing?"

"Nothing more."

A look as of relief passed across his face, followed by a spasm of pain;and he stood gazing wearily through the window.

"Perhaps they do not know, for I have never spoken of it to anyone. ButI want to speak; I want to get rid of some of the wretched burden, andan irresistible impulse has brought me here to you. I am utterlyselfish; it is like taking your money, or your manuscripts, or yourflowers, or anything that you value, to come in this way and almostinsist on telling you my sordid story. It is altogetherunjustifiable—it is a mad presumption which I cannot account for,except by saying that a blind instinct made me think that you alone, ofall the people in this world, could help me if you would!"

Lettice was deeply moved by various conflicting emotions; but there wasno hesitation in the sympathy which went out to meet this strangeappeal. Even her reason would probably have justified him in hisunconventional behavior; but it was sympathy, and not reason, whichprompted her to welcome and encourage his confidence.

"If I can help you—if it helps you to tell me anything, please speak."

"I knew I was not mistaken!" he said, with kindling eyes, as he sat downin a low chair opposite to her. "I will not be long—I will not tell youall; that would be useless, and needlessly painful. I married in haste,after a week's acquaintance, the daughter of a French refugee, who cameto London in 1870, and earned a living by teaching his language to thepoorest class of pupils. Don't ask me why I married her. No doubt Ithought it was for love. She was handsome, and even charming in her way,and for some months I tried to think I was happy. Then, gradually, shelet me wake from my fool's paradise. I found—you will despise me for adupe!—that I was not the first man she had pretended to love. Nay, itwas to me that she pretended—the other feeling was probably far more ofa reality. Before the year was out she had renewed her intimacy with myrival—a compatriot of her own. You will suppose that we parted at oncewhen things came to this pass; but for some time I had only suspicion togo upon. I knew that she was often away from home, and that she had evenbeen to places of amusem*nt in this man's company; but when I spoke toher she either lulled my uneasiness or pretended to be outraged by myjealousy. Soon there was no bond of respect left between us; but as alast chance, I resolved to break up our little home in England, and goabroad. I could no longer endure my life with her. She had ceased to bea wife in any worthy sense of the word, and was now my worst enemy, anobject of loathing rather than of love. Still, I remember that I had agleam of hope when I took her on the Continent, thinking it justpossible that by removing her from her old associations, I might win herback to a sense of duty. I would have borne her frivolity; I would haveendured to be bound for life to a doll or a log, if only she could havebeen outwardly faithful.

"Well, to make a long story short, we had not been abroad more than sixweeks when this man I have told you about made his appearance on thescene. She must have written to him and asked him to come, at the verymoment when she was cheating me with a show of reviving affection; and Iown that the meeting of these two one day in the hotel gardens atAix-les-Bains drove me into a fit of temporary madness. We quarrelled; Isent him a challenge, and we fought. He was not much hurt, and I escapeduntouched. The man disappeared, and I have never seen him from that dayto this, but I have some reason to think that he is dead."

He paused for a moment or two; and Lettice could not refrain fromuttering the words, "Your wife?" in a tone of painful interest.

"My wife?" he repeated slowly. "Ah yes, my wife. Well, after a stormyscene with her, she became quiet and civil. She even seemed anxious toplease me, and to set my mind at rest. But she was merely hatching herlast plot against me, and I was as great a fool and dupe at this momentas I had ever been before."

And then, with averted face, he told the story of his last interviewwith her on the hills beyond Culoz. "I will not repeat anything shesaid," he went on—it was his sole reservation—"although some of hersentences are burned into my brain for ever. I suppose because they wereso true."

"Oh, no!" Lettice murmured involuntarily, and looking at him withtear-dimmed eyes. She was intensely interested in his story, and AlanWalcott felt assured by her face that the sympathy he longed for was notwithheld.

"My wound was soon healed," he said when the details of that terriblescene were told; "but I was not in a hurry to come back to England. WhenI did come back, I avoided as much as possible the few people who knewme; and I have never to this moment spoken of my deliverance, which Isuppose they talk of as my loss."

"They think," said Lettice, slowly, for she was puzzled in her mind, anddid not know what to say, "that you are a widower?"

"And what am I?" he cried, walking up and down the room in a restlessway. "Am I not a widower? Has she not died completely out of my life? Ishall never see her again—she is dead and buried, and I am free? Ah, donot look at me so doubtfully, do not take back the sympathy which youpromised me! Are you going to turn me away, hungry and thirsty forkindness, because you imagine that my need is greater than you thoughtit five minutes ago? I will not believe you are so cruel!"

"We need not analyze my feelings, Mr. Walcott. I could not do thatmyself, until I have had time to think. But—is it right to leave otherpeople under the conviction that your wife is actually dead, when youknow that in all probability she is not?"

"I never said she was dead! I never suggested or acted a lie. May not aman keep silence about his own most sacred affairs?"

"Perhaps he may," said Lettice. "It is not for me to judge you—and atany rate, you have told me!"

She stood up and looked at him with her fearless grey eyes, whilst hisown anxiously scanned her face.

"I am very, very sorry for you. If I can do anything to help you, Iwill. You must not doubt my sympathy, and I shall never withdraw mypromise. But just now I cannot think what it would be best to do or say.Let me have time to think."

She held out her hand, and he took it, seeing that she wanted him to go.

"Good-bye!" he said. "God bless you for being what you are. It has doneme good to talk. When we meet again—unless you write and give me yourcommands—I promise to do whatever you may tell me."

And with that, he went away.

CHAPTER X.

THE POET SPEAKS.

As soon as her visitor was gone, Lettice fell into a deep study. She hadtwo things especially to think about, and she began by wondering whatMrs. Hartley would say if she knew that Alan Walcott's wife was alive,and by repeating what he had said to her that morning: that a man wasnot bound to tell his private affairs to the world. No! she toldherself, it was impossible for any man of self-respect to wear his hearton his sleeve, to assume beforehand that people would mistake hisposition, and to ticket himself as a deserted husband, lest forwardgirls should waste their wiles upon him.

The thought was odious; and yet she had suggested it to him! Had she notdone more than that? Had she not implied that he had done a dishonorablething in concealing what he was in no way bound to reveal? What would hethink of her, or impute to her, for raising such a point at the verymoment when he was displaying his confidence in her, and appealing forher sympathy? She blushed with shame at the idea.

He was already completely justified in her mind, for she did not go sofar as to put the case which a third person might have put in her owninterest. If Alan had been unfair or inconsiderate to anyone, it wassurely to Lettice herself. He had spoken familiarly to her, sought hercompany, confessed his admiration in a more eloquent language than thatof words, and asked for a return of sentiment by those subtle appealswhich seem to enter the heart through none of the ordinary and ticketedsenses. It is true that he had not produced in her mind the distinctimpression that she was anything more to him than an agreeable talkerand listener in his conversational moods; but that was due to hernatural modesty rather than to his self-restraint. He had beenimpatient, at times, of her slowness to respond, and it was only when hesaw whither this impatience was leading him that he resolved to tell herall that she ought to know. It was not his delay, however, thatconstituted the injustice of his conduct, but the fact of his appealingto her in any way for the response which he had no right to ask.

Lettice was just as incapable of thinking that she had been unjustlytreated as she was of believing that Alan Walcott loved her. Thus shewas spared the humiliation that might have fallen on her if she hadunderstood that his visit was partly intended to guard her against thedanger of giving her love before it had been asked.

Having tried and acquitted her friend, and having further made up hermind that she would write him a letter to assure him of his acquittal,she summoned herself before the court of her conscience; and this was avery different case from the one which had been so easily decided. Thenthe presumption was all in favor of the accused; now it was all againsther. The guilt was as good as admitted beforehand, for as soon asLettice began to examine and cross-examine herself, she became painfullyaware of her transgressions.

What was this weight which oppressed her, and stifled her, and coveredher with shame? It was not merely sorrow for the misfortunes of herfriend. That would not have made her ashamed, for she knew well thatcompassion was a woman's privilege, for which she has no reason toblush. Something had befallen her this very morning which had caused herto blush, and it was the first time in all her life that Lettice's cheekhad grown red for anything she had done, or thought, or said, orlistened to, in respect of any man whatever. Putting her father andbrother on one side, no man had had the power, for very few had had theopportunity, to quicken the pulses in her veins as they were quickenednow. She had not lived to be six and twenty years old without knowingwhat love between a man and woman really meant, but she had neverappropriated to herself the good things which she saw others enjoying.It was not for want of being invited to the feast, for several of herfather's curates had been ready to grace their frugal boards by herpresence, and to crown her with the fillets of their dignity andself-esteem. The prospect held up to her by these worthy men had notallured her in any way; she had not loved their wine and oil, and thusshe had remained rich, according to the promise of the seer, with thebread and salt of her own imaginings.

It would be wrong to suppose that Lettice had no strong passions,because she had never loved, or even thought that she loved. The womanof cultivated mind is often the woman of deepest feeling; her mentalstrength implies her calmness, and the calm surface indicates thegreatest depth. It is in the restless hearts which beat themselvesagainst the shores of the vast ocean of womanhood that passion is soquick to display itself, so vehement in its shallow force, so broken inits rapid ebb. The real strength of humanity lies deep below thesurface; but a weak woman often mistakes for strength her irresistiblecraving for happiness and satisfaction. It is precisely for this reasonthat a liberal education and a full mind are even more essential to thewelfare of a woman than they are to the welfare of a man. The world hasleft its women, with this irresistible craving in their hearts,dependent, solitary, exposed to attack, and unarmed for defence; and asa punishment it has been stung almost to death by the scorpions whichits cruelty generates. But a woman who has been thoroughly educated, awoman of strong mind and gentle heart, is not dependent for happiness onthe caprice of others, or on the abandonment of half the privileges ofher sex, but draws from an inexhaustible well to which she has constantaccess.

So Lettice, with the passions of her kind, and the cravings of her sex,had been as happy as the chequered circ*mstances of her outer life wouldpermit; but now for the first time her peace of mind was disturbed, andshe felt the heaving of the awakened sea beneath.

Why had her heart grown cold when she heard that Alan Walcott's wife wasstill alive? Why had her thought been so bitter when she told herselfthat she had no right to give the man her sympathy? Why had the lightand warmth and color of life departed as soon as she knew that the womanwhom he had married, however unworthy she might be, was the only one whocould claim his fidelity? Alas, the answer to her questions was only tooapparent. The pain which it cost her to awake from her brief summer'sdream was her first admonition that she had dreamed at all. Not untilshe had lost the right to rejoice in his admiration and respond to hislove, did she comprehend how much these things meant to her, and how farthey had been allowed to go.

The anguish of a first love which cannot be cherished or requited isinfinitely more grievous when a woman is approaching the age of thirtythan it is at seventeen or twenty. The recoil is greater and theelasticity is less. But if Lettice suffered severely from the suddenblow which had fallen upon her, she still had the consolation of knowingthat she could suffer in private, and that she had not betrayed theweakness of her heart—least of all to him who had tried to make herweak.

In the course of the evening she sat down and wrote to him—partlybecause he had asked her to write, and partly in order that she mightsay without delay what seemed necessary to be said.

She hesitated for some time as to whether she had said too much, or toolittle, or whether what she had said was expressed in the right way. Butin the end she sent it as it was written.

Then, if she had been a thoroughly sensible and philosophical youngwoman, she would have forced herself to do some hard work, by way ofapplying the anodyne of which she had spoken. But that was too much toexpect from her in the circ*mstances. What she actually did was to go tobed early and cry herself to sleep.

She had not considered whether her letter required, or was likely toreceive an answer, and she was therefore a little surprised when thepostman brought her one on the afternoon of the following day. Notwithout trepidation, she took it to her room and read it.

"Dear Miss Campion"—so the letter began—"I thank you very much foryour kindness. I have learned to find so much meaning in your words thatI think I can tell better than anyone else how to interpret the spiritfrom the letter of what you say. So, when you tell me that no one candecide for me what it is my duty to do, I understand that, if you werein my position at this moment, you would rather desire that it should beknown. Henceforth I desire it, and I shall tell Mrs. Hartley and Mrs.Graham as much as is necessary the next time I see them. This will beequivalent to telling the world—will it not?

"Two other things I understand from your letter. First, that you do notwish to meet me so often in future; and, second, that though you know mypain would be diminished by the frank expression of your sympathy, andthough you might find it in your heart to be frankly sympathetic, yetyou do not think it would be right, and you do not mean to be activelybeneficent. Am I wrong? If I am, you must forgive me; but, if I am not,I cannot accept your decision without entering my protest.

"Think, my dear friend—you will allow me that word!—to what youcondemn me if you take your stand upon the extreme dictates ofconventionality. You cannot know what it would mean to me if you were tosay, 'He is a married man, and we had better not meet so frequently infuture.' To you, that would be no loss whatever. To me, it would be theloss of happiness, of consolation, of intellectual life. Listen and havepity upon me! I could not say it to your face, but I will say it now,though you may think it an unpardonable crime. You have become sonecessary to me that I cannot contemplate existence without you. Haveyou not seen it already—or, if you have not, can you doubt when youlook back on the past six months—that respect has grown into affection,and affection into love? Yes, I love you, Lettice!—in my own heart Icall you Lettice every hour of the day—and I cannot live any longerwithout telling you of my love.

"When I began this letter I did not mean to tell you—at any rate notto-day. Think of the condition of my mind when I am driven by such asudden impulse—think, and make allowance for me!

"I am not sure what I expected when I resolved to make my sad storyknown to you. Perhaps, in my madness, I thought, 'There is a right and awrong above the right and wrong of society's judgments; and she is onthe higher levels of humanity, and will take pity on my misfortunes.' Ionly say, perhaps I thought this. I don't know what I thought. But Iknew I could not ask you to be my wife, and I determined that you shouldknow why I could not.

"Oh, how I hate that woman! I believe that she is dead. I tell myselfevery day that she is dead, and that there is nothing to prevent me fromthrowing myself at your feet, and praying you to redeem me from misery.Is not my belief enough to produce conviction in you? No—you will notbelieve it; and, perhaps, if you did, you would not consent to redeemme. No! I must drag my lengthening chain until I die! I must live inpain and disgust, bound to a corpse, covered with a leprosy, because theangel whose mission it is to save me will not come down from her heavenand touch me with her finger.

"You shall not see these words, Lettice—my dear Lettice! They are theoffspring of a disordered brain. I meant to write you such a calm andhumble message, telling you that your counsel was wise—that I wouldfollow it—that I knew I had your sympathy, and that I reverenced you asa saint. If I go on writing what I do not mean to send, it is onlybecause the freedom of my words has brought me peace and comfort, andbecause it is good that I should allow myself to write the truth, thoughI am not allowed to write it to you!

"Not allowed to write the truth to you, Lettice? That, surely, is ablasphemy! If I may not write the truth to you, then I may not knowyou—I may not worship you—I may not give my soul into your keeping.

"I will test it. My letter shall go. You will not answer it—you willonly sit still, and either hate or love me; and one day I shall knowwhich it has been. Alan."

Whilst Lettice read this wild and incoherent letter, she sank on herknees by her bedside, unable in any other attitude to bear the strainwhich it put upon her feelings.

"How dare he?" she murmured, at the first outbreak of his passionatecomplaint; but, as she went on reading, the glow of pity melted herwoman's heart, and only once more she protested, in words, against theaudacious candor of her lover.

"How could he?"

And as she finished, and her head was bowed upon her hands, and upon theletter which lay between them, her lips sought out the words which hehad written last of all, as though they would carry a message offorgiveness—and consolation to the spirit which hovered beneath it.

CHAPTER XI.

SYDNEY GIVES ADVICE.

The day after Sydney Campion had heard Brooke Dalton's story of thedisappearance of Alan Walcott's wife had been a very busy one for him.He had tried to get away from his work at an early hour, in order thathe might pay one of his rare visits to Maple Cottage, and combine withhis inquiries into the welfare of his mother certain necessary cautionsto his sister Lettice. It was indispensable that she should be made tounderstand what sort of man this precious poet was known to be, and howimpossible it had become that a sister of his should continue to treathim as a friend.

Why, the fellow might be—probably was—a murderer! And, if not that, atall events there was such a mystery surrounding him, and such anindelible stain upon his character, that he, Sydney Campion, could notsuffer her to continue that most objectionable acquaintance.

But his duties conspired with his dinner to prevent the visit from beingmade before the evening, and it was nearly eight o'clock when he arrivedat Hammersmith. He had dined with a friend in Holborn, and had taken aMetropolitan train at Farringdon Street, though, as a rule, he heldhimself aloof from the poison-traps of London, as he was pleased to callthe underground railway, and travelled mostly in the two-wheeledgondolas which so lightly float on the surface of the stream above.

As he was about to leave the station, his eye encountered a face andfigure which attracted him, and made him almost involuntarily come to astandstill. It was Milly Harrington, Lettice's maid, who, having postedher mistress' letter to Alan Walcott, had turned her listless steps inthis direction.

Milly's life in London had proved something of a disappointment to her.The cottage on Brook Green was even quieter than the Rectory atAngleford, where she had at least the companionship of other servants,and a large acquaintance in the village. Lettice was a kind andconsiderate mistress, but a careful one: she did not let the youngcountry-bred girl go out after dark, and exercised an unusual amount ofsupervision over her doings. Of late, these restrictions had begun togall Milly, for she contrasted her lot with that of servants inneighboring houses, and felt that Miss Lettice was a tyrant comparedwith the easy-going mistresses of whom she heard. Certainly Miss Letticegave good wages, and was always gentle in manner and ready to sympathizewhen the girl had bad news of her old grandmother's health; but she didnot allow Milly as much liberty as London servants are accustomed toenjoy, and Milly, growing learned in her rights by continued comparison,fretted against the restraints imposed upon her.

She might have "kept company" with the milkman, with the policeman, withone of the porters at the station: for these, one and all, laid theirhearts and fortunes at her feet; but Milly rejected their overtures withscorn. Her own prettiness of form and feature had been more than everimpressed upon her by the offers which she refused; and she wasdetermined, as she phrased it, "not to throw herself away."

Her fancy that "Mr. Sydney" admired her had not been a mistaken one.Sydney had always been susceptible to the charms of a pretty face; andNature had preordained a certain measure of excuse for any man who feltimpelled to look twice at Milly, or even to speak to her on a flimsypretext. And Milly was on Nature's side, for she did not resent beinglooked at or spoken to, although there was more innocence and ignoranceof evil on her side than men were likely to give her credit for.Therefore Sydney had for some time been on speaking terms with her, overand above what might have been natural in an occasional visitor to theRectory and Maple Cottage. He saw and meant no harm to her in hisadmiration, and had no idea at present that his occasional smile or idlejesting compliment made the girl's cheeks burn, her heart beat fast,made her nights restless and her days long. He took it for granted thatgratified vanity alone made her receive his attentions with pleasure.His gifts—for he could be lavish when he liked—were all, he thought,that attracted her. She was a woman, and could, no doubt, play her owngame and take care of herself. She had her weapons, as other women had.Sydney's opinion of women was, on the whole, a low one; and he had asupreme contempt for all women of the lower class—a contempt whichcauses a man to look on them only as toys—instruments for hispleasure—to be used and cast aside. He believed that theysystematically preyed on men, and made profit out of their weakness.That Milly was at a disadvantage with him, because she was weak andyoung and unprotected, scarcely entered his head. He would have saidthat she had the best of it. She was pretty and young, and could makehim pay for it if he did her any harm. She was one of a class—a classof harpies, in his opinion—and he did not attribute any particularindividuality to her at all.

But Milly was a very real and individual woman, with a nature in whichthe wild spark of passion might some day be roused with disastrousresults. It is unsafe to play with the emotions of a person who issimply labelled, often mistakenly and insufficiently, in your mind asbelonging to a class, and possessing the characteristics of that class.There is always the chance that some old strain of tendency, some freakof heredity, may develop in the way which is most of all dangerous toyou and to your career. For you cannot play with a woman's physicalnature without touching, how remotely soever, her spiritual constitutionas well; and, as Browning assures us, it is indeed "an awkward thing toplay with souls, and matter enough to save one's own."

Sydney Campion, however, concerned himself very little with his ownsoul, or the soul of anybody else. He went up to Milly and greeted herwith a smile that brought the color to her face.

"Well, Milly," he said, "are you taking your walks abroad to-night? Isyour mistress pretty well? I was just going to Maple Cottage."

"Yes, sir, mistress is pretty well; but I don't think Miss Lettice is,"said Milly, falling back into her old way of speaking of the rector'sdaughter. "She mentioned that she was going to bed early. You had betterlet me go back first and open the door for you."

"Perhaps it would be best. Not well, eh? What is the matter?"

"I don't know, but I think Miss Campion has a bad headache. I am sureshe has been crying a great deal." Milly said this with some hesitation.

"I am sorry to hear that."

"I am afraid Mr. Walcott brought her bad news in the morning, for shehas not been herself at all since he left."

"Do you say that Mr. Walcott was there this morning?"

Sydney spoke in a low tone, but with considerable eagerness, so that thegirl knew she had not thrown her shaft in vain.

"Milly, this concerns me very much. I must have a little talk with you,but we cannot well manage it here. See! there is no one in thewaiting-room; will you kindly come with me for a minute or two? It isfor your mistress' good that I should know all about this. Come!"

So they went into the dreary room together, and they sat down in acorner behind the door, which by this time was almost dark. There Sydneyquestioned her about Alan Walcott, with a view to learning all that shemight happen to know about him. Milly required little prompting, for shewas quite ready to do all that he bade her, and she told him at leastone piece of news which he was not prepared to hear.

Five minutes would have sufficed for all that Milly had to say; but thesame story may be very long or very short according to the circ*mstancesin which it is told. Half-an-hour was not sufficient to-night: at anyrate, it took these two more than half-an-hour to finish what they hadto say. And even then it was found that further elucidations would benecessary in the future, and an appointment was made for anothermeeting. But the talk had turned on Milly herself, and Milly's hopes andprospects, before that short half-hour had sped.

"Good-night, Milly," said Sydney, as they left the station. "You are adear little girl to tell me so much. Perhaps you had better not say toyour mistress that you saw me to-night. I shall call to-morrowafternoon. Good-night, dear."

He kissed her lightly, in a shadowy corner of the platform, before heturned away; and thought rather admiringly for a minute or two of thehalf-frightened, half-adoring eyes that were riveted upon his face."Poor little fool!" he said to himself, as he signalled a cab. For evenin that one short interview he had mastered the fact that Milly wasrather fool than knave.

The girl went home with a light heart, believing that she had done aservice to the mistress whom she really loved, and shyly, timorouslyjoyous at the thought that she had met at last with an admirer—a lover,perhaps!—such as her heart desired. Of course, Miss Lettice would beangry if she knew; but there was nothing wrong in Mr. Sydney'sadmiration, said Milly, lifting high her little round white chin; and ifhe told her to keep silence she was bound to hold her tongue.

This was a mean thing that Sydney had done, and he was not so hardenedas to have done it without a blush. Yet so admirably does our veneer ofcivilization conceal the knots and flaws beneath it that he went tosleep in the genuine belief that he had saved his sister from a terribledanger, and the name of Campion from the degradation which threatenedit.

On the next day he reached Maple Cottage between four and five o'clock.

"How is your mistress?" he said to Milly.

She had opened the door and let him in with a vivid blush and smile,which made him for a moment, and in the broad light of day, feelsomewhat ashamed of himself.

"Oh, sir, she is no better. She has locked herself in, and I heard hersobbing, fit to break her heart," said Milly, in real concern for hermistress' untold grief.

"Let her know that I am here. I will go to Mrs. Campion's room."

"Well, mother!" he said, in the hearty, jovial voice in which he knewthat she liked best to be accosted, "here is your absentee boy again.How are you by this time?"

"Not very bright to-day, Sydney," said his mother. "I never am verybright now-a-days. But what are you doing, my dear? Are you getting onwell? Have they——"

"No, mother, they have not made me Lord Chancellor yet. We must wait awhile for that. But I must not complain; I have plenty of work, and myname is in the papers every day, and I have applied for silk, and—haveyou found your spectacles yet, mother?"

Details of his life and work were, as he knew, absolutely unmeaning toMrs. Campion.

"Oh, the rogue! He always teased me about my spectacles," said Mrs.Campion, vaguely appealing to an unseen audience. "It is a remarkablething, Sydney, but I put them down half an hour ago, and now I cannotfind them anywhere."

"Well, now, that is strange, Mrs. Campion; but not very unusual. If Iremember right, you had lost your spectacles when I was here last; andas I happened to pass a good shop this morning, it occurred to me thatyou would not object to another pair of pebbles. So here they are; and Ihave bought you something to test them with."

He produced a cabinet portrait of himself, such as the stationers werebeginning to hang on the line in their shop windows. The fact marked adistinct advance in his conquest of popularity; and Sydney was notmistaken in supposing that the old lady would appreciate this portraitof her handsome and distinguished son. So, with her spectacles and herpicture, Mrs. Campion was happy.

When Sydney's knock came to the door, Lettice was still crouching by herbedside over the letter which had reached her an hour before. She sprangup in nervous agitation, not having recognized the knock, and began tobathe her face and brush her hair. She was relieved when Milly came andtold her who the caller was; but even Sydney's visit at that moment wasa misfortune. She was inclined to send him an excuse, and not come down;but in the end she made up her mind to see him.

"My dear child," Sydney said, kissing her on the cheek, "how ill youlook! Is anything the matter?"

"No, nothing. Don't take any notice of me," Lettice said, with asignificant look at her mother.

They conversed for a time on indifferent matters, and then Sydney askedher to show him the garden. It was evident that he wanted to speak toher privately, so she took him into her study; and there, without anybeating about the bush, he began to discharge his mind of its burden.

"I want to talk to you seriously, Lettice, and on what I'm afraid willbe a painful subject; but it is my manifest duty to do so, as I thinkyou will admit before I go. You are, I believe, on friendlyterms—tolerably familiar terms—with Mr. Walcott?"

This was in true forensic style; but of course Sydney could not havemade a greater mistake than by entering solemnly, yet abruptly, on sodelicate a matter. Lettice was in arms at once.

"Stay a moment, Sydney. You said this was to be a painful subject to me,and then you mention the name of Mr. Walcott. I do not understand."

"Well!" said Sydney, somewhat disconcerted; "I don't know what made meconclude that it would be painful. I did not mean to say that. I am veryglad it is not so."

He stopped to cough, then looked out of the window, and softly whistledto himself. Lettice, meanwhile, cast about hastily in her mind for thepossible bearing of what her brother might have to say. She was about totake advantage of his blunder, and decline to hear anything further; butfor more than one reason which immediately occurred to her, she thoughtthat it would be better to let him speak.

"I do not think you could have any ground for supposing that such asubject would be specially painful to me; but never mind that. What wereyou going to say?"

Now it was Sydney's turn to be up in arms, for he felt sure that Letticewas acting a part.

"What I know for a fact," he said, "is that you have seen a good deal ofMr. Walcott during the past six months, and that people have gone so faras to remark on your—on his manifest preference for your company. Iwant to say that there are grave reasons why this should not bepermitted to go on."

Lettice bit her lip sharply, but said nothing.

"Do you know," Sydney continued, becoming solemn again as he prepared tohurl his thunderbolts, "that Mr. Walcott is a married man?"

"Whether I know it or not, I do not acknowledge your right to ask me thequestion."

"I ask it by the right of a brother. Do you know that if he is not amarried man, he is something infinitely worse? That the last time hiswife was seen in his company, they went on a lonely walk together, andhe came back again without her?"

"How do you know this?" Lettice asked him faintly. He set down heragitation to the wrong cause, and thought that his design wassucceeding.

"I know it from the man who was most intimately connected with Walcottat the time. And I heard it at my club—in the course of the sameconversation in which your name was mentioned. Think what that means tome! However, it may not have gone too far if we are careful to avoidthis man in future. He does not visit here, of course?"

"He has been here."

"You surely don't correspond?"

"We have corresponded."

"Good heavens! it is worse than I thought. But you will promise me notto continue the acquaintance?"

"No, I cannot promise that!"

"Not after all I have told you of him?"

"You have told me nothing to Mr. Walcott's discredit. I have answeredyour questions because you are, as you reminded me, my brother. Does itnot strike you that you have rather exceeded your privilege?"

Sydney was amazed at her quiet indifference.

"I really cannot understand you, Lettice. Do you mean to say that youwill maintain your friendship with this man, although you know him to bea——"

"Well?"

"At any rate, a possible murderer?"

"The important point," said Lettice coldly, "seems to be what Mr.Walcott is actually, not what he is possibly. Your 'possible' is amatter of opinion, and I am very distinctly of opinion that Mr. Walcottis an innocent and honorable man."

"If you believe him innocent, then you believe that his wife is living?"

"I know nothing about his wife. That is a question which does notconcern me."

"Your obstinacy passes my comprehension." When Sydney said this, he rosefrom the chair in which he had been sitting and stood on the hearth-rugbefore the grate, with his hands behind him and his handsome browsknitted in a very unmistakable frown. It was in a lower and moreregretful voice that he continued, after a few minutes' silence: "I mustsay that the independent line you have been taking for some time past isnot very pleasing to me. You seem to have a perfect indifference to ourname and standing in the world. You like to fly in the face ofconvention, to——"

"Oh, Sydney, why should we quarrel?" said Lettice, sadly. Hitherto shehad been standing by the window, but she now came up to him and lookedentreatingly into his face. "Indeed, I will do all that I can to satisfyyou. I am not careless about your prospects and standing in the world;indeed, I am not. But they could not be injured by the fact that I amearning my own living as an author. I am sure they could not!"

"You say that you will do all you can to satisfy me," said Sydney, whowas not much mollified by her tenderness. "Will you give up theacquaintance of that man?"

"I am not certain that I shall ever see Mr. Walcott again; but if youask me whether I will promise to insult him if I do see him, or to cuthim because he has been accused of dishonorable acts, then I certainlysay, No!"

"How you harp upon his honor! The honor of a married man who hasintroduced himself to you under a false name!"

"What do you mean?" said Lettice, starting and coloring. "Are there anymore charges against him?"

"You seem to be so well prepared to defend him that perhaps you will notbe surprised to hear that his name is not Walcott at all, butBundlecombe, and that his mother kept a small sweet-stuff shop, orsomething of that kind, at Thorley. Bundlecombe! No wonder he wasashamed of it!"

This shaft took better than either of the others. Lettice was fairlytaken aback. The last story did not sound as if it had been invented,and Sydney had evidently been making inquiries. Moreover, there flashedacross her mind the remembrance of the book which Alan Walcott had givenher—only yesterday morning. How long ago it seemed already! AlanBundlecombe! What did the name signify, and why should any man care tochange the name that he was born with? She recollected Mrs. Bundlecombevery well—the old woman who came and took her first twenty pounds ofsavings; the widow of the bookseller who had bought part of her father'slibrary. If he was her son, he might not have much to be proud of, butwhy need he have changed his name?

Decidedly this was a blow to her. She had no defence ready, and Sydneysaw that she was uncomfortable.

"Well," he said, "I must not keep you any longer. I suppose, evennow"—with a smile—"you will not give me your promise; but you willthink over what I have told you, and I dare say it will all come right."

Her eyes were full of wistful yearning as she put her hand on hisshoulder and kissed him.

"You believe that I mean to do right, don't you, Sydney?" she asked.

He laughed a little. "We all mean to do right, my dear. But we don't allgo the same way to work, I suppose. Yes, yes; I believe you mean well;but do, for heaven's sake, try to act with common-sense. Then, as Isaid, everything will come right in the end."

He went back to his mother's room, and Lettice stood for some minuteslooking out of the window, and sighing for the weariness and disillusionwhich hung like a cloud upon her life.

"All will come right?" she murmured, re-echoing Sydney's words withanother meaning. "No. Trouble and sorrow, and pain may be lived down andforgotten; but without sincerity nothing can come right!"

BOOK III.

AMBITION.

CHAPTER XII.

ALAN WALCOTT.

Alan Walcott knew perfectly well that he had done a mad, if not anunaccountable thing in writing his letter to Miss Campion. He knew it,that is to say, after the letter was gone, for when he was writing it,and his heart was breaking through the bonds of common-sense whichgenerally restrained him, he did not feel the difficulty of accountingeither for his emotions or for his action. The wild words, as he wrotethem, had for him not only the impress of paramount truth, but also thesanction of his convictions and impulse at the moment. No strongerexcuse has been forthcoming for heroic deeds which have shaken the worldand lived in history.

Who amongst us all, when young and ardent, with the fire of generosityand imagination in the soul, has not written at least one such letter,casting reserve and prudence to the winds, and placing the writerabsolutely at the mercy of the man or woman who received it?

This man was a poet by nature and by cultivation; but what is theculture of a poet save the fostering of a distempered imagination? I donot mean the culture of a prize poet, or a poet on a newspaper staff, ora gentleman who writes verses for society, or a professor of poetry, oran authority who knows the history and laws of prosody in every tongue,and can play the bard or the critic with equal facility. Alan Walcotthad never ceased to work in distemper, because his nature wasdistempered to begin with, and his taste had not been modified to suitthe conventional canons of his critics. Therefore it was not much to bewondered at if his prose poem to the woman he loved was a distemperedcomposition.

The exaltation of the mood in which he had betrayed himself to Letticewas followed by a mood of terrible depression, and almost before itwould have been possible for an answer to reach him, even if she had satdown and written to him without an hour's delay, he began to assurehimself that she intended to treat him with silent contempt—that hisfolly had cost him not only her sympathy but her consideration, and thatthere was no hope left for him.

He had indeed told her that he did not expect a reply; but now hetortured himself with the belief that silence on her part could haveonly one explanation. Either she pitied him, and would write to preventhis despair, or she was indignant, and would tell him so, or else sheheld him in such contempt that she would not trouble herself to take theslightest notice of his effusion. He craved for her indignation now ashe had craved for her sympathy before; but he could not endure herindifference.

A man of five-and-thirty whose youth has been spent amongst the prodigalsons and daughters of the world's great family, who has wasted his moralpatrimony, and served masters and mistresses whom he despised, is noteasily brought to believe that he can be happy again in the love of apure woman. He has lost confidence in his own romantic feelings, and inhis power to satisfy the higher needs of a woman's delicate and exactingheart. Usually, as was once the case with Walcott, he is a cynic and aprofessed despiser of women, affecting to judge them all by the few whomhe has met, in spite of the fact that he has put himself in the way ofknowing only the weakest and giddiest of the sex. But when such a man,gradually and with difficulty, has found a pearl among women, gentle andtrue, intellectual yet tenderly human, with whom his instinct tells himhe might spend the rest of his life in honor and peace, he is ready inthe truest sense to go and sell all that he has in order to secure theprize. Nothing has any further value for him in comparison with her, andall the roots of his nature lay firm hold upon her. Alas for this man ifhis mature love is given in vain, or if, like Alan Walcott, he isdebarred from happiness by self-imposed fetters which no effort canshake off!

For four-and-twenty hours he struggled with his misery. Then, to hisindescribable joy, there came a message from Lettice.

It was very short, and it brought him bad news; but at any rate itproved that she took an interest in his welfare, and made himcomparatively happy.

Not a word as to his letter; but he was not much troubled on this score.That she had written to him at all, and written evidently because shefelt some concern for his safety, was enough to console him at themoment.

When he began to consider the contents of her note it disturbed him morethan a little. He had not imagined that his secret, such as it was, hadpassed into the keeping of any other man, still less that it had becomeclub-talk in London. He saw at once what evil construction might be putupon it by malicious gossip-mongers, and he knew that henceforth he wasface to face with a danger which he could do little or nothing to avert.

What should he attempt in his defence? How should he use the weaponwhich Lettice had put into his hand by forewarning him? One reasonableidea suggested itself, and this was that he should tell the true storyto those who knew him best, in order that they might at any rate havethe power to meet inventions and exaggerations by his own version of thefacts. He busied himself during the next few days in this melancholytask, calling at the house of his friends, and making the best pretexthe could for introducing his chapter of autobiography.

He called on the Grahams, amongst others, and was astonished to findthat they knew the story already.

"I have told the facts to one or two," he said, "for the reason that Ihave just mentioned to you, but I think they understood that it would dome no good to talk about it, except in contradiction of unfriendlyversions. How did you hear it?"

Graham took out of his pocket a copy of The Gadabout and said,

"I'm afraid you have made enemies, Walcott, and if you have not seenthis precious concoction it would be no kindness to you to conceal it.Here—you will see at a glance how much they have embellished it."

Walcott took the paper, and read as follows:—

"It is probable that before long the public may be startled by ajudicial inquiry into the truth of a story which has been told with muchcirc*mstantiality concerning the remarkable disappearance of the wife ofa well-known poet some three or four years ago."

Then came the details, without any mention of persons or places, and theparagraph concluded in this fashion. "It is not certain how the matterwill come into court, but rumor states that there is another lady in thecase, that the buried secret came to light in a most dramatic way, andthat evidence is forthcoming from very unexpected quarters."

The victim of this sorry piece of scandal gazed at the paper in a stateof stupefaction.

"Of course," said Graham, "it is not worth while to notice that rag.Half of what it says is clearly a downright invention. If only you couldget hold of the writer and thrash him, it might do some good; but theseliars are very hard to catch. As to the 'other lady,' there is nothingin that, is there?"

Both Graham and his wife looked anxiously at Walcott. They knew of hisattentions to Lettice, and were jealous of him on that account; and theyhad been discussing with each other the possibility of their friend'sname being dragged into a scandal.

Walcott was livid with rage.

"The cur!" he cried; "the lying hound! He has entirely fabricated thebeginning and the end of this paragraph. There is no ground whatever forsaying that a case may come into court. There is no 'lady in the case'at all. He has simply put on that tag to make his scrap of gossip worthanother half-crown. Is it not abominable, Graham?"

"It is something more than abominable. To my mind this sort of thing isone of the worst scandals of the present day. But I felt sure there wasnothing in it, and the few who guess that it refers to you will draw thesame conclusion. Don't think any more about it!"

"A lie sticks when it is well told," said Walcott, gloomily. "There areplenty of men who would rather believe it than the uninteresting truth."

But the Grahams, relieved on the point that mainly concerned them, couldnot see much gravity in the rest of the concoction, and Walcott hadscant pity from them. He went home disconsolate, little dreaming of thereception which awaited him there.

He occupied a floor in Montagu Place, Bloomsbury, consisting of threerooms: a drawing-room, a bed-room, and a small study; and, latterly,Mrs. Bundlecombe, whose acquaintance the reader has already made, hadused a bed-room at the top of the house.

Alan's mother and Mrs. Bundlecombe had been sisters. They were thedaughters of a well-to-do farmer in Essex, and, as will often happenwith sisters of the same family, brought up and cared for in a preciselysimilar way, they had exhibited a marked contrast in intellect, habitsof thought, and outward bearing. The one had absorbed the naturalrefinement of her mother, who had come of an old Huguenot family longago settled on English soil; the other was moulded in the robust andcoarse type of her father. Bessy was by preference the householdfactotum not to say the drudge of the family, with a turn for puddings,poultry, and the management of servants. Lucy clung to her mother, andbooks (though both were constant students of The Family Herald), andwas nothing if not romantic. Both found some one to love them, and both,as it happened, were married on the same day. Their parents had diedwithin a year of each other, and then the orphaned girls had come toterms with their lovers, and accepted a yoke of which they hadpreviously fought shy. Bessy's husband was a middle-aged bookseller inthe neighboring town of Thorley, who had admired her thrifty and homelyways, and had not been deterred by her want of intelligence. Lucy,though her dreams had soared higher, was fairly happy with aschoolmaster from Southampton, whose acquaintance she had made on aholiday at the seaside.

Alan, who was the only offspring of this latter union, had been wellbrought up, for his father's careful teaching and his mother'sgentleness and imagination supplied the complementary touches which arenecessary to form the basis of culture. The sisters had not driftedapart after their marriage so much as might have been expected. They hadvisited each other, and Alan, as he grew up, conceived a strongaffection for his uncle at Thorley, who—a childless man himself—gavehim delightful books, and showed him others still more delightful, whotalked to him on the subjects which chiefly attracted him, and was thefirst to fire his brain with an ambition to write and be famous. AuntBessy was tolerated for her husband's sake, but it was Uncle Samuel whodrew the lad to Thorley. In due time Alan began to teach in his father'sschool, and before he was twenty-one had taken his degree at LondonUniversity. Then his mother died, and shortly afterwards he was leftcomparatively alone in the world.

Now, school-keeping had never been a congenial occupation to Alan, whosepoetic temperament was chafed by the strict and ungrateful routine ofthe business. His father had been to the manner born, and things hadprospered with him, but Alan by himself would not have been able toachieve a like success. He knew this, and was proud of his incapacity;and he took the first opportunity of handing over the establishment to asuccessor. The money which he received for the transfer, added to thatwhich his father had left, secured him an income on which it waspossible to live, and to travel, and to print a volume of poems. For ashort time, at least, he lived as seemed best in his own eyes, and washappy.

When he was in England he still occasionally visited Thorley; and it wasthus that Milly Harrington came to know him by sight. Her grandmotherdid not know the Bundlecombes, but Milly came to the conclusion thatAlan was their son, and this was the tale which she had told to SydneyCampion, and which Sydney had repeated to his sister.

The last visit paid by Alan to Thorley was some time after his uncle'sdeath, and he had then confided to his aunt the story of his marriage,and of its unfortunate sequel. He happened to have learned that the manwith whom he had fought at Aix-les-Bains was back in London, and itseemed not improbable at that moment that he would soon hear news of hisfugitive wife. When he mentioned this to the widow—who was alreadytaking steps to sell her stock-in-trade—she immediately conceived theidea that her boy, as she called Alan, was in imminent danger, that thewife would undoubtedly turn up again, and that it was absolutelynecessary for his personal safety that he should have an intrepid andwatchful woman living in the same house with him. So she proposed thearrangement which now existed, and Alan had equably fallen in with herplan. He did not see much of her when she came to London, and there wasvery little in their tastes which was congenial or compatible; but shekept him straight in the matter of his weekly bills and his laundress,and he had no desire to quarrel with the way in which she managed theseaffairs for him.

When Alan came home after his call at the Grahams', weary anddisconsolate, with a weight on his mind of which he could not ridhimself, the door was opened by his aunt. Her white face startled him,and still more the gesture with which she pointed upstairs, in thedirection of their rooms. His heart sank at once, for he knew that theworst had befallen him.

"Hush!" said his aunt in a hoarse whisper, "do not go up. She is there.She came in the morning and would not go away."

"How is she? I mean what does she look like?"

He was very quiet; but he had leaned both hands upon the hall table, andwas gazing at his aunt with despairing eyes.

"Bad, my boy, bad! The worst that a woman can look, Oh, Alan, go away,and do not come near her. Fly, immediately, anywhere out of her reach!Let me tell her that you have gone to the other end of the world ratherthan touch her again. Oh, Alan, my sister's child!—go, go, and graceabounding be with you."

"No, Aunt Bessy, that will never do. I cannot run away. Why, don't yousee for one thing that this will prove what lies they have been tellingabout me? They said I was a murderer—" he laughed somewhat wildly as hespoke—"and here is the murdered woman. And they said there was evidencecoming to prove it. Perhaps she will tell them how it happened, and howshe came to life again. There, you see, there is good ineverything—even in ghosts that come to life again!"

Then his voice dropped, and the color went out of his face.

"What is she doing?" he asked, in a sombre tone.

"She went to sleep on the sofa in the drawing-room. She made me send outfor brandy, and began to rave at me in such a way that I was bound to doit, just to keep her quiet. And now she is in her drunken sleep!"

Alan shuddered. He knew what that meant.

"Come," he said: "let us go up. We cannot stand here any longer."

They went into his study, which was on the same floor as thedrawing-room, and here Alan sank upon a chair, looking doggedly at theclosed door which separated him from the curse of his existence. After awhile he got up, walked across the landing, and quietly opened the door.

There she lay, a repulsive looking woman, with the beauty of her youthcorrupted into a hateful mask of vice. She had thrown her arms above herhead and seemed to be fast asleep.

He returned to the study, shut the door again, and sat down at thetable, leaning his head upon his hands. Aunt Bessy came and sat besidehim—not to speak, but only that he might know he was not alone.

"That," he muttered to himself at last, "is my wife!"

The old woman at his side trembled, and laid her hand upon his arm.

"I am beginning to know her," he said, after another long pause. "Somemen discover the charms of their wives before marriage; others—thefools—find them out after. In the first year she was unfaithful to me.Then she shot me like a dog. What will the end be?"

"It can be nothing worse, my boy. She has ruined you already; she cannotdo it twice. Oh, why did you ever meet her! Why did not Heaven grantthat a good woman, like Lettice Campion——"

"Do not name her here!" he cried sharply. "Let there be something sacredin the world!"

He looked at his aunt as he spoke; but she did not return his gaze. Shewas sitting rigid in her chair, staring over his shoulder withaffrighted eyes. Alan turned round quickly, and started to his feet.

The woman in the other room had stealthily opened the door, and stoodthere, disheveled and half-dressed, with a cunning smile on her face.

"Alan, my husband!" she said, in French, holding out both hands to him,and reeling a step nearer, "here we are at last. I have longed for thisday, my friend—let us be happy. After so many misfortunes, to bereunited once again! Is it not charming?"

She spoke incoherently, running her words into one another, and yetdoing her best to be understood.

Alan looked at her steadily. "What do you want?" he asked. "Why have yousought me out?"

"My faith, what should I want? Money, to begin with."

"And then?"

"And then—justice! Bah! Am I not the daughter of Testard, who dispensedwith his own hand the justice of Heaven against his persecutors?"

"I have heard that before," Alan said. "It was at Aix-les-Bains. And youstill want justice!"

"Justice, my child. Was it not at Aix-les-Bains that you tried to killHenri de Hauteville? Was it not in the park hard by that you shot at me,and almost assassinated me? But, have no fear! All I ask is money—thehalf of your income will satisfy me. Pay me that, and you aresafe—unless my rage should transport me one of these fine days! Refuse,and I denounce you through the town, and play the game of scandal—as Iknow how to play it! Which shall it be?"

"You are my wife. Perhaps there is a remedy for that—now that you arehere, we shall see! But, meanwhile, you have a claim. To-morrow morningI Will settle it as you wish. You shall not be left to want."

"It is reasonable. Good-night, my friend! I am going to sleep again."

She went back into the drawing-room, laughing aloud, whilst Alan, afterdoing his best to console Mrs. Bundlecombe, departed in search of anight's lodging under another roof.

CHAPTER XIII.

SIR JOHN PYNSENT PROPHESIES.

On a sultry evening in the middle of August, a few choice spirits weregathered together in one of the smoking-rooms of the Oligarchy.

All but one were members of the Upper or Lower House, and they werelazily enjoying the unusual chance (for such busy men, and at such acritical period of the session) which enabled them to smoke their cigarsin Pall Mall before midnight on a Tuesday. Either there had been acount-out, or there was obstruction in the House, which was no immediateconcern of theirs, or they had made an arrangement with their Whip, andwere awaiting a telegram which did not come; but, whatever the reason,here they were, lazy and contented.

There was our old friend, Sir John Pynsent; and Charles Milton, Q.C.,certain to be a law officer or a judge, as soon as the Conservatives hadtheir chance; and Lord Ambermere; and the Honorable Tom Willoughby, whohad been trained at Harrow, Oxford, and Lord's Cricket Ground, and whowas once assured by his Balliol tutor that his wit would never make hima friend, nor his face an enemy. The last of the circle was BrookeDalton, of whom this narrative has already had something to record.

"So Tourmaline has thrown up the sponge, Pynsent?" Charles Milton began,after a short pause in the conversation. "Had enough of the Radical crewby this time!"

"Yes. Of course, he has been out of sympathy with them for a long while.So have twenty or thirty more, if the truth were known."

"As you know it!" Dalton interjected.

"Well, I know some things. The line of cleavage in the Liberal party istolerably well marked, if you have eyes to see."

"Why does Tourmaline leave the House? I hear he would stand an excellentchance if he went to Vanebury and started as an Independent."

"No doubt he would; but in a weak moment he pledged himself down therenot to do it."

"What hard lines!" said Tom Willoughby. "Just one pledge too many!"

"And so," continued Pynsent, without noticing the interruption, "we havehad to look out for another candidate. I settled the matter thisafternoon, and I am glad to say that Campion has promised to go down."

"Just the man for the job," said Milton, who looked upon Sydney as sureto be a formidable rival in Parliament, and more likely than any otheryoung Conservative to cut him out of the Solicitorship. "He has tongue,and he has tact—and he has something else, Sir John, which is worth thetwo put together—good friends!"

"We think very highly of Campion," said Sir John Pynsent, "and I am veryglad you confirm our opinion."

"I certainly think he will make his mark," said Dalton. "He comes of avery able family."

Dalton found himself recalling the appearance and words of Miss LetticeCampion, whom he had met so often of late at the house of his cousin,Mrs. Hartley, and who had made a deeper impression than ever on hismind. Impressions were somewhat fugitive, as a rule, on Brooke Dalton'smind; but he had come to admire Lettice with a fervor unusual with him.

"From all I can learn," said the baronet, "we ought to win the seat; andevery two new votes won in that way are worth half-a-dozen such as TomWilloughby's, for instance, whose loyalty is a stale and discountedfact."

"Oh, yes, I know that is how you regard us buttresses from the counties!I declare I will be a fifth party, and play for my own hand."

"It isn't in you, my boy," said Lord Ambermere; "I never knew you playfor your own hand yet."

"Then what am I in Parliament for, I should like to know?"

"For that very thing, of course; to learn how to do it." Willoughbylaughed good-naturedly. He did not object to be made a butt of by hisintimate friends.

"Seriously, Tom, there is plenty of work for a fellow like you to do."

It was Pynsent who spoke, and the others were always ready to lend himtheir ears when he evidently wanted to be listened to.

"The main thing is to get hold of the Whigs, and work at them quietlyand steadily until the time comes to strike our blow. The great Housesare safe, almost to a man. When it comes to choosing between Democracyrampant, with Gladstone at its head, assailing the most sacred elementsof the Constitution, and a great National Party, or Union of Parties,guarding Property and the Empire against attack, there is no question asto how they will make their choice. But if every Whig by birth or familyties came over to us at once, that would not suffice for our purpose.What we have to do is get at the—the Decent Men of the LiberalParty, such as the aldermen, the shipowners, the great contractors anddirectors of companies, and, of course, the men with a stake in theland. No use mentioning names—we all know pretty well who they are."

"And when you have got at them?" asked Willoughby.

"Why, lay yourself out to please them. Flatter them—show them all theattention in your power; take care that they see and hear what isthought in the highest quarters about the present tendency ofthings—about Ireland, about the Empire, about the G. O. M. Let themunderstand how they are counted on to decide the issue, and what theywould have to look for if we were once in power. Above all, ride themeasy! It is impossible that they should become Tories—don't dream ofsuch a thing. They are to be Liberals to the end of their days, butLiberals with an Epithet."

"Imperi——"

"No, no, no, no, my dear boy! Any number of noes. You must not live somuch in the past. The great idea to harp upon is Union. Union against acommon enemy. Union against Irish rebels. Union against Gladstone andthe Democracy; but draw this very mild until you feel that you are onsafe ground. Union is the word, and Unionist is the Epithet. LiberalUnionists. That is the inevitable phrase, and it will fit any crisisthat may arise."

"But suppose they dish us with the County franchise?"

"We must make a fight over that; but for my part I am not afraid offranchises. There is a Tory majority to be picked out of manhoodsuffrage, as England will surely discover some day. Possibly the Countyfranchise must be cleared out of the way before we get our chance. Whatwill that mean? Why, simply that Gladstone will think it necessary touse his first majority in order to carry some great Act of Confiscation;to make Hodge your master; or to filch a bit of your land for him; or tojoin hands with Parnell and cut Ireland adrift. Then we shall have ouropportunity; and that is what we have to prepare for."

Lord Ambermere, and Dalton, and Milton, Q.C., nodded their heads. Theyhad heard all this before; but to Willoughby it was new, for he had onlyjust begun to put himself into the harness of political life.

"How can we help ourselves," he said, "if the laborers have returned alot of new men, and there is a big Liberal majority?"

"That is the point, of course. Well, put it at the worst. Say thatGladstone has a majority of eighty, without Parnell, and say thatParnell can dispose of eighty. Say, again, that the Irishmen are readyto support Gladstone, in the expectation of favors to come. Now let theOld Man adopt either a Nationalist policy or an out-and-out Democraticpolicy, and assume that the Union for which we have been working takeseffect. In order to destroy Gladstone's majority of one hundred andsixty, at least eighty of his nominal followers must come over. Ofthese, the pure Whigs will count for upwards of forty, and another fortymust be forthcoming from the men I have just described. That is puttingit at the worst—and it is safer to do so. Now the question is, TomWilloughby, what can you do, and whom can you tackle? I don't want youto give me an answer, but only to think it over."

"Oh, if you only want thinking, I'm the beggar to think. But—supposeyou land your alderman, and he don't get re-elected in 1885 orthereabouts? That would be a frightful sell, don't you know!"

"Why, that is just where the beauty of the plan comes in! A seat in theHouse of Commons will always be more or less of a vested interest,however low the franchise may descend; and the men we are speaking ofare precisely those most likely to continue in the House. It isespecially so in the case of very wealthy men, who have made their ownmoney; for they look out for comfortable seats to begin with, and thennurse their constituencies by large charitable donations, so that thechances are all in their favor. At any rate this is the best way ofsetting to work—and who can tell whether the struggle may not come to acrisis in the present Parliament?"

"And you feel as confident as ever, Sir John, that this Union will beeffected?"

"My dear Lord Ambermere, I assure you I am more confident than ever, andif I were at liberty to say all I know, and to show my privatememoranda, you would be astonished at the progress which has been madein this Confederation of Society against the Destructive Elements."

It was a great comfort in listening to Sir John Pynsent, that one couldalways tell where he wanted to bring in his capital letters. And therewas no doubt at all about the uncial emphasis with which he spoke of theConfederation of Society against the Destructive Elements.

At this moment Sydney Campion came in and the conclave was broken up.

Sydney was full of excitement about his contest at Vanebury, and hereceived the congratulations and good wishes of his friends with muchcomplacency. He was already the accepted Conservative candidate, beingnominated from the Oligarchy Club in response to an appeal from thelocal leaders. He had even been recommended by name in a letter from Mr.Tourmaline, the retiring member, whose secession to the Conservativeparty had demoralized his former friends in the constituency, and filledhis old opponents with joy. He was going down the next day to begin hiscanvass, and to make his first speech; and he had come to the Clubto-night for a final consultation with Sir John Pynsent.

This Vanebury election would not, there was reason to think, be so muchaffected by money-bags as the election at Dormer was supposed to be,sixteen or eighteen months before. Yet money was necessary, and Sydneydid not on this occasion refuse the aid which was pressed upon him. Hewas responding to the call of his party, at a moment which might be(though it was not) very inconvenient for him; and, having put down thefoot of dignity last year, he could now hold out the hand of expediencywith a very good grace.

So he took his money, and went down, and before he had been in Vaneburysix hours the Conservatives there understood that they had a very strongcandidate, who would give a good account of himself, and who deserved tobe worked for.

His personal presence was imposing, Sydney was above the middle height,erect and broad-shouldered, with a keen and handsome, rather florid,face, a firm mouth, and penetrating steel-blue eyes. He was careful ofhis appearance, too, and from his well-cut clothes and his well-trimmedbrown hair, beard, and whiskers, it was easy to see that there wasnothing of the slipshod about this ambitious young emissary from theOligarchy Club.

In manner he was very persuasive. He had a frank and easy way ofaddressing an audience, which he had picked up from a populartribune—leaning one shoulder towards them at an angle of about eightydegrees, and rounding his periods with a confidential smile, whichseemed to assure his hearers that they were as far above the averageaudience as he was above the average candidate. He did not feel theslightest difficulty in talking for an hour at a stretch, and two orthree times on the same day; and, indeed, it would have been strange ifhe had, considering his Union experience at Cambridge and his practiceat the Bar.

Sydney won upon all classes at Vanebury, and the sporting gentlemen inthat thriving borough were soon giving odds upon his chance of success.The Liberals were for the most part careless and over-confident. Theirman had won every election for twenty years past, and they could notbelieve that this Tory lawyer was destined to accomplish what all thelocal magnates had failed in attempting. But a few of the wisest amongstthem shook their heads, for they knew too well that "Tourmaline theTraitor and Turncoat" (as the posters described him) was by no meansalone in his discontent with the tendencies of the party.

The attention of the country was fixed upon the Vanebury election, andSydney Campion had become at once the observed of all observers. He knewit, and made the most of the situation, insisting in his speeches thatthis was a test-election, which would show what the country thought ofthe government, of its bribes to ignorance and its capitulation torebellion, of its sacrifice of our honor abroad and our interests athome. He well knew what the effect of this would be on his friends inLondon, and how he would have earned their gratitude if he could carrythe seat on these lines.

On the day before the poll, Sir John Pynsent came to Vanebury, to attendthe last of the public meetings.

"Admirably done, so far!" he said, as he grasped Sydney's hand at thestation. "How are things looking?"

"It is a certain win!" said Sydney. "No question about it."

And a win it was, such as any old campaigner might have been proud of.The numbers as declared by the returning officer were:

At the last election Tourmaline had had a majority of six hundred overhis Conservative opponent, so that there had been a turnover of aboutfour hundred voters. And no one doubted that a large number of these hadmade up their minds to turn since Campion had begun his canvass.

This was a complete success for Sydney. He was now Mr. Campion, M.P.,with both feet on the ladder of ambition. Congratulations poured in uponhim from all sides, and from that moment he was recognized by everybodyas one of the coming men of the Conservative party.

CHAPTER XIV.

SYDNEY MAKES A MISTAKE.

There was a social side to Sydney's success which he was not slow toappreciate. A poor and ambitious man, bent on climbing the ladder ofpromotion, he was willing to avail himself of every help which came inhis way. And Sir John Pynsent was good-naturedly ready to give him ahelping hand.

During the past season he had found himself welcome in houses where thebest society of the day was wont to congregate. He had severalinvitations for the autumn to places where it was considered adistinction to be invited; and, being a man of much worldly wisdom, hewas disposed to be sorry that he had made arrangements to go abroad fortwo or three months. He was vague in detailing his plans to his friends;but in his own mind he was never vague, and he knew what he meant to doand where he was going to spend the vacation well enough, although hedid not choose to take club acquaintances into his confidence.

But one invitation, given by Sir John Pynsent, for the Sunday subsequentto his election—or rather, from Saturday to Monday—he thought itexpedient as well as pleasant to accept. Vanebury was a very few milesdistant from St. John's country-house, and when the baronet, in capitalspirits over his friend's success, urged him to run over to Culverleyfor a day or two, he could not well refuse.

"I am going for the Sunday," Sir John said confidentially, "but my wifedoesn't expect me to stay longer until the session is over. I run downevery week, you know, except when she's in town; but she always leavesLondon in June. My sister is under her wing, and she declares that latehours and the heat of London in July are very bad for girls. Of course,I'm glad that she looks after my sister so well."

Sydney recognized the fact that he had never before been taken into SirJohn's confidence with respect to his domestic affairs.

"Lady Pynsent asked me the other day whether I could not get you to comedown to us," Sir John continued. "I am always forgetting her messages;but if you can spare a couple of days now, we shall be very glad to haveyou. Indeed, you must not refuse," he said, hospitably. "And you oughtto see something of the county."

Sydney had met Lady Pynsent in town. She was a large, showy-lookingwoman, with fair hair and a very aquiline nose; a woman who liked toentertain, and who did it well. He had dined at the Wentworths' housemore than once, and he began to search in his memory for any face orfigure which should recall Sir John's sister to his mind. But he couldnot remember her, and concluded, therefore, that she was in no wayremarkable.

"I think I have not met Miss Pynsent," he took an opportunity of saying,by way of an attempt to refresh his memory.

"No? I think you must have seen her somewhere. But she did not go outmuch this spring: she is rather delicate, and not very fond of society.She's my half-sister, you know, considerably younger than I am—came outthe season before last."

Another acquaintance of Sydney's privately volunteered the informationlater in the day that Miss Pynsent had sixty thousand pounds of her own,and was reputed to be clever.

"I hate clever women," Sydney said, with an inward growl at his sisterLettice, whose conduct had lately given him much uneasiness. "A cleverwoman and an heiress! Ye gods, how very ugly she must be."

His friend laughed in a meaning manner, and wagged his headmysteriously. But what he would have said remained unspoken, because atthat moment Sir John rejoined them.

Sydney flattered himself that he was not impressible, or at least thatthe outward trappings of wealth and rank did not impress him. But he wasdistinctly pleased to find that Sir John's carriage and pair, which metthem at the station, was irreproachable, and that Culverley was a veryfine old house, situated in the midst of a lovely park and approached byan avenue of lime-trees, which, Sir John informed him, was one of theoldest in the country. Sydney had an almost unduly keen sense of theadvantage which riches can bestow, and he coveted social almost as muchas professional standing for himself. It was, perhaps, natural that theson of a poor man, who had been poor all his life, and owed his successto his own brains and his power of continued work, should look a littleenviously on the position so readily attained by men of inferior mentalcalibre, but of inherited and ever-increasing influence, like Sir JohnPynsent and his friends. Sydney never truckled: he was perfectlyindependent in manner and in thought; but the good things of the worldwere so desirable to him that for some of them—as he confessed tohimself with a half-laugh at his own weakness—he would almost have soldhis soul.

They arrived at Culverley shortly before dinner, and Sydney had time forvery few introductions before going to the dining-room. He was surprisedto find a rather large party present. There were several London men andwomen whom he knew already, and who were staying in the house, and therewas a contingent of county people, who had only come to dinner. The newmember for Vanebury was made much of, especially by the county folk; andas Sydney was young, handsome, and a good talker, he soon made himselfpopular amongst them. For himself, he did not find the occasioninteresting, save as a means of social success. Most of the men weredull, and the women prim and proper: there were not more than two prettygirls in the whole party.

"That's the heiress, I suppose," thought Sydney, hearing a spectacled,sandy-haired young woman who looked about five-and-twenty addressed asMiss Pynsent. "Plain, as I thought. There's not a woman here worthlooking at, except Mrs. George Murray. I'll talk to her after dinner.Not one of them is a patch on little Milly. I wonder how she would look,dressed up in silks and satins. Pynsent knows how to choose his wine andhis cook better than his company, I fancy."

But his supercilious contempt for the county was well veiled, and thepeople who entered into conversation with Sydney Campion, the new M.P.for Vanebury, put him down as a very agreeable man, as well as a risingpolitician.

His own position was pleasant enough. He was treated with manifestdistinction—flattered, complimented, well-nigh caressed. In thedrawing-room after dinner, Sydney, surrounded by complacent andadulating friends, really experienced some of the most agreeablesensations of his life. He was almost sorry when the group graduallymelted away, and conversation was succeeded by music. He had nevercultivated his taste for music; but he had a naturally fine ear, uponwhich ordinary drawing-room performances jarred sadly. But, standingwith his arms folded and his back against the wall, in the neighborhoodof Mrs. George Murray, the prettiest woman in the room, he becamegradually aware that Lady Pynsent's musicians were as admirable in theirway as her cook. She would no more put up with bad singing than badsongs; and she probably put both on the same level. She did not askamateurs to sing or play; but she had one or two professionals stayingin the house, who were "charmed" to perform for her; and she had secureda well-known "local man" to play accompaniments. In the case of one atleast of the professionals, Lady Pynsent paid a very handsome fee forhis services; but this fact was not supposed to transpire to the generalpublic.

When the professionals had done their work there was a little pause,succeeded by the slight buzz that spoke of expectation. "Miss Pynsent isgoing to play," Mrs. Murray said to Sydney, putting up her long-handledeyeglass and looking expectantly towards the grand piano. "Oh, now, weshall have a treat."

"Sixty thousand pounds," Sydney said to himself with a smile; but hewould not for the world have said it aloud. "We must put up with badplaying from its fortunate possessor, I suppose." And he turned his headwith resignation in the direction of the little inner drawing-room, inwhich the piano stood. This room should, perhaps, be described as analcove, rather than a separate apartment: it was divided from the greatdrawing-room by a couple of shallow steps that ran across its wholewidth, so that a sort of natural stage was formed, framed above and oneither side by artistically festooned curtains of yellow brocade.

"Isn't it effective?" Mrs. Murray murmured to him, with a wave of hereyeglass to the alcove. "So useful for tableaux and plays, you know.Awfully clever of Lady Pynsent to use the room in that way. There usedonce to be folding doors, you know—barbarous, wasn't it? Who woulduse doors when curtains could be had?"

"Doors are useful sometimes," said Sydney. But he was not in the leastattentive either to her words or to his own: he was looking towards thealcove.

Miss Pynsent—the young woman with sandy locks and freckled face, onwhich a broad, good-humored smile was beaming—was already seated at thepiano and turning over her music. Presently she began to play, andSydney, little as was his technical knowledge of the art, acknowledgedat once that he had been mistaken, and that Miss Pynsent, in spite ofbeing an heiress, played remarkably well. But the notes were apparentlythose of an accompaniment only—was she going to sing? Evidently not,for at that moment another figure slipped forward from the shadows ofthe inner drawing-room, and faced the audience.

This was a girl who did not look more than eighteen or nineteen: aslight fragile creature in white, with masses of dusky hair piled highabove a delicate, pallid, yet unmistakably beautiful, face. The largedark eyes, the curved, sensitive mouth, the exquisite modelling of thefeatures, the graceful lines of the slightly undeveloped figure, thecharming pose of head and neck, the slender wrist bent round the violinwhich she held, formed a picture of almost ideal loveliness. Sydneycould hardly refrain from an exclamation of surprise and admiration. Hepiqued himself on knowing a little about everything that was worthknowing, and he had a considerable acquaintance with art, so that thefirst thing which occurred to him was to seek for a parallel to thefigure before him in the pictures with which he was acquainted. She wasnot unlike a Sir Joshua, he decided; and yet—in the refinement of everyfeature, and a certain sweetness and tranquillity of expression—shereminded him of a Donatello that he had seen in one of his later visitsto Florence or Sienna. He had always thought that if he were ever richhe would buy pictures; and he wondered idly whether money would buy theDonatello of which the white-robed violin-player reminded him.

One or two preliminary tuning notes were sounded, and then the violinistbegan to play. Her skill was undoubted, but the feeling and pathos whichshe threw into the long-drawn sighing notes were more remarkable eventhan her skill. There was a touch of genius in her performance whichheld the listeners enthralled. When she had finished, she disappearedbehind the curtains as rapidly as she had emerged from the shadows ofthe dimly-lighted inner room; and in the pause that followed, theopening and shutting of a door was heard.

"Who is she?" said Sydney to his neighbor.

"Oh, Miss Pynsent, of course," said Mrs. Murray. "Delightful, isn'tshe?"

"I don't mean Miss Pynsent," said Sydney, in some confusion of mind; "Imean——"

But Mrs. Murray had turned to somebody else, and scraps of conversationfloated up to Sydney's ears, and gave him, as he thought, theinformation that he was seeking.

"So devoted to Lady Pynsent's children! Now that little Frankie has acold, they say she won't leave him night or day. They had the greatesttrouble to get her down to play to-night. Awfully lucky for LadyPynsent," and then the voices were lowered, but Sydney heard somethingabout "the last governess," and "a perfect treasure," which seemed toreveal the truth.

"The governess! A violin-playing governess," he thought, with a mixtureof scorn and relief, which he did not altogether understand in himself."Ah! that's the reason she did not come down to dinner. She is a verypretty girl, and no doubt Lady Pynsent keeps her in the nursery orschoolroom as much as possible. I should like to see her again. Perhaps,as to-morrow is Sunday, she may come down with the children."

It will be evident to the meanest capacity that Sydney was making anabsurd mistake as to the identity of the violinist. The mostunsophisticated novel-reader in the world would cast contempt andridicule on the present writers if they, in their joint capacity,introduced the young lady in white as actually Lady Pynsent's governess.To avoid misunderstanding on the point, therefore, it may as well bepremised that she was in fact Miss Anna Pynsent, Sir John's half sister,and that Mr. Campion's conclusions respecting her position werealtogether without foundation.

Having, however, made up his mind about her, Sydney took little furtherinterest in the matter. One or two complimentary remarks were made inhis hearing about Miss Pynsent's playing; but he took them to apply tothe sandy-haired Miss Pynsent whom he had seen at dinner, and only madea silent cynical note of the difference with which the violinist and theaccompanist were treated. He never flew in the face of the worldhimself, and therefore he did not try to readjust the balance ofcompliment: he simply acquiesced in the judgment of the critics, andthought of the Donatello.

A long conference in the smoking-room on political matters put music andmusicians out of his head; and when he went to sleep, about two o'clockin the morning, it was to dream, if he dreamt at all, of his maidenspeech in Parliament, and that elevation to the woolsack which hismother was so fond of prophesying.

Sydney was an early riser, and breakfast on Sundays at Culverley wasalways late. He was tempted by the beauty of the morning to go for astroll in the gardens; and thence he wandered into the park, where hebreathed the fresh cool air with pleasure, and abandoned himself, asusual, to a contemplation of the future. The park was quickly crossed,for Sydney scarcely knew how to loiter in his walking, more than in anyother of his actions; and he then plunged into a fir plantation whichfringed a stretch of meadow-land, now grey and drenched with dew andshining in the morning sun. Even to Sydney's unimaginative mind thescene had its charm, after the smoke of London and the turmoil of thelast few days: he came to the edge of the plantation, leaned his elbowson the topmost rail of a light fence, and looked away to the bluedistance, where the sheen of water and mixture of light and shade were,even in his eyes, worth looking at. A co*ck crowed in a neighboringfarmyard, and a far-away clock struck seven. It was earlier than he hadthought.

Two or three figures crossing the meadow attracted his attention. Firstcame a laboring man with a pail. Sydney watched him aimlessly until hewas out of sight. Then a child—a gentleman's child, judging from hisdress and general appearance—a boy of six or seven, who seemed to beflying tumultuously down the sloping meadow to escape from his governessor nurse. The field ran down to a wide stream, which was crossed at onepoint by a plank, at another by stepping-stones; and it was towardsthese stepping-stones that the boy directed his career. Behind him, butat considerable distance, came the slender figure of a young woman, whoseemed to be pursuing him. The child reached the stream, and there stoodlaughing, his fair curls floating in the wind, his feet firmly plantedon one of the stones that had been thrown into the water.

Sydney was by no means inclined to play knight-errant to children andattendant damsels, and he would probably have continued to watch thelittle scene without advancing, had not the girl, halting distressfullyto call the truant, chanced to turn her face so that the strong morninglight fell full upon it. Why, it was the violinist! Or was he deceivedby some chance resemblance? Sydney did not think so, but it behoved himinstantly to go and see.

Indeed, before he reached the stream, his help seemed to be needed. Theboy, shouting and dancing, had missed his footing and fallen headlong inthe stream, which, fortunately, was very shallow and not very swift.Sydney quickened his pace to a run, and the girl did the same; butbefore either of them reached its bank the boy had scrambled out again,and was sitting on the further side with a sobered countenance and in avery drenched condition.

"Oh, Jack!" said the girl reproachfully, "how could you?"

"I want some mushrooms. I said I would get them," Jack answered,sturdily.

"You must come back at once. But—how are you to get over?" she said,contemplating the slippery stones with some dismay. For Jack's fall haddisplaced more than one of them, and there was now a great gap betweenthe stones in the deepest part of the little stream.

"Can I be of any assistance?" said Sydney, availing himself of hisopportunity to come forward.

She turned and looked at him inquiringly, the color deepening a littlein her pale face.

"I am staying at Culverley," he said, in an explanatory tone. "I had thepleasure of hearing you play last night."

"You are Mr. Campion, I think?" she said. "Yes, I shall be very glad ofyour help. I need not introduce myself, I see. Jack has been verynaughty: he ran away from his nurse this morning, and I said that Iwould bring him back. And now he has fallen into the brook."

"We must get him back," said Sydney, rather amused at her matter-of-facttone. "I will go over for him."

"No, I am afraid you must not do that," she answered. "There is a planka little further down the stream; we will go there."

But Sydney was across the water by this time. He lifted the childlightly in his arms and strode back across the stones, scarcely wettinghimself at all. Then he set the boy down at her side.

"There!" he said, "that is better than going down to the plank. Now,young man, you must run home again as fast as you can, or you will catchcold."

"I am very much obliged to you," said the young lady, looking at him, ashe thought, rather earnestly, but without a smile. "Jack, you know, isSir John Pynsent's eldest son."

"So I divined. I think he would get home more quickly if I took one ofhis hands and you took the other, and we hurried him up the hill; don'tyou think so?"

He had no interest at all in Jack, but he wanted to talk with thisdark-eyed violin-playing damsel. Sydney had indulged in a good deal offlirtation in his time, and he had no objection to whiling away an hourin the company of any pretty girl; and yet there was some sort ofdignity about this girl's manner which warned him to be a little uponhis guard.

"You are member for Vanebury," she said, rather abruptly, when they haddragged little Jack some distance up the grassy slope.

"I have that honor."

"I hope," she said, with a mixture of gentleness and decision which tookhim by surprise, "that you mean to pay some attention to the conditionof the working-classes in Vanebury?"

"Well, I don't know; is there any special reason?"

"They are badly paid, badly housed, over-worked and under-educated," shesaid, succinctly; "and if the member for Vanebury would bestir himselfin their cause, I think that something might be done."

"Even a member is not omnipotent, I'm afraid."

"No, but he has influence. You are bound to use it for good," shereturned.

Sydney raised his eyebrows. He was not used to being lectured on hisduties, and this young lady's remarks struck him as slightlyimpertinent. He glanced at her almost as if he would have told her so;but she looked so very pretty and so very young that he could no morecheck her than he could have checked a child.

"You have very pretty scenery about here," he said, by way of changingthe conversation.

The girl's face drooped at once; she did not answer.

"What an odd young woman she is," said Sydney to himself. "What an oddgoverness for the children!"

Suddenly she looked up, with a very sweet bright look. "I am afraid Ioffended you," she said, deprecatingly. "I did not mean to say anythingwrong. I am so much interested in the Vanebury working people, althoughwe are here some miles distant from them, that when I heard you werecoming I made up my mind at once that I would speak to you."

"You have—friends, perhaps, in that district?" said Sydney.

"N—no—not exactly," she said, hesitating. "But I know a good dealabout Vanebury."

"Nan goes there very often, don't you, Nan?" said little Jack, suddenlyinterposing. "And papa says you do more harm than good."

"Nan" colored high. "You should not repeat what papa says," sheanswered, severely. "You have often been told that it is naughty."

"But it's true," Jack murmured, doggedly. And Sydney could not helpsmiling at the discomfited expression on "Nan's" face.

However, he was—or thought he was—quite equal to the occasion. Hechanged the subject, and began talking adroitly about her tastes andoccupations. Nan soon became at ease with him and answered his questionscheerfully, although she seemed puzzled now and then by the strain ofcompliment into which he had a tendency to fall. The house was reachedat last; and Jack snatched his hands from those of his companions, andran indoors. Nan halted at a side-door, and now spoke with the sweetearnestness that impressed Sydney even more than her lovely face.

"You have been very kind to us, Mr. Campion. I don't know how to thankyou."

It was on the tip of Sydney's tongue to use some badinage such as hewould have done, in his light and easy fashion, to a servant-maid orshop-girl. But something in her look caused him, luckily, to refrain. Hewent as near as he dared to the confines of love-making.

"Give me the flower you wear," he said, leaning a little towards her."Then I shall at least have a remembrance of you."

His tone and his look were warmer than he knew. She shrank back, visiblysurprised, and rather offended. Before he could add a word she hadquietly taken the rosebud from her dress, handed it to him, anddisappeared into the house, closing the door behind her in a somewhatuncompromising way. Sydney was left alone on the gravelled path, with ahalf-withered rosebud in his hand, and a consciousness of having madehimself ridiculous.

"She seems to be rather a little vixen," he said to himself, as hestrolled up to his rooms to make some change in his clothes, which weredamper than he liked. "What business has a pretty little governess totake that tone? Deuced out of place, I call it. I wonder if she'll bedown to breakfast. She has very fetching eyes."

But she was not down to breakfast, and nothing was said about her, soSydney concluded that her meals were taken in the schoolroom with thechildren.

"Such a pity—poor dear Nan has a headache," he heard Lady Pynsentsaying by and by. "I hoped that she would come down and give us somemusic this evening, but she says she won't be able for it."

Sydney consoled himself with pretty Mrs. Murray.

"The fair violinist is out of tune, it seems," he said, in the course ofan afternoon stroll with the new charmer.

"Who? Oh, Nan Pynsent."

"Pynsent? No. At least, I don't mean the pianiste: I mean the young ladywho played the violin last night."

"Yes, Nan Pynsent, Sir John's half-sister. The heiress—and some peoplesay the beauty of the county. Why do you look so stupefied, Mr.Campion?"

"I did not know her, that was all. I thought—who, then, is the lady whoplayed the piano?"

"Mary Pynsent, a cousin. You surely did not think that she was theheiress?"

"Why did not Sir John's sister come down to dinner?" said Sydney, waxingangry.

"She has a craze about the children. Their governess is away, and sheinsists on looking after them. She is rather quixotic, you know; full ofgrand schemes for the future, and what she will do when she comes ofa*ge. Her property is all in Vanebury, by the bye: you must let her talkto you about the miners if you want to win her favor. She will be of agein a few months."

"I shall not try to win her favor."

"Dear me, how black you look, Mr. Campion. Are you vexed that you havenot made her acquaintance?"

"Not at all," said Sydney, clearing his brow. "How could I have lookedat her when you were there?"

The banal compliment pleased Mrs. Murray, and she began to talk oftrivial matters in her usual trivial strain. Sydney scarcely listened:for once he was disconcerted, and angry with himself. He knew that hewould have talked in a very different strain if he had imagined for onemoment that Jack's companion was Miss Pynsent. He had not, perhaps,definitely said anything that he could regret; but he was sorry forthe whole tone of his conversation. Would Miss Pynsent repeat hisobservations, he wondered, to her sister-in-law? Sydney did not oftenput himself in a false position, but he felt that his tact had failedhim now. He returned to the house in an unusually disturbed state ofmind; and a sentence which he overheard in the afternoon did not add tohis tranquillity.

He was passing along a corridor that led, as he thought, to his ownroom; but the multiplicity of turnings had bewildered him, and he wasobliged to retrace his steps. While doing so, he passed Lady Pynsent'sboudoir. Although he was unconscious of this fact, his attention wasattracted by the sound of a voice from within. Nan Pynsent's voice wasnot loud, but it had a peculiarly penetrating quality; and her wordsfollowed Sydney down the corridor with disagreeable distinctness.

"Selina," she was saying—Selina was Lady Pynsent's name—"I thought yousaid that Mr. Campion was a gentleman!"

"Well, dear——" Lady Pynsent was beginning; but Sydney, quickening hissteps, heard no more. He was now in a rage, and disposed to vote MissPynsent the most unpleasant, conceited young person of his acquaintance.That anybody should doubt his "gentilhood" was an offence not to belightly borne. He was glad to remember that he was leaving Culverleynext day, and he determined that he would rather avoid the femalePynsents than otherwise when they came to town. He could not yet dowithout Sir John, and he was vexed to think that these women should haveany handle—however trifling—against him. He thanked his stars that hehad not actually made love to Miss Anna Pynsent; and he hurried back totown next morning by the earliest train, without setting eyes on heragain. In town, amidst the bustle of political and social duties, hesoon forgot the unpleasant impression that this little episode of hisvisit to Culverly had left upon his mind.

He went to Maple Cottage on the very day of his return to London, tohear what his mother and sister had to say about his success. And hetook an opportunity also of telling Milly Harrington something of theglories which he had achieved, and the privilege which he enjoyed inbeing able to absent himself from his native country for two or threemonths at a stretch.

About the end of August, Lettice had to look out for a new maid. Millywent away, saying that she had heard of a better place. She had obtainedit without applying to her mistress for a character. She had not been soattentive to her duties of late as to make Lettice greatly regret herdeparture; but remembering old Mrs. Harrington's fears for hergrand-daughter, Lettice made many inquiries of Milly as to her newplace. She received, as she thought, very satisfactory replies, althoughshe noticed that the girl changed color strangely, and looked confusedand anxious when she was questioned. And when the time came for her togo, Milly wept bitterly, and was heard to express a wish that she hadresolved to stay with Miss Lettice after all.

CHAPTER XV.

SOME UNEXPECTED MEETINGS.

Two or three months had passed since Alan's wife came back to him.

He had arranged, with the aid of a lawyer, to allow her a certainregular income—with the consequence to himself that he had been obligedto give up his floor in Montagu Place and settle down in the humbler anddingier refuge of Alfred Place. Meanwhile, he had taken steps to collectsufficient evidence for a divorce. He had not yet entered his suit, andhe felt pretty certain that when he did so, and Cora was made aware ofit in the usual manner, she would find some way of turning round andbiting him.

But the desire to be free from his trammels had taken possession of himwith irresistible force, and he was prepared to risk the worst that shecould do to him in order to accomplish it. Even as it was, he had reasonto think that she was not true to her undertaking not to slander ormolest him so long as she received her allowance. He had twice receivedoffensive post-cards, and though there was nothing to prove from whomthey came, he could have very little doubt that they had been posted byher in moments when jealous rage or intoxication had got the better ofher prudence.

The scandal which began to fasten upon his name after Sydney Campion hadheard Brooke Dalton's story in the smoking-room of the Oligarchy wasalmost forgotten again, though it lurked in the memory of many athoughtless retailer of gossip, ready to revive on the slightestprovocation.

More for Lettice's sake than his own, he lived in complete retirement,and scarcely ever left his lodgings except to spend a few hours in theMuseum Reading Room. In this way he avoided the chance of meeting her,as well as the chance of encountering his wretched wife, concerningwhose mode of life he had only too trustworthy evidence from the lawyerto whom he had committed his interests.

Then there came a day when he could not deny himself the pleasure ofattending a conversazione for which tickets had been sent him by an oldfriend. The subject to be discussed in the course of the evening was onein which he was specially interested, and his main object in going wasthat he might be made to forget for a few hours the misery of hispresent existence, which the last of Cora's post-cards had painfullyimpressed upon him.

He had not been there more than half-an-hour, when, moving with thecrowd from one room to another, he suddenly came face to face withLettice and the Grahams. All of them were taken by surprise, and therewas a little constraint in their greeting. Perhaps Lettice was the leastdisturbed of the four—for the rest of them thought chiefly of her,whilst she thought of Alan's possible embarrassment, which she did herbest to overcome, with the ready tact of an unselfish woman.

Alan had grown doubly sensitive of late, and his one idea had been thatLettice must be preserved from all danger of annoyance, whether by theabandoned woman who had so amply proved the shrewdness of her malice, orby himself—who had no less amply proved his weakness. In puregenerosity of mind he would have contented himself with a few gravewords, and passed on. But it seemed to her as if he had not the courageto remain, taking for granted her resentment at his unfortunate letter.To her pure mind there was not enough, even in that letter, to causecomplete estrangement between them. At any rate, it was not in her toimpose the estrangement by any display of anger or unkindness. Thesublime courage of innocence was upon her as she spoke.

"See," she said, "the professor is going to begin. The people are takingtheir seats, and if we do not follow their example all the chairs willbe filled, and we shall have to stand for an hour. Let us sit down."

She just glanced at Alan, so that he could regard himself as included inthe invitation; and, nothing loth, he sat down beside her. The lecturerdid not start for another ten minutes, and Lettice occupied the intervalby comparing notes with Clara Graham: for these two dearly loved agossip in which they could dissect the characters of the men they knew,and the appearance of the women they did not know. It was a perfectlyharmless practice as indulged in by them, for their criticism was notmalicious. The men, after one or two commonplaces, relapsed intosilence, and Alan was able to collect his thoughts, and at the same timeto realize how much happiness the world might yet have in store for him,since this one woman, who knew the worst of him, did not think itnecessary to keep him at a distance.

Then the professor began to speak. He was a small and feeble man, wheezyin his delivery, and, it must be confessed, rather confused in hisideas. He had been invited to make plain to an audience, presumably wellread and instructed, the historical bearings of certain recentdiscoveries in Egypt; and the task was somewhat difficult for him. Therewere seven theories, all more or less plausible, which had been startedby as many learned Egyptologists; and this worthy old gentleman, thoughquite as competent to give an opinion, and stick to it, as any of therest, was so modest and self-depreciatory that he would not go furtherthan to state and advocate each theory in turn, praising its author, anddefending him against the other six. After doing this, he was bold toconfess that he did not altogether agree with any of the seven. He wason the point of launching his own hypothesis, which would have beenincompatible with all the rest, when his heart failed him. He thereforeended by inviting discussion, and sat down, blushing unseen beneath hisyellow skin, exactly as he used to blush half a century ago when he wascalled up to construe a piece of Homer. Three of the seven Egyptologistswere present, and they now rose, one after another, beginning with theoldest. Each of them stated his own theory, showing much deference tothe lecturer as "the greatest living authority" on this particularsubject; and then, after politely referring to the opinions of the tworival savants whom he saw in the audience, became humorous and sarcasticat the expense of the absent four.

But, as the absent are always wrong in comparison with the present, soyouth is always wrong in comparison with age. The youngestEgyptologist—being in truth a somewhat bumptious man, fresh from Oxfordby way of Cairo and Alexandria—had presumed to make a little feint ofsword-play with one of the lecturer's diffident remarks. This brought upthe other two who had already spoken; and they withered that young manwith infinite satisfaction to themselves and the male part of theaudience.

The victim, however, was not young and Oxford-bred for nothing. He roseto deprecate their wrath. He was not, he said, contesting the opinion ofthe lecturer, whose decision on any detail of the matter underconsideration he would take as absolutely final. But he pointed out thatthe opinion he had ventured to examine was expressed by his friend, Dr.A., in a paper read before the Diatribical Society, six weeks before,and it was manifestly at variance with the canon laid down by hisfriend, Dr. B., as a fundamental test of knowledge and common-sense inthe domain of Egyptology.

Thus discord was sown between Dr. A. and Dr. B., and the seed instantlysprang up, and put an end to all that was useful or amicable in thatevening's discussion.

Yet everyone agreed that it had been a most interesting conference, andthe audience dispersed in high good humor.

It took nearly a quarter of an hour to clear the crowded rooms, and asAlan had offered his arm to Lettice, in order to guide her through thecrush, he had an opportunity of speaking to her, which he turned to goodaccount.

"I am glad to see that your brother is in Parliament," he said.

"Yes; of course we were pleased."

"He will make his mark—has made it already, indeed. He is veryeloquent; I have heard him speak more than once. He is a most skillfuladvocate; if I were ever in trouble I would rather have him on my sidethan against me."

He was speaking lightly, thinking it must please her to hear her brotherpraised. But she did not answer his last remark.

"I hope Mrs. Campion is well?"

"Not very well, unfortunately. I am afraid she grows much weaker, andher sight is beginning to fail."

"That must be very trying. I know what that means to an old lady who hasnot many ways of occupying herself. I was making the same observation athome this morning."

"With regard to your mother?"

"Oh, no. My mother died when I was little more than a boy. But I have anaunt living with me, who must be nearly seventy years old, and she wastelling me to-day that she could scarcely see to read."

"Oh," said Lettice, with a rush of blood to her face, "is Mrs.Bundlecombe your aunt?"

"Yes," he said, looking rather surprised, "you spoke as if you knew her.Did you ever see Mrs. Bundlecombe?"

"I—I had heard her name."

"At Angleford? Or Thorley?"

"Of course, I heard of Mr. Bundlecombe there."

"Is it not strange," Alan said, after a short pause, "that I never knewyou came from Angleford until that morning when I brought you one ofyour father's books? Then I asked my aunt all about you. I was never atAngleford in my life, and if I had heard the rector's name as a boy Idid not recollect it."

"Yes, it is strange. One is too quick at coming to conclusions. I haveto beg your pardon, Mr. Walcott, for I really did think that—that Mrs.Bundlecombe was your mother, and that——"

"That I was not going under my own name? That I was the son of abookseller, and ashamed of it?"

He could not help showing a trace of bitterness in his tone. At anyrate, she thought there was bitterness. She looked at him humbly—forLettice was destitute of the pride which smaller natures use inself-defence when they are proved to be in the wrong—and said,

"Yes, I am afraid I thought so at the moment."

"At what moment?"

"Do not ask me! I am very sorry."

"And glad to find that you were mistaken?"

"I am very glad."

He tried to meet her eyes, but she did not look at him again.

"It was my own fault," he said. "I was going to mention my connectionwith your father's bookseller that morning; but—you know—my feelingsran away with me. I told you things more to my discredit, did I not?"

"I remember nothing to your discredit. Certainly what you have told menow is not to your discredit."

"If you had met my aunt in London, of course you would have known. Butshe does not visit or entertain anyone. You knew she was in London?"

"Yes."

"But you never saw her?"

"Yes, once."

"Oh, I did not know that. When?"

"A long time ago. It was quite a casual and unimportant meeting. Oh, Mr.Walcott, who is that terrible woman?"

They were out of the building by this time, standing on the pavement.Graham had called a cab, and whilst they were waiting for it to draw upLettice had become aware of a strikingly-dressed woman, with paintedface and bold eyes, who was planting herself in front of them, andstaring at her with a mocking laugh.

Alan was horrified to see that it was his wife who stood before them,with the mad demoniac look in her eyes which he knew too well.

"Alan, my dear Alan," she cried in a shrill voice, causing everyone tolook round at the group, "tell her this terrible woman's name! Tell herthat I am your wife, the wife that you have plunged into misery andstarvation——"

"For heaven's sake!" said Alan, turning to Graham, "where is your cab?Take them away quickly!"

"Tell her," the virago screamed, "that I am the woman whom you tried tomurder, in order that you might be free——"

Here the harangue was cut short by a policeman, who knew the orator verywell by sight, and who deftly interposed his arm at the moment when Corawas reaching the climax of her rage. At the same instant the cab drewup, and Lettice was driven away with her friends, not, however, beforeshe had forced Alan to take her hand, and had wished him good-night.

"That must have been his wife," said Clara, whose face was white, andwho was trembling violently.

"Yes, confound her!" said her husband, much annoyed by what hadhappened.

"Could you not stay to see what happens? You might be of some use to Mr.Walcott."

"What good can I do? I wish we had not met him. I have a horror of thesescenes; some people, apparently, take them more coolly."

He was out of temper with Lettice, first for sitting by Alan at theconversazione, and then for ostentatiously shaking hands with him on thepavement. Her instinct told her what he was thinking.

"I am sorry it happened," she said; "but when a man is unfortunate oneneed not take the opportunity of punishing him. It was far worse for himthan for us."

"I don't see that," said Graham. "And everyone has to bear his owntroubles. Besides, why should a man with such a frightful inflictionattach himself to ladies in a public place, and subject them to insult,without so much as warning them what they might expect to meet with?"

"Were you unwarned?"

"I was not thinking of myself. You were not warned."

"I beg your pardon, I was."

"You knew his wife was alive—and—what she is?"

"Yes."

"I must say I cannot understand it."

"You would not have me kind to a man who, as you say, is frightfullyafflicted? It was for that very reason I thought we ought to be kind tohim to-night."

"My sense of duty does not lead me quite so far; and I do not wish thatClara's should, either!"

"I am sorry," said Lettice, again.

Then there was silence in the cab; but the undutiful Clara was squeezingher friend's hand in the dark, whilst her lord and master fumed for fiveminutes in his corner. After that, he pulled the check-string.

"What are you going to do?" said Clara.

"Going back again," he said. "You women understand some things betterthan we do. All the same, I don't know what would happen if you alwayslet your hearts lead you, and if you had no men to look after you. Ishall take a hansom and follow on."

He was too late, however, to do any good. The stream of life had sweptover the place where Alan and his wife had met, as it sweeps over allthe great city's joys and sorrows, glories and disgrace, leaving not avestige behind.

CHAPTER XVI.

CONCEIVED IN SORROW.

Two days later, as Lettice was hard at work in her study on a romancewhich she had begun in June, at the suggestion of a friendly publisher,she was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was a feeble knock, as ofone who was half afraid, and the voice, which she heard inquiring forher immediately afterwards was a feeble voice, which she did notrecognize.

Nor did she at first remember the face of Mrs. Bundlecombe, when thatlady was brought into her room, so much had she changed since her lastvisit to Maple Cottage. She looked ten years older than when shetransferred to her pocket the twenty pounds which Lettice had paid her,though that was barely twelve months ago.

Lettice was better pleased to see her this time; but there was a sinkingat her heart as she thought from whom the old lady had come, andwondered what her coming might mean.

Mrs. Bundlecombe produced from her bag a little roll of paper, and laidit on the table with trembling hands.

"There, Miss Campion," she said, taking the chair which Lettice had putfor her, "now I feel better already, and I can answer your kindinquiries. I cannot say that I am very well, but there is nothing youcan do for me, except take the money back that I came and asked you fora year ago. Don't say anything against it, my dear, for my Alan says itmust be done, and there is no use in trying to turn him. It is the rightmethod for peace of conscience, as the good Mr. Baxter said, and thatmust be my apology, though I am sure you will not think it was nothingbut sinful self-seeking that made me come to you before."

"I don't understand, Mrs. Bundlecombe! I simply paid you a debt, did Inot? If it was right for my father to pay (as he would have done if hehad lived), it was right for me to pay; and as it was right for me topay, it was right for you to ask. And it gave me pleasure, as I told youat the time, so that I object to taking the money back again."

"That is what I said to Alan, but he would not listen to me. 'MissCampion was not bound to pay her father's debt,' he said, 'any more thanMr. Campion, and therefore it was wrong for you to ask either of them.But to go to a woman,' he said, 'was more than wrong, it was mean; and Ican never look in her face again if you do not take it back and beg herpardon.' He can be very stern, my dear, when he is not pleased, and justnow I could not disobey him if he was to tell me to go on my kneesthrough London town."

"How did he know that I had paid you?"

"Well, it was yesterday; we had been in great trouble"—and here Mrs.Bundlecombe broke down, having been very near doing it from the momentwhen she entered the room. Lettice comforted her as well as she could,and made her drink a glass of wine; and so she gradually recovered hervoice.

"Well, as I was saying, my dear, in the evening, when we were quiet byourselves, he said to me, 'Aunt Bessy, I met Miss Campion last night,and I gather from what she told me that you had seen one another inLondon. You never mentioned that to me. When was it?' I did not want tomake a clean breast of it, but he has such a way of cross-questioningone that I could not keep it back; and that is how it all came out. Soyou must put up with it, for my sake. I dare not touch the money again,was it ever so."

"Then I must speak to Mr. Walcott about it myself, the next time I seehim, for I think he has not been just to you."

"Oh yes, my dear, he has! He is always so just, poor boy!" There was anominous quaver here. "And it is not as if we wanted money. I had threeor four hundred from selling the business, and Alan has nearly thatevery year—but now he gives two pounds a week——"

Then there was another collapse, and Lettice thought it best to let theold woman have her cry out. Only she went over and sat by her side, andtook one of the thin hands between her own, and cried just a little tokeep her company.

"Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Bundlecombe at last, "it is such a comfort tohave a woman to talk to. I have not had a good talk to one of my own sexsince I came up to London, unless it is the landlady in Montagu Place,and she is a poor old antiquity like myself, with none of your soft andgentle ways. It would do me good to tell you all we have gone throughsince that bad creature found us out, but I have no right to make youmiserable with other people's sorrows. No—I will go away before I beginto be foolish again; and my boy will be waiting for me."

"If you think Mr. Walcott would not object to your telling me, and if itwill be any relief to you, do! Indeed, I think I would rather hear it."

So Mrs. Bundlecombe poured out her tale to sympathetic ears, and gaveLettice an account of Alan's married life so far as she knew it, and ofthe return of the runaway, and of the compact which Alan had made withher, and of the post-cards, and the slandering and the threats.

"And the night before last he came home in a terrible rage—that wouldbe after seeing you, my dearie—and he walked about the room for ever solong before he would tell me a word. And then he said,

"'I have seen her again, Aunt Bessy, and she has molested me horriblyout in the street, when I was with——'

"And there he stopped short, and fell on the sofa, and cried—yes, dear,he cried like a woman, as if his heart would break; and I guessed why itwas, though he did not mention your name. For you know," said Mrs.Bundlecombe, looking at Lettice with mournful eyes, "or leastways youdon't know, how he worships the ground——"

"Don't," said Lettice, "don't tell me more than he would like. I—Icannot bear to hear it all!"

"Maybe I have said too much; but you must forgive me if I have. And so,when he was a bit better he said that he should go next morning and tellthe lawyer that she had broken her compact, and he would not pay her anymore money, but give her notice of the divorce.

"'All the heart and all the mercy is crushed out of me,' he said; 'shehas turned her venom on her, and she shall suffer for it.'

"So in the morning he went to his lawyer. And it was the day when sheused to call for her money, and she must have called for it and beenrefused, for early in the afternoon she came round to our lodgings, andwent on like a mad woman in the street, shrieking and howling, andsaying the most horrible things you can imagine. I could not tell youhalf she said, about—about us all. Oh dear, oh dear! I had heard whatone of those Frenchwomen could be, but I never saw anything like itbefore, and I hope I never may again!"

"Was he there?"

"Yes, he was there. And he said to me, 'If I give her in charge, it willhave to go into the police court, and anything is better than that!' Butthen she mentioned—she began to say other things, and he said, 'My God,if this is not stopped, I shall do her an injury!' So I went out, andfetched a policeman, and that put an end to it for the time.

"You can fancy that my poor Alan is nearly out of his mind, not knowingwhat she may be up to next. One thing he is afraid of more thananything: and to be sure I don't think he cares for anything else. Eversince I let out your name on that first night he has been dreading whatmight happen to you through her spite and malice!"

Lettice was deeply moved by Mrs. Bundlecombe's story, and as the oldwoman finished she kissed her on the cheek.

"Tell him," she said, "that I have heard what he has suffered—that Iasked you, and you told me. Tell him not to think of me because I amforewarned, and am not afraid of anything she can do. And tell him thathe should not think of punishing her, for the punishment she has broughtupon herself is enough."

"I will repeat it word for word, my dearie, and it will comfort him tohave a message from you. But I doubt he will not spare her now, for sheis more than flesh and blood can bear."

Then Lettice took her visitor to her mother's room, and made tea forher, and left the two to compare notes with each other for half an hour.Thus Mrs. Bundlecombe went away comforted, and took some comfort backwith her to the dingy room in Alfred Place.

It was hard for Lettice to turn to her work again, as though nothing hadhappened since she last laid down her pen. The story to which she hadlistened, and the picture which it brought so vividly before her mind ofthe lonely, persecuted man who pined for her love when she had no rightto give it, nor he to ask for it, compelled her to realize what she hadhitherto fought away and kept in the background. She could no longercheat herself with the assurance that her heart was in her own keeping,and that her feeling for Alan was one of mere womanly pity.

She loved him; and she would not go on lying to her own heart by sayingthat she did not.

Her character was not by any means perfect; but, as with all of us, amixture of good and ill—the evil and the good often springing out ofthe same inborn qualities of her nature. She had a keen sense ofenjoyment in hearing and seeing new things, in broaching new ideas andentering upon fresh fields of thought; and her appetite in theserespects was all the stronger for the gloom and seclusion in which theearlier years of her womanhood had been spent. She was lavish ingenerosity to her friends, and did not count the cost when she wanted tobe kind. But as the desire for enjoyment may be carried to the length ofself-indulgence, so there is often a selfishness in giving and arecklessness in being over kind. Lettice, moreover, was extravagant inthe further sense that she did not look much beyond the present month orpresent year of existence. She thought her sun would always shine.

Her blemishes were quite compatible with her virtues, with the generalright-mindedness and brave performance of duty which had hitherto markedher life. She was neither bad nor perhaps very good, but just such awoman as Nature selects to be the instrument of her most mysteriousworkings.

If Lettice admitted to herself the defeat which she had sustained in onequarter, she was all the less disposed to accept a check elsewhere. Herwill to resist a hopeless love was broken down, but that only increasedthe strength of her determination to conceal the weakness from everyeye, to continue the struggle of life as though there were no flaw inher armor, and to work indefatigably for the independence of thought andfeeling and action which she valued above all other possessions.

So she chained herself to her desk, and finished her romance, which inits later chapters gained intensity of pathos and dramatic insight fromthe constant immolation of her own heart as she imagined the martyrdomsand sacrifices of others.

The story which was to make her famous had been conceived in sorrow, andit became associated with the greatest sufferings of her life. She hadscarcely sent it off to the publisher, in the month of October, when hermother, who had been gradually failing both in body and in mind, quietlypassed away in her sleep. No death could have been easier. The heart haddone its work, and ceased to beat; but though Lettice was spared thegrief which she would have felt if her mother had lingered long on apainful death-bed, the shock was still very severe. For a time she wasentirely prostrated by it. The manifold strain upon her mind had triedher too much, and for several weeks after the funeral Clara Graham wasnursing her through a dangerous illness.

CHAPTER XVII.

"TO THY CHAMBER WINDOW, SWEET!"

The message which had been sent by Lettice to Alan, by the mouth of Mrs.Bundlecombe, had not lost much in its transit.

"Tell him," she had said, "that I have heard what he has suffered. Tellhim not to trouble for me because I am forewarned, and am not afraid ofanything she can do. And tell him that he should not think of punishingher, for the punishment she has brought on herself is enough."

It had consoled him greatly to have this assurance of her sympathy. Hedid not presume too far on the mere fact of her having sent him amessage, and the words themselves did not amount to very much. But ifshe had cared nothing at all, she would have said nothing at all; andperhaps the description which his aunt gave him of Lettice's kindness toher, and of her interest in the story which she had heard, did more toappease his heart than anything else.

It was his full intention to do all that was possible to deliver himselffrom the bondage of his unhappy marriage, and in the meantime he wouldtake every precaution to prevent Lettice from being annoyed by thistermagant of a woman. But he rejoiced to think that Lettice herself wasin some manner prepared for what might happen to her, and was on herguard against the danger.

There was a certain sweetness in the thought that they shared thisdanger between them, that his enemy was hers also, and that she hadvoluntarily ranged herself by his side. A feeling of satisfactionflashed through his mind at this community of interests with the womanwhom he loved, but it was merged at once in the conviction that he couldnot be content for one single moment to leave her exposed to thepossibility of insult from Cora.

She had commanded him not to punish his wife. It was very difficult forhim to obey. This bitterness against the degraded wretch was roused toits highest pitch by her last outbreak. If she would only die out of hislife—die in any sense, so that he might hear and see her no more—hewould not ask for her punishment. If she would cease to be his wife, andenable him to stand beside the pure and steadfast woman whose gentleinfluence had transformed his soul, he would forgive her. There was noway in which this could be done except by exposing her before the world,and depriving her of all right to look to him for support, and in thedoing of this he knew full well there would be no room for weak pity andmisgiving.

He could not forgive her if that was to mean that he should keep her ashis wife, and go on trying to buy her silence. He did not want toinflict pain upon her out of mere resentment, and if he could have hisway in the matter of the divorce he was quite willing that she shouldhave some of his money. He would be so rich without her that he wouldgladly go out into the street then and there, stripped of everythingthat he possessed, if in that way he could shake off the galling fettersthat weighed upon him.

To-morrow he would tell his lawyer that she was to have her weekly moneyagain, on condition of her solemnly renewing her engagement not tomolest him in any way, and not to interfere with any of his friends. Shewould probably regard the offer as a sign of weakness, but at any rateit would put her on her good behavior for a time. He would do this forLettice's sake, if not for his own.

He knew with whom he had to deal, and of what this raving woman wascapable. If she had been English, or German, and had gone utterly to thebad, she might by this time have been lethargically besotted, and wouldhave given him very little trouble so long as she received her twopounds a week. But Cora was Latin, and belonged to the same race as thepoet who drew the harpies, and the Gorgons, and mad Dido, and frenziedCamilla, who had painted in a hundred forms the unrestrained fury of hiscountrywomen, when the grace and tenderness of their sex had desertedthem. She also was besotted at times, but whenever she was not besottedher mind was full of vivacity, and her anger was as a whirlwind, andneither fear nor prudence could hold her in check. Alan knew her onlytoo well, even before she had tried to kill him in France, and he had nodoubt that the outbreak of the last few days was only the beginning of apersecution which she would maintain so long as she had the power toinjure him.

For himself he had already resolved what to do. Even his aunt must notbe subject to these annoyances, and he bade her pack up her things andgo to an old friend of hers in the country. He would leave his presentlodging and get housed somewhere out of her reach. Why should he remainat her mercy, when it did not matter to any one where he lived, and whencertainly no householder would endure a lodger who was liable to bevisited by a madwoman?

But Lettice? How could she be defended from attack? It was clear thatCora was jealous of her, or at all events maliciously set against her.It had required very little to produce that effect. Heaven knew thatLettice had done nothing to excite jealousy even in the mind of ablameless wife, entitled to the most punctilious respect andconsideration of her husband. If only Lettice could be placed in safety,carried away from London to some happy haven where no enemy could followand torment her, and where he might guard her goings and comings, hewould be content to play the part of a watch-dog, if by that means hecould be near her and serve her!

Something impelled him to get up and leave the house. It was dark bythis time, and he wandered aimlessly through the streets; but by and by,without any conscious intention, he found himself walking rapidly in thedirection of Hammersmith.

Eight o'clock had struck when he left his lodgings in Alfred Place, andit was after nine when he stood at the corner where the main-road passesby the entrance to Brook Green. He had never once looked behind him;and, even if he had, he would scarcely have detected in the darkness thefigure which dogged his steps with obstinate persistence.

He hesitated for a minute or more at the corner, and then walked slowlyround the Green. Opposite to Maple Cottage there was a large tree, andunderneath it, barely visible from the pavement, a low wooden seat. Herehe sat down, and watched the dimly-lighted windows.

Why had he come there? What was in his mind when he turned his face toLettice's cottage, and sat patiently looking out of the darkness? Hecould not have answered the questions if they had been put to him. Buthe felt a sense of comfort in knowing that she was so near, and pleasedhimself with the thought that even for these few minutes he was guardingher from unseen dangers.

He may have been sitting there for half-an-hour—a hundred imageschasing each other through his disordered brain—when suddenly a blindin the cottage was drawn up. For a moment he saw the form of Lettice asshe stood at the window, with a lamp in her hand, framed like a pictureby the ivy which covered the wall. Then the shutters closed, and he wasleft alone in the darkness. Alone, as he thought: but he was not alone.He had started to his feet when her face appeared at the window, andstood with his arms extended, as though he would reach through space totouch her. Then, as she disappeared, he softly murmured her name.

"Lettice! My Lettice!"

A harsh laugh grated on his ears. It came from the other side of thetree, and Alan sprang in the direction of the sound. He need not havehastened, for his wife had no desire to conceal her presence. She wascoming forward to meet him; and there, in the middle of the Green,shrouded in almost complete darkness, the two stood face to face.

"Tiens, mon ami; te voilà!"

She was in her mocking mood—certain to be quiet for a few minutes, asAlan told himself the moment he recognized her. What was she doing here?He had thought that she did not know where Lettice lived; how had shediscovered the place? It did not occur to him that his own folly hadbetrayed the secret; on the contrary, he blessed the instinct which hadbrought him to the spot just when he was wanted. "A spirit in my feethath led me to thy chamber window, sweet!" All this passed through hismind in a couple of seconds.

"Yes, I am here. And you! How came you here?"

"Nothing more simple. I came on my feet. But you walked quick, my dear;I could hardly keep up with you at times."

"You followed me!"

"Yes, I followed you—all the way from Alfred Place. I wanted so much toknow where she lived, and I said, 'He shall show me. He, who would notfor worlds that I should know—he will be my sign-post.' Pouf! you menare stupid creatures. I must be cunning with you, my good husband whowould leave me to starve—who would divorce me, and marry this woman,and cut the hated Cora out of your life. But no, my poor child, it shallnot be. So long as we live, we two, Cora will never desert you. It is myonly consolation, that I shall be able to follow every step of yourexistence as I followed you to-night, without your knowing where I am,or at what moment I may stand before you."

"Let us walk," said Alan, "and talk things over. Why stand here?"

"You are afraid that I shall make another scandal, and rouse thevirtuous Lettice from her pillow, with the sound of her name screamedout in the night? Ha, ha! How the poor coward trembles! Have no fear!Twice in a week your brutal police have seized me, and I do not lovetheir kind attentions. Now and then I may defy them, when I need anexcitement of that kind; but not to-night. To-night I mean to be clever,and show you how I can twist a cold-blooded Englishman round my finger.If you go, then I will scream—it is a woman's bludgeon, my child, asher tongue is her dagger. Bah! be quiet and listen to me. You shall notdivorce me, for if you try I will accuse you of all sorts ofthings—basenesses that will blast your name for ever."

"I am not afraid of you," said Alan. "For anything I know, you have apistol under your cloak—shoot me. I took you to love and cherish, andyou have made my life a hell. What good is it? Shoot!"

"No; that makes a noise. In Paris I would shoot you, for it is you whohave destroyed my life. But in London you do not understand thesethings, so that I must act differently. Listen! If you try to divorceme, and do not pay me my money, I have one or two little pistol-shots àl'anglaise which will suit you perfectly. Shall I tell you what I wouldsay, to anyone who would listen to me—in court, in the street,anywhere?"

"As you please."

"First, that you fired at me at Culoz, and that I can bring forwardwitnesses of the attempted assassination."

"That is pure nonsense; I am not to be frightened by such child's play."

"Second, so far as the divorce is concerned, that whatever my offencemay have been, you have condoned it. Do you not understand, my friend?Did I not find shelter in your rooms in Montagu Place? I would have agood lawyer, who would know how to make the most of that."

"Have you nothing stronger to rely on?"

"Listen; you shall tell me. My third pistol-shot is this—that you werewont to make private assignations with Miss Lettice Campion, and thatyou had been seen dropping from her window, here in Brook Green, atmidnight. What do you think of that, for example?"

"Vile wretch!" said Alan. "Your malice has robbed you of your senses.Who would believe you?"

"Do not be a child. Are you English, and do you ask who would believe awoman telling these tales of a man? Do you not know that men are ruinedevery day in England by the lies of women? The better the man, the moreabandoned the woman, the more incredible her lies, so much the morecertain is his condemnation. Bah, you know it! I should not hesitateabout the lies, and, if I made them sufficiently repulsive, your noblecountrymen would not hesitate to believe them. Do you doubt it? Whatthink you of my plan?"

He made no answer; he was trying to command himself.

"Now, tell me! Shall I have my money as usual?"

"Before I left the house," he said, "I had resolved that the money oughtto be paid to you. So long as you are my wife, you ought not to starve."

"Good! It is an annuity for life!"

"No. I would give a hand or an eye to be free from you."

"They would be useless to me, my dear. Would you give the fair fame ofLettice? It will cost no less."

"Let that pass!"

"Yes, we will let that pass. Then, I receive my money as usual?"

"Go to Mr. Larmer to-morrow; he will pay it."

"I hate this Mr. Larmer—he is an animal without manners. But no matter.I am glad you are reasonable, my friend. You buy a respite for a fewweeks. I shall forget you with all my heart—until I have a migraine,and suddenly remember you again. But it is too cheap; I cannot livedecently on this paltry sum. Good-bye, my child—and gareaux-migraines!"

She was gone, and Alan was left alone. He had dug his nails into thepalms of his hands, in the effort to restrain himself, until the bloodcame; and long after the mocking fiend had departed he sat silent on thebench, half-stupefied with rage and despair.

Was he really the coward that he felt himself, to listen to hershameless threats, and tremble at the thought of her machinations?Lettice had told him that she was not afraid; but ought he not to beafraid for her, and do all that was possible to avert a danger from herwhich he would not fear on his own account?

Ah, if he could only take counsel with her, how wise and brave she wouldbe; how he would be encouraged by her advice and strengthened by hersympathy! But he knew that it was impossible to call to his aid thewoman whom it was his first duty to protect from annoyance. She shouldnever know the torture he was enduring until it had came to an end, andhe could tell it with his own lips as an indifferent story of the past.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A SLEEPY NOOK.

Three miles from Angleford, on the other side of the river, and hiddenaway by trees on every side, sleeps the lazy little village ofBirchmead. So lazy is the place—so undisturbed have been its slumbers,from generation to generation, that it might puzzle the most curious tothink why a village should be built there at all. There is no fordthrough the river, and, though a leaky ferryboat makes occasionaljourneys from one side to the other, the path which leads to the bank istoo precipitous for any horse to tread. The only route by which a cartcan enter Birchmead branches off from the Dorminster Road, across aquarter of a mile of meadows: and when the gate of the first meadow isclosed, the village is completely shut in on every side. The worldscarcely knows it, and it does not know the world—its life is "but asleep and a forgetting."

The place has a history of its own, which can be told in a couple ofsentences. Two hundred years ago an eccentric member of the family towhich the country-side belonged had chosen to set up here a littlecommunity on his own account, shaped on a model which, universallyapplied would doubtless regenerate the world. He built, out of stone, afarmhouse and barns, and a score of cottages for his working-men, andthere he spent his life and his money, nursing for some thirty years hisdream of hard work and perfect satisfaction. Then he died, and a farmerwithout his faith and wealth succeeded him, and the hamlet lost itsoriginality, and became as much like other hamlets as its love of sleepand pride of birth would allow.

One thing saves it from desertion and extinction. It has a reputation,over half a county, for being one of the most healthy andlife-prolonging spots in England. It certainly contains a remarkablenumber of old men and women, some of whom have come from the neighboringtowns to end their lives in the weather-proof stone cottages and fertileallotments which remain at this day precisely as they were built andmeasured out by the philanthropic squire in the seventeenth century.Other cottages have been run up in the meantime, and a few villas of amore pretentious character; but there is always a brisk competition forthe substantial domiciles, as snug and sound as any almshouse, whichencircle the village green of Birchmead.

In one of these cottages Mrs. Bundlecombe found a refuge when Alan senther away from London. It was in the occupation of an old friend withwhom she had been on intimate terms at Thorley—a widow like herself,blessed by Heaven with a perennial love of flowers and vegetables, andrecognized by all her neighbors as the best gardener and neatesthousewife in the community. With Mrs. Chigwin, Alan's aunt was happierthan she had ever hoped to be again, and the only drawback to herfelicity was the thought of her nephew's troubles and solitude.

The next cottage to Mrs. Chigwin's was inhabited by old Mrs. Harrington,the grandmother of Lettice's first maid. There had been no love lostbetween Mrs. Bundlecombe and Mrs. Harrington, when they once lived inthe same town. The grudge had arisen out of a very small matter. Thebookseller's' wife had sold a Bible to Mrs. Harrington, in the absenceof her husband, for twopence more than Mr. Bundlecombe had demanded forthe same book, from some common acquaintance of both parties to thebargain, on the previous day; and this common acquaintance having seenthe book and depreciated it a few weeks later, the purchaser had anabiding sense of having been outrageously duped and cheated. She hadcome to the shop and expressed herself to this effect, in no moderateterms; and Mrs. Bundlecombe, whilst returning the twopence, had madesome disparaging remarks on the other lady's manners, meanness, dress,age, and general inferiority. The affront had never been quite forgottenon either side, and it was not without much ruffling of their mentalplumage that the two old bodies found themselves established within afew yards of each other.

The squire's cottages at Birchmead were detached, but their amplegardens had only a low wall between them, so that the neighboringoccupiers could not well avoid an occasional display of their mutualdisposition, whether good or bad. It was close upon winter when Mrs.Bundlecombe arrived in the village, and very wet weather, so that therewas no immediate clashing of souls across the garden wall; but inNovember there came a series of fine warm days, when no one who had agarden could find any excuse for staying indoors. Accordingly, onemorning Mrs. Chigwin, who knew what was amiss between her friends,seeing Mrs. Harrington pacing the walk on the other side of the wall,determined to bring about a meeting, and, if possible, a reconciliation.

"Elizabeth, my dear, that gravel looks perfectly dry. You must come outin the sun, and see the last of my poor flowers."

"Martha Chigwin," said her visitor, with a solemn face; "do you see thatwoman?"

"Yes, I see her. What then?"

"I do not nurse wrath, my love, but I cannot abide her."

"Are not six years long enough to remember a little thing of that sort?Come along, Elizabeth; you will find that she has grown quite civil andpleasant-spoken since you used to know her."

So they went out into the garden, and the two ancient foes sniffed andbridled at each other as they approached through the transparent screenof tall yellow chrysanthemums which lined Mrs. Chigwin's side of thewall.

"Mrs. Harrington," said the peacemaker, "there is no need for me tointroduce you to my old friend, Elizabeth Bundlecombe, who has come topay me a nice long visit. We shall be her neighbors and close friends, Ihope, and if you will do me the favor to come in this afternoon anddrink a cup of tea with us, we shall be very glad to see you."

"Thank you kindly, Mrs. Chigwin. Good-morning to you, Mrs. Bundlecombe.I hear you have been living in London, ma'am, quite grand, as the sayingis!"

"No, Mrs. Harrington, not grand at all, ma'am. Don't say so. I haveknown what trouble is since my poor dear husband died, and I shall neverfeel like being grand again."

"Never again, ma'am? Well, I am sure that Mrs. Bundlecombe knows how tobear her fortune, whether good or bad. Did you say never again, ma'am?"

The old lady seemed to take this phrase as a kind of comprehensive anddignified apology for the past, which ought to be met in a conciliatorymanner.

"Well, well, Mrs. Bundlecombe, bygones is bygones, and there's no moreto be said about it. Not but what principle is principle, be it twopenceor twenty pounds."

"Allowance must be made, Mrs. Harrington, for the feelings of themoment."

"On both sides, ma'am," said Mrs. Harrington.

"Like reasonable parties," said Mrs. Bundlecombe.

Then they nodded at each other with much vigor, and shook hands acrossthe top of the wall through the branches of the chrysanthemums. Thusvaguely, but with a clear understanding on the part of both combatants,peace was made, and good relations were established. Mrs. Chigwin wasdelighted at the easy way in which the difficulty had been overcome, andin the afternoon she treated her friends in such a genuinely hospitableand considerate fashion that they were soon perfectly at their ease.Indeed, the three old people became very intimate, and spent theirChristmas together in peace and charity.

Alan came over one day early in February to see his aunt, and make surethat she was as comfortable as she professed to be. It was acharacteristic proceeding on his part. Mrs. Bundlecombe, as the readermay have observed, was not very poetic in her taste, and not so refinedin manners as most of the women with whom Alan now associated. But healways thought of her as the sister of his mother, to whom he had beenromantically attached; and he had good reason, moreover, to appreciateher devotion to himself during the last year or so. He found her fairlyhappy, and said nothing which might disturb her peace of mind. LetticeCampion, he told her, had recovered from a serious illness, and had goneon the Continent for a few weeks with Mrs. Hartley. He was bent onobtaining a divorce, and expected the case to come on shortly. This hetreated as a matter for unmixed rejoicing; and he casually declared thathe had not seen "the Frenchwoman" for eight or ten weeks; which was trueenough, but only because he was carefully keeping out of her way. And itwas a poor equivocation, as the reader will presently see.

So Mrs. Bundlecome flattered herself that things were going fairly wellwith her nephew, and she possessed her soul in patience.

Now as Alan sat talking to his aunt in Mrs. Chigwin's best room, lookingout upon the garden on Mrs. Harrington's side, he suddenly started, andstopped short in what he was saying.

"Why, Aunt Bessy, who on earth is living next door to you?"

Mrs. Bundlecombe looked where he pointed, and was almost as muchsurprised as himself to see Lettice's former maid, Milly, walking in thegarden with all the airs and graces of a grand lady. She had on a furcloak, and a little cap to match, and she looked so handsome andwell-dressed that it would not have been surprising if Alan had notrecognized her. But Milly's pretty face, once seen, was not easilyforgotten; and, as she was associated with Lettice in Alan's mind, hehad all the more reason for recalling her features.

"That is the first I have seen of her in these parts," said Mrs.Bundlecombe. "You remember that Miss Campion had a Thorley girl at MapleCottage, who left her five or six months ago?"

"I remember your telling me so—Milly, she used to be called?"

"Yes, Emily Harrington. That is the girl, without a doubt. Hergrandmother lives over yonder; but I never knew that she was expecting avisit from this fine lady. Only last week she was telling me that shehad not heard from Milly for several months. There was a letter from herbefore Christmas, to say that she was married and traveling abroad."

Mrs. Bundlecombe shook her head dubiously from side to side, andcontinued the motion for some time. She was thinking how much money itwould have taken to buy that sealskin cloak; but, however far her doubtsmay have carried her, she did not give utterance to them in words.

"She is certainly very nice-looking," said Alan. "And she seems to begetting on in the world. Perhaps she has made a good marriage; I shouldnot at all wonder."

"Well, it is charitable to hope so," said Aunt Bessy, with an expressionin her face that was anything but hopeful. "I can't forgive her forleaving Miss Campion in such a hurry. I suppose she wanted to betterherself, as those minxes always say. As if anyone could be better offthan living with her!"

Alan turned round to the window again, and looked out. His aunt's wordstouched a chord in his heart, which vibrated strongly. To live with her,in any capacity whatever—assuredly that would be the highest attainablegood. To draw from her gentle presence that bliss of absolute rest andease which he had never known until he came to know her—to talk andlisten without a shadow of reserve, forgetting self, unashamed of anyinferiority which his mind might show in comparison with hers, unafraidof giving offense to that sweet and well-poised nature—to look upon herface, almost infantile in its ingenuous expression, yet with indomitablestrength in the clear grey eyes which revealed the soul within—to livewith her would indeed be perfect happiness!

And the more he felt this, the less hopeful he was of realizing hisaspiration. She had been ill, at the point of death, and he could not benear her. He had inquired of her progress at the Grahams' house, butalways in fear lest he should bring sorrow to her, or annoyance to them.The creature whom he had made his wife was never absent from histhoughts. In his most despondent moments he ceased to believe that hewould ever be able to shake her off. She haunted him, asleep or awake,at his meals and at his books, in his quiet lodging or when he stole outfor a solitary walk. He tried to persuade himself that he exaggeratedhis trouble, and that there were plenty of men under similarcirc*mstances who would not allow their peace of mind to be disturbed.But if he was weaker than others, that did not make his pain lessbitter. He feared her, and dreaded the fulfilment of her threats; yetnot so much on his own account as because they were directed againstLettice.

It was no consolation to him to think that the law would punishher—that the police would remove her as a drunken brawler—that thecourts could give him his divorce, or perhaps shut her up as a madwoman.What good would even a divorce be to him if she had slandered Lettice,blackened his character, alienated all whom he loved, and remained aliveto be the curse and poison of his existence?

As he pondered these things in his heart, the trouble which he hadfought off when he came down into the country that morning returned uponhim with renewed force. He had fled from town to escape from the agonyof shame and disgust which she had once more inflicted on him, and hegroaned aloud as he thought of what had happened in the last few days.

"I think I must have a touch of the gout," he said, turning round towhere his aunt was sitting, with a pleasant smile on his face. "Itcatches me sometimes with such a sudden twinge that I cannot help cryingout like that."

Aunt Bessy looked hard at him, and shook her head; but she said nothing.

Soon after that, Alan went away; and he had not been gone half-an-hour,when there came a gentle rap at the cottage door.

Mrs. Bundlecombe opened it at once, and found, as she had expected, thatthe visitor was none other than our old friend Milly. Aunt Bessy had hada few minutes to prepare herself for this scene, and was therefore ableto comport herself, as she imagined, with proper dignity. Affecting notto see the pretty hand which was held out to her, she started back,looked inquisitively into the other's face, and then cried out, as sheturned her head round upon her shoulders, "Well, Martha! Martha Chigwin!Here is an old acquaintance come to see us. Emily Harrington, love, Mrs.Harrington's grand-daughter, who went to live with Miss Campion inLondon. Well, you did surprise me!" she said in a more quiet voice."Come in and sit down, Emily Harrington!"

"Granny told me you were here," said Milly, a little taken aback by thisreception, "so I thought I must come in and see how you were."

"We are very well, thank you kindly, Milly. And how are you? But thereis no need to ask you, for you look a picture of health, and spirits,and—and good luck, Milly Harrington!"

"Oh yes, I am very well. You don't know that I have been married sinceyou saw me last. My name is Mrs. Beadon now."

She drew off her glove as she spoke, and let her long hand fall upon herlap, so that the old ladies might see her wedding-ring and keeper.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Bundlecombe, in a mollified voice, "if youare married to a good man, I am very glad, indeed. And I hope he is wellto-do, and makes you happy. You are nicely dressed, Milly, but niceclothes are not everything, are they?"

"No, indeed, they are not. Oh, yes, Mr. Beadon is good to me in everyway, so you need not trouble yourself on my account."

After that preliminary sparring, they became friendly enough. Milly wasquite at her ease when her position as a wife was established, and sheamused her hearers by a lively account of her recent fortunes andadventures—some of them, perhaps, slightly fictitious in character,others exaggerated and glorified. Her husband, she told them, was agreat traveler, and was sometimes out of England for six months or ayear at a time. He had just gone abroad again, and she had taken theopportunity of coming to see her grandmother—and even of living withher for awhile, if she found Birchmead supportable. They were not rich,but Mr. Beadon allowed her quite enough to live comfortably upon.

So she played the grand lady in the hamlet, to her own infinitesatisfaction. But now and again she had business to transact in London,and then she would send to Thorley for a cab, and take the afternoontrain to Liverpool Street, and return in about twenty-four hours,generally with some little present in her bag for her grandmother, orgrandmother's friends.

None the less did poor Milly find that time hung heavy on her hands. Shehad not yet clipped the wings of her ambition, and she still pined for awider sphere in which to satisfy her vague and restless longings.However she might brave it out to others, she was very far from beinghappy; and now and then she took herself to task, and admitted that allshe had, and all she hoped for, would be but a small price to give ifshe could purchase once more the freedom of her girlhood.

CHAPTER XIX.

SIR JOHN'S GLOXINIAS.

Whatever may have been the intention of Nature when she produced SirJohn Pynsent, there was no doubt as to his own conception of the partwhich he was fitted to play in the world.

He considered himself, and indeed he was, above all things, amanipulator of men. His talents in this direction had been displayed atschool and at college, and when he settled down to political life inLondon, and impulsively began to suggest, to persuade, to contrive, andto organize, everyone with whom he came in contact acknowledged asuperior mind, or, at any rate, a more ingenious and fertile mind. Hehad refused to bind himself down to an office, as his friends wanted himto do, or to take part in the direction of a "Central Association" fordealing with men in the lump. It was absurd to think of tying Sir Johnto a place, or a routine, or a pledge of any kind. His art was to beubiquitous; he aspired to be the great permeator of the Conservativeparty; and by sheer force of activity he soon became the best known andmost popular of the younger generation of Tories.

His triumphs as a manager of men were not confined to public life. Hewas one of a numerous family, and he managed them all. Every Pynsentdeferred to Sir John's opinion, not merely because he was the head ofthe house, but because he had assumed the command, and justified theassumption by his shrewdness and common-sense.

The one person in the family who gave most anxiety was his half-sister,Anna. Sir John's father had married a second time, when his son was ayouth at Eton, and Anna, the fruit of this union, inherited, not onlyher mother's jointure of twenty thousand pounds, but a considerablefortune from her mother's elder brother, who had been a manufacturer inVanebury. This fortune had been allowed to accumulate for the lasteighteen years, as her father, and after him, her brother, had providedher with a home, and disdained to touch "Nan's money." Sir John was avery good brother to her, and it was even rumored that he had marriedearly chiefly for the purpose of providing Nan with an efficientchaperon. Whether this was true or not, he had certainly married a womanwho suited him admirably; Lady Pynsent sympathized in all his tastes andambitions, gave excellent dinner parties, and periodically brought ahandsome boy into the world to inherit the family name and embarrass thefamily resources. At present there were five of these boys, but as thefamily resources were exceedingly large, and Sir John was a mostaffectionate parent, the advent of each had been hailed with increasingsatisfaction.

It was a great relief to Sir John's mind to find that his wife and hissister were such good friends. He might be a manipulator of man, but hewas not—he acknowledged to himself—always successful in hismanipulation of women. If Selina had found Nan in the way, or if Nan hadbeen jealous of Selina and Selina's babies, Sir John felt that he wouldhave been placed on the horns of a dilemma. But this had not been thecase. Nan was in the schoolroom when Lady Pynsent first arrived atCulverley, and the child had been treated with kindness and discretion.Nan repaid the kindness by an extravagant fondness for her littlenephews, who treated her abominably, and the discretion by an absolutesurrender of her will to Lady Pynsent's as far as her intercourse withthe outer world was concerned. With her inner life, she considered thatLady Pynsent had not much to do, and it was in its manifestation thatSir John observed the signs which made him anxious.

Nan, he said to himself, was a handsome girl, and one whom many men weresure to admire. Also, she had sixty thousand pounds of her own, of whichshe would be absolute mistress when she was twenty-one. It was a sumwhich was sure to attract fortune-hunters; and how could he tell whetherNan would not accept her first offer, and then stick to an unsuitableengagement with all the obstinacy which she was capable of displaying?Nan sometimes made odd friends, and would not give them up at anybody'sbidding. How about the man she married? She would have her own way inthat matter—Sir John was sure of it—and, after refusing all theeligible young men within reach, would (he told his wife repeatedly) endby taking up with a crooked stick at last.

"I don't think she'll do that," said Lady Pynsent when her husbandappealed in this way to her. "Nan is very difficile. She is morelikely to remain unmarried than marry an unsuitable man."

"Unmarried!" Sir John threw up his hands. "She must marry! Why, if shedoesn't marry, she is just the girl to take up a thousand fads—to makeherself the laughing-stock of the county!"

"She will not do that; she has too much good taste."

"Good taste won't avail her! You know what her plans are already, tolive in Vanebury as soon as she is twenty-one, and devote herself to thewelfare of the working-people! Don't you call that a fad? Won't she makea laughing stock of herself and of us too? Why, it's worse thanRadicalism—it's pure Socialism and Quixotry," said poor Sir John, whowas proud of his Toryism.

His wife only shook her head, and said, drily, that she would notundertake to prophesy.

"Prophesy? My dear Selina, I merely want you to exert common caution andforesight. There is but one thing to do with Anna. We must get hermarried as soon as ever we can, before she is twenty-one, if possible.She must marry a man on our own side, some years older than herself—aman of the world, who will look after her property and teach hercommon-sense—a man who can restrain her, and guide her, and make herhappy. I would give a thousand pounds to find such a man."

But in his own heart the baronet believed that he had found him, for hethought of his friend, Sydney Campion.

Campion had small private means, if any; he knew that; but then heseemed likely to be one of the foremost men of the day, and if he couldachieve his present position at his age, what would he not be in tenyears' time? Quite a match for Anna Pynsent, in spite of her beauty andher sixty thousand pounds. If Nan had been a little more commonplace,Sir John would have aspired higher for her. But there was a strain of"quixotry," as he called it, in her nature, which made him alwaysuncertain as to her next action. And he felt that it would be a reliefto him to have her safely married to a friend of his own, and one whomhe could influence, if necessary, in the right direction, like SydneyCampion.

Campion was a handsome fellow, too, and popular, Sir John believed, withthe ladies. It was all the more odd and unaccountable that Nan seemed tohave taken a dislike to him. She would not talk about his doings; shewould go out if she thought that he was likely to call. Sir John couldnot understand it. And Campion seemed shy of coming to the house inEaton Square when the Pynsents returned to town; he was pleasant enoughwith Sir John at the Club, but he did not appear to wish for much socialintercourse with Sir John's wife and sister. The worthy baronet wouldhave been a little huffed, but for the preoccupation of his mind withother matters, chiefly political.

But this was in November and December; and he knew that Campion's motherhad lately died, and that he was anxious about that clever sister ofhis, who had lately written a good novel, and then been ill, and hadgone to Italy. There was that Walcott affair, too, which had lately cometo Sir John's ears, a very awkward affair for Campion to have hissister's name mixed up in. Probably that was the reason why he washolding back. Very nice of Campion, very nice. And Sir John becamedoubly cordial in his manner, and pressed Sydney to dine with him nextweek.

With some reluctance, Sydney accepted the invitation. He had beenperilously near making a fool of himself with Miss Pynsent, and he knewthat she had found it out. It was quite enough to make him feel angryand resentful, and to wish to avoid her. At the same time, he wasconscious of a feeling of regret that he had muddled matters socompletely—for Miss Pynsent was a lovely girl, her violin-playing wasdelicious, she had sixty thousand pounds, and Sir John was his friend.

Sydney lost himself for a moment in a reverie.

"Not very likely," he said, waking up with a rather uneasy laugh. "Atthe best of times, I should never have had much chance. There are a goodmany reasons against it now." And it was with a slight shade upon hisbrow that he dismissed the matter from his mind and applied himself tobusiness.

He need not have troubled himself. When he went to dine in Eaton Square,Miss Pynsent was absent. She had gone to spend the evening with afriend. Evidently, thought Sydney, with an odd feeling of discomfiture,because she wanted to avoid him. How ridiculous it was! What aself-conscious little fool she must be to take offense at a compliment,even if it were rather obvious, and not in the best possible taste! Hebegan to feel angry with Miss Pynsent. It did not occur to him for sometime that he was expending a great deal of unusual warmth and irritationon a very trifling matter. What were Miss Pynsent and her opinions tohim? Other women admired him, if she did not; other women were readyenough to accept his flattery. But just because there was one thing outof his reach, one woman who showed a positive distaste for his society,Sydney, like the spoiled child of the world that he was, was possessedby a secret hankering for that one thing, for the good opinion of thewoman who would have none of him. Vanity was chiefly to blame for thiscondition of things; but Sydney's vanity was a plant of very long andsteady growth.

He saw nothing more of the Pynsents, however, until February, when, onthe day of the first drawing-room, he ran up against Sir John inPiccadilly.

"Come along," said Sir John instantly, "I want you to come to my wife's.I'm late, and she won't scold me if you are with me. I shall use you asa buffer."

Sydney laughed and shook his head. "Very sorry, too busy, I'm afraid,"he began.

But Sir John would not be baffled. He had put his hand within Sydney'sarm and was walking him rapidly down —— Street.

"My dear fellow, we've not seen you for an age. You may just as welllook in this afternoon. Nan's been presented to-day, and there's adrawing-room tea going on—a function of adoration to the dresses, Ibelieve. The women will take it as a personal compliment if you come andadmire them."

Mentally, Sydney shrugged his shoulders. He had had enough of payingcompliments to Miss Pynsent. But he saw that there was no help for it.Sir John would be offended if he did not go, and really he had noengagement. And he rather wondered how Miss Pynsent would look in Courtattire. She had worn a plain cotton and a flapping straw hat when he sawher last.

Lady Pynsent's drawing-room was crowded, but she greeted her husband andMr. Campion with great cordiality. She was wearing an elaborate costumeof blue velvet and blush-rose satin, and bore an indescribableresemblance to a co*ckatoo. A dowager in black satin and two débutantesin white, who belonged to some country place and were resting at LadyPynsent's house before going home in the evening, were also present; butat first Sydney did not see Nan Pynsent. She had entered a littlemorning-room, with two or three friends of her own age, who wanted toinspect her dress more narrowly; and it was not until Sydney had been inthe room for five or ten minutes that she reappeared.

Was this stately and beautiful woman Nan Pynsent indeed? Sydney was notlearned in the art of dress, or he might have appraised more exactly theeffect produced by the exquisite lace, the soft white ostrich feathers,the milk-white pearls, that Nan was wearing on this memorable occasion.He was well accustomed by this time to the sight of pretty girls andpretty dresses; but there was something in Miss Pynsent's face andfigure which struck him with a new and almost reluctant sort ofadmiration.

He was looking at her, without knowing how intent his gaze had become,when she glanced round and caught his eye. She bowed and coloredslightly; then, after saying a word to Lady Pynsent, she came towardshim. Sydney was uncomfortably conscious that her evident intention tospeak to him made her a little nervous.

She held out her long, slim hand, and favored him with the pleasantestof smiles.

"How do you do, Mr. Campion? I have not met you for a long time, Ithink. How good of you to come to-day! Lady Pynsent is so pleased."

There was nothing for Sydney to do but to respond in the same graciousstrain; but he was certainly more reserved than usual in his speech, andbehaved with an almost exaggerated amount of respect and formality.After the first two or three sentences he noticed that her eyes began tolook abstractedly away from him, and that she answered one of hisremarks at random. And while he was wondering, with some irritation,what this change might mean, she drew back into a bow window, andmotioned to him almost imperceptibly to follow her. A heavy windowcurtain half hid them from curious eyes, and a bank of flowers in thewindow gave them an ostensible pretext for their withdrawal.

"Look at John's gloxinias," said Nan. "They came from Culverley, youknow. Oh, Mr. Campion, I want to tell you—I'm sorry that I was so rudeto you at Culverley last summer."

This proceeding was so undignified and so unexpected that Sydney wasstricken dumb with amaze.

"Perhaps you have forgotten it," said Nan, coloring hotly; "but I havenot. It all came from you not knowing who I was, I suppose—Mrs. Murraytold me that she believes you thought I was the governess; and if I hadbeen, how odd it must have seemed to you that I should talk about yourduties to the Vanebury laborers! You know I have some property there,and so——"

"Oh, it was perfectly natural, and I never thought of it again," saidSydney lamely. But she went on unheeding—

"And then I felt vexed, and when you asked me for a flower"—howinnocently it was said!—"I know I banged the door in your face. Selinasaid I must have been very rude to you. And so I was."

But Selina had not meant that she should acknowledge her "rudeness" toMr. Campion, nor had Nan told her of the bold admiration that she hadread in Sydney's eyes.

"Will you forgive me, Mr. Campion? You are such a friend of John's thatI should not like to think I had offended you."

"You never offended me, Miss Pynsent. In fact, I'm afraid—I—was verydense." He really did not know what to say; Miss Pynsent's naïvetéalmost alarmed him.

"Then you are not angry with me?"

How lovely were the eyes that looked so pleadingly into his face! Wasshe a coquette? But he could only answer as in duty bound—

"Not angry in the very least, Miss Pynsent."

"I am so glad. Because I want to talk to you about Vanebury one day. ButI must not stop now, for there are all these people to talk to, youknow."

"I may ask you to forgive the stupidity of my mistake, then?" saidSydney quickly.

"It was not stupid: how could you know who I was?——There, John, I havebeen showing Mr. Campion your gloxinias. Don't you think them lovely,Mr. Campion?"

And she glided away with the sweetest smile, and Sydney, after a fewwords with Sir John, took his departure, with a feeling of mingledgratification and amusem*nt which he found rather pleasant. So she hadnot thought him impertinent, after all? She did not seem to have noticedthe compliment that he had tried to pay her, and which he nowacknowledged to himself would have suited for Milly Harrington betterthan Sir John Pynsent's sister. Was she really as childlike as sheseemed, or was she a designing coquette?

The question was not a very important one, but it led Sydney to make agood many visits to Sir John's house during the next few weeks, in orderto determine the answer. Miss Pynsent's character interested him, hesaid to himself; and then she wanted to discuss the state of theworking-classes in Vanebury. He did not care very much for the state ofthe working-classes, but he liked to hear her talk to him about them. Itwas a pity that he sometimes forgot to listen to what she was saying;but the play of expression on her lovely face was so varied, the lightsand shadows in her beautiful eyes succeeded each other so rapidly, thathe was a little apt to look at her instead of attending to the subjectthat she had in hand.

This was quite a new experience to Sydney, and for some time his mindwas so much occupied by it that the season was half over before heactually faced the facts of the situation, and discovered that if hewanted to pluck this fair flower, and wear it as his own, Sir JohnPynsent was not the man to say him nay.

BOOK IV.

SORROW.

CHAPTER XX.

"I WAS THE MORE DECEIVED."

Milly Harrington had passed two months at Birchmead, and hergrandmother's neighbors were beginning to speculate on the probabilitiesof her staying over the summer.

"Poor soul; it's lonely for her," Mrs. Chigwin said to her friend,Elizabeth. "I do hope that Mr. Beadon, or whatever her husband's nameis, will come back before very long. She must be fretting for him, andfretting's so bad for her."

"You think there is a husband to come, do you?" asked Mrs. Bundlecombe,mysteriously.

"Why not, Bessy? She says she's married, and she wears a wedding-ring;and her clothes is beautiful."

"I'd like to see her marriage lines," said Mrs. Bundlecombe. "But,there! maybe I'm hard on her, poor thing, which I ought not to be,seeing that I know what trouble is, and how strangely marriages do turnout sometimes. But if there is a husband in the case, it's shameful theway he neglects her, never coming to see her, and going abroad onbusiness, as she says, while she stays with her grandmother!"

"She pays Mrs. Harrington," remarked Mrs. Chigwin, reflectively, "andshe always seems to have plenty of money; but she do look sad andmournful now and then, and money's not everything to those that want alittle love."

As she concluded her moral observation, she started up, for a shadowdarkened the open doorway: and on looking up, she saw that Milly herselfwas standing just outside. The girl's beautiful face was pale andagitated; and there were tears in her eyes. The old woman noticed thatshe was growing haggard, and that there were black lines beneath hereyes; they exchanged significant looks, and then asked her to step inand sit down.

"You run about too much and fatigue yourself," said Mrs. Chigwin. "Nowyou sit there and look at my flowers, how still they keep; they wouldn'tbe half so fine if I was always transplanting them. You want a good,quiet home for yourself: not to be moving about and staying withfriends, however fond of you they may be."

Milly had sunk into the chair offered to her, with a look of extremeexhaustion and fatigue, but at Mrs. Chigwin's words she sat up, and hereyes began to grow bright again.

"I think so myself, Mrs. Chigwin. I shall be glad to get back to my ownnice quiet home again. As for looking tired, it is only because I havebeen packing up my things and getting ready to go. Mr. Beadon haswritten to me to join him in London, and I am going to start this veryafternoon."

The rosy color came back into her face: she smiled triumphantly, but herlips quivered as she smiled.

"That's right, my dear. I don't approve of young husbands and wivesliving separate, unless there's some very good cause for it," said Mrs.Bundlecombe, thinking of her beloved Alan. "It always gives occasion tothe enemy, and I think you're very wise to go back. Perhaps you had somelittle bit of a tiff or misunderstanding with Mr. Beadon——"

"Oh no," said Milly. The color in her face was painfully hot now. "Mr.Beadon is always very good and kind. But," she continued, looking downand pushing her wedding-ring to and fro, "he is very busy indeed, and heis obliged to go abroad sometimes on business. He travels—I think hecalls it—for a great London house. He is getting on very well, he says,in his own particular line."

"Ah, that is nice!" said Mrs. Chigwin, comfortably. "And how glad youwill be to see each other."

"Oh, yes," faltered Milly. There was a curiously pathetic look in hergreat blue eyes such as we sometimes see in those of a timid child."Yes—very glad."

"And you'll bring him down here to see your grandmother, I suppose?She's not set eyes on him yet, has she? And how nice it will be for youto come down now and then—especially when you have a family, my dear,Birchmead being so healthy for children, and Mrs. Harrington such a goodhand with babies——"

Suddenly, and to Mrs. Chigwin's infinite surprise, Milly burst intotears. The loud, uncontrolled sobs frightened the two old women for amoment; then Mrs. Chigwin got up and fetched a glass of water, clickingher tongue against the roof of her mouth, and audibly expressing herfear that Milly's exertions had been "too much for her." But Mrs.Bundlecombe sat erect, with a look of something like disapproval uponher comely old face. She had her own views concerning Milly and her goodfortune; and soft and kind-hearted by nature as she was, there were somethings that Aunt Bessy never forgave. The wickedness of Alan's wife hadhardened her a little to youthful womankind.

"I'm better, thank you," said Milly, checking her sobs at last, andbeginning to laugh hysterically. "I don't know what made me give way so,I'm sure."

"You're tired, love," said Mrs. Chigwin, sympathetically, "and you'renot well, that's easy to see. You must just take care of yourself, oryou'll be laid up. You tell your good husband that from me, who havehad experience, though without a family myself."

Milly wiped the tears away, and rose from her chair.

"I'll tell him," she said. "But—oh, there's no need: he takes an awfullot of care of me, you've no idea! Why, it was he that said I had bettercome to my grandmother while he was away: he knew that granny would takecare of me; and now, you see"—with hasty triumph—"he wants me homeagain!"

She pocketed her handkerchief, and raised her head.

"I thought you said he had been abroad?" said Mrs. Bundlecombe.

"Of course I did, because he has been abroad," the girl said, laughingnervously. "But he's in London now. Well, good-bye, Mrs. Chigwin;good-bye, Mrs. Bundlecombe; you'll go in and comfort granny a bit whenI'm gone, won't you? She's been fretting this morning about my goingaway."

"Bless you, love," said Mrs. Chigwin. "I'll go in every day if you thinkit will do her any good. And if you write to her, Milly, she'll bepleased, I'm sure."

"I will write," said Milly, in rather a shame-faced way. "I was sobusy—or I'd have written oftener. Good-bye."

She looked at them wistfully, as if reluctant to take her leave; and herexpression so wrought upon Mrs. Chigwin's feelings that she kissed thegirl's cheek affectionately.

"Good-bye, love," she said; "you know where to find us when you want us,you know."

Milly departed, and the two friends remained silent until her lightfigure had passed the window, and the click of the garden gate told themthat she was well out of hearing. Then Mrs. Chigwin began, in rather apuzzled tone:

"You weren't very hearty with her, Elizabeth. You looked as if you hadsomething against her."

"I've this against her," said Mrs. Bundlecombe, smoothing down her blackapron with dignity, "that I believe there's something wrong about thatmarriage, and that if I were Mrs. Harrington I wouldn't be satisfieduntil I'd seen her marriage lines."

"Perhaps she has seen them," said Mrs. Chigwin, the pacific. "And we'venothing to go upon, Bessy, and I'm sure the idea would never haveentered my head but for you."

"Why did she burst out crying when you talked of her husband andchildren coming down here?" asked Mrs. Bundlecombe, acutely. "It may bethat she isn't to blame; but there's something wrong somewhere. She'shurried and flurried and worried."

And this was true. The summons which Milly had received was of thebriefest and least intelligible character. It was in a handwriting thatshe knew well, and although it was unsigned she was tremulously readyand eager to obey it at once. "Come back to your old lodgings atHampstead," the writer said. "Do not stay any longer at Birchmead: Iwant you in London." And that was almost all.

Milly hovered all day long between alternations of wild hope and wilddespair. If she had been accustomed to self-analysis, she herself mighthave been surprised to see how widely her present moods differed fromthose which had dominated her when she lived at Maple Cottage. She wasthen a vain, self-seeking little damsel, affectionate and uncorrupted,with an empty head, indeed, but an innocent heart. Now both self-seekingand vanity were being scourged out of her by force of the love which shehad learnt to feel. She was little changed in manner, and an observermight have said that she was as childishly pleased as ever with a newgaud or a pretty toy; but behind the self-sufficiency of her demeanor,and the frivolity of her tastes, there was something new—something morereal and living than mere self-indulgence and conceit. The faculty ofgiving and spending herself for others had sprung into being with thefirst love she had known. For the man with whom she had gone away fromLettice's house she was willing to lay down her life if he would butaccept the gift. And when he seemed loath to accept it, Milly becameconscious of a heart-sick shame and pain which had already often broughttears that were not unworthy to her pretty childish eyes. The strengthof her own feelings frightened her sometimes: she did not know how toresist the surging tide of passion and longing and regret that rose andfell within her breast, as uncontrollable by her weak will as the wavesby the Danish king of history. Poor Milly's soul had been born withinher, as a woman's soul is often born through love, and the acquisitioncost her nothing but pain as yet, although it might ultimately lead herto a higher life.

She arrived at the lodgings in Hampstead which had formerly been hers,about five o'clock in the afternoon. The landlady received hercordially, saying that "the gentleman had bespoke the rooms," and Millywas taken at once into the sitting-room, which looked west, and waslighted by a flood of radiance from the setting sun. Milly sank down ona sofa, in hopeless fatigue.

"Did he say that he would be home to-night?" she asked of the landlady.

"No, Mrs. Beadon, he didn't; but he said that he was very busy in thecity and would write or send if he couldn't come himself."

"How was he looking?"

"Oh, very well, but a bit worried, I thought," said Mrs. Capper. "Nowlet me take your things, ma'am, and then I'll bring up the tea: youdon't look as if your stay in the country had done you much good afterall."

"Oh, I'm very well," said Milly, unfastening her mantle and coloringwith nervousness under the woman's sharp eye. "I daresay Mr. Beadon willcome to-morrow, if he doesn't come to-night."

But nobody came, although she sat up watching and waiting for many hoursafter Mrs. Capper had betaken herself to her bed. What did this silenceand absence mean? Her heart contracted with a curious dread. She loved,but she had never believed herself capable of retaining love.

About eleven o'clock next day, she was informed that a gentleman wantedto speak to her. "A young-looking, fair gentleman, like a clerk," saidMrs. Capper. "Shall I show him up? It's from your good 'usband, mostlikely, I should think."

Milly started from the chair by the window, where she had been sitting."Oh, show him up, at once, please."

With one hand on the table, and her delicate face flushed, she presenteda picture of loveliness such as the man who entered did not often see.He even paused for a moment on the threshold as if too much amazed toenter, and his manner was somewhat uneasy as he bowed to her, with hiseyes fixed in a rather furtive manner on her face.

He was a man of thirty-five, although his smooth-shaven face and fairhair made him look younger than his years. It was a commonplacecountenance, shrewd and intelligent enough, but not very attractive.There was a certain honesty in his eyes, however, which redeemed theplainness of his insignificant and irregular features.

"Mrs. Beadon, I think?" he said. "My name's Johnson. I come fromMr.—Mr. Beadon with a message."

"Yes?" said Milly, her hand upon her side. "What is it, please? Tell mequickly—is he coming to-day?"

The man looked at her oddly. There was something like pity in his eyes.

"Not to-day, madam," he replied.

Milly sank down on her chair again and sighed deeply. The color left hercheeks.

"I have a communication to make, madam," said the clerk, ratherhesitatingly, "which I am afraid may be a little painful, though not,Mr. Beadon tells me, unexpected by you. I hope that you will beprepared——"

"Go on," said Milly, sharply. "What is it? Why have you come?"

"Mr. Beadon wishes you to understand, madam, that he is going abroadagain very shortly. He advises you to inform the landlady of this fact,which will explain his absence. But he also commissions me to put intoyour hands a sum for your present expenses, and to inform you that hewill be quite willing to assist you at any time if you make applicationto him through me—at the address which I am to give you. Any personalapplication to himself will be disregarded."

"But, do you mean," said Milly, her cheeks growing very white, "that heis not coming—to say good-bye—before he goes abroad?"

"He thinks it better to spare you and himself an interview that might beunpleasant," said Mr. Johnson. "You understand, I suppose—a—that Mr.Beadon—my principal, that is—wishes to close his relations with youfinally."

Milly started to her feet and drew herself to her full height. Hercheeks were blazing now, her eyes on fire. "But I am his wife!" shecried.

Johnson looked at her for a moment in silent admiration. He had notliked the errand on which he was sent, and he liked it now less thanever.

"Pardon me, madam," he said, in some embarrassment; "but Mr. Beadon isunder the impression that you understand—that you have understood allalong—that you were not legally in that position——"

"You mean," she said, her whole form quivering in her excitement, "thatwhat he told me was false?—that when he said that our declarationbefore witnesses that we were man and wife was a true marriage—you meanthat that was a lie?"

Johnson looked at the walls and the ceiling—anywhere but at poorMilly's agonized face.

"It was not a marriage, madam," he said, in a regretful tone.

"Then he—he—deceived me—purposely? Oh, he is wicked! he is base! AndI thought myself—I thought myself——"

Her fingers clutched at the neck of her dress, as if to tear it open,and so relieve the swelling of her throat.

"Does he think that he can make it up to me with money? Oh, I'll takenothing from him any more. Let him go if he will, and his money too—Ishall die and be forgotten—I won't live to bear the shame of it—thepain—the——"

She did not finish her sentence. Her slight form was swaying to and fro,like a reed shaken by the wind; her face had grown whiter and whiter asshe went on: finally she flung up her arms and fell senseless to thefloor. The end of all her hopes and fears—of all her joys and longingand desire, was worse to her than death.

Johnson lifted her to the sofa, with a sort of awkward tenderness, whichperhaps he would not have liked to acknowledge to his master; and then,before summoning Mrs. Capper, he thrust into Milly's pocket the envelopecontaining the banknotes and the address which he had brought with him.He knew that his master was "doing the thing handsomely," as far asmoney was concerned, and he had no doubt but that the forsaken womanwould see, when she had got over her first mad frenzy of despair, thatshe had better accept and use his gifts. So he stowed the envelope awayin her pocket, so that it might not attract the curious eyes of pryingservant or landlady.

Then he called to Mrs. Capper, and gave her a brief explanation ofMilly's swoon. "The lady's a little overcome," he said. "Mr. Beadon hasgot to go abroad, and couldn't find time to see her before he went."

"Hard-heated brute!" said the landlady, as she chafed Milly's hands, andheld a smelling-bottle to her nose.

"Oh, dear, no!" said Mr. Johnson, briskly. "Family ties must not standin the way of business. I wish you good-day, and hope the lady will soonbe better."

And he left the house rather hurriedly, for he had no desire toencounter the despairing appeal of Milly's eyes when she recovered fromher swoon.

"It is a little too bad to make me his messenger," he said to himself."He may do his dirty work himself another time. I thought she was quitea different sort of person. Poor thing! I wonder how he feels about her,or whether he feels anything at all."

He had an opportunity of putting his master's equanimity to the testwhen he made his report of the interview—a report which was made thatvery afternoon, in spite of his representations that Mr. Beadon hadalready gone abroad.

"Well, you saw her?" he was asked.

"Yes, sir. I said what you desired, and gave her the money."

"Any fuss?"

"She fainted—that was all," said Johnson, grimly.

"But she kept the money?"

"She had no choice. I put it into her pocket while she was unconscious,and then summoned the landlady."

"Ah, yes, that was right. And she understands——"

"Everything that you wish her to understand," said the clerk, with atouch of disrespect in his manner, which his employer noticed, andsilently resented.

"Well, it had to be done, and the sooner the better," he said, turningaway.

"So I suppose," said Johnson.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE TONGUE OF SCANDAL.

Alan returned to town with the full knowledge that he had somethingformidable to face and overcome.

He had gone to Birchmead partly in redemption of an old promise to hisaunt, not knowing when he might be able to keep it if he did not do sonow, and partly because his mind had been distracted by a fresh outbreakof violence in his wife, and he found it absolutely impossible to sitstill and endure in patience.

The country journey refreshed him, and he came back stronger and braverthan before. He was resolved to press for his divorce, and as Letticewas in Italy, no time could be better than the present for proving tothe desperate woman, who was trying to terrify him, that there were lawsin England to which she must yield obedience. He assured himself that hewas now prepared for any fate; and yet that which had happened before heleft town was an earnest of what he had to expect.

What had happened was this.

A few days before Cora had been served with a notice to appear anddefend the suit for divorce which her husband was bringing against her;and this had set her inflammable soul on fire. She had tried hard todiscover his whereabouts, without success. She had gone to Maple Cottageand banged at the door in such furious style, that a policeman, whohappened to be passing, came up to see what was wrong, just as the newoccupants made their appearance, in mingled alarm and indignation.

"I want Miss Campion," said Cora, who was half-intoxicated, but stillmore excited by rage and jealousy.

"She no longer lives here," said the man at the door.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. And I should not tell you if I did. Policeman, take thiswoman in charge for annoying me! You must have seen her knocking like afury—and now she is evidently tipsy."

Her rage increased rather than diminished when she found that herintended prey had escaped her, she began to declaim at the top of hervoice, and to shriek hysterically; and the policeman, regarding it as asimple case of "drunk and disorderly," took her off to the station,where she was locked up.

The first that Alan heard of it was from the papers next morning. In oneof these, which he was accustomed to read after breakfast, he found thefollowing report:—

"At Hammersmith, a dissipated-looking woman, who gave the name of CoraWalcott, was charged with being drunk and disorderly on the previousday, and annoying Mr. Peter Humphreys, of Maple Cottage, Brook Green.Sergeant T 14 stated that he had observed the prisoner behaving in anextraordinary manner outside Mr. Humphreys' house, and knocking at thedoor in a most violent manner. As she would not go away, and her conductwas a serious annoyance to the neighbors, he was compelled to take herinto custody. In reply to the prisoner, the witness said that she wasundoubtedly drunk. She had asked for Miss Campion, and he hadascertained that that lady did previously live at Maple Cottage. She hadtold him that she was the wife of Mr. Alan Walcott, who had desertedher, after making an attempt on her life. The magistrate hereinterposed, and said that the prisoner's questions were totallyirrelevant. What she had stated, even if true, was no excuse whateverfor the conduct of which she had been guilty. Prisoner (excitedly):'This woman had taken my husband from me.' Magistrate: 'Be silent.'Prisoner: 'Am I to starve in the streets, whilst they are living inluxury?' Magistrate: 'You are fined five shillings and costs. If youhave grievances you must find another way of remedying them. If you sayany more now, I shall have to send you to prison without the option of afine.' The money was paid by a gentleman in court."

As soon as Alan had read this he went to the solicitor who knew all hisaffairs, and got him to go to the Hammersmith Police Court. Themagistrate permitted him to make a statement contradicting the lies toldby Cora, and the newspapers printed what he said. But how many personsread the first report who never saw the second? And how many of thosewho read both preferred to believe the scandal, taking the contradictionas a matter of course?

The "gentleman in court" who paid Cora's fine was an enterprisingreporter, who thought it might be worth his while to hear what thisdeserted wife had to say. He knew two or three papers which wouldwelcome a bit of copy dealing with the marital troubles of a well-knownliterary man. The story of this French wife might be a tissue oflies—in which case it would be a real advantage to Mr. Walcott and MissCampion to have it printed and refuted. Or it might be partly or whollytrue—in which case it was decidedly in the interest of the public tomake it known. The argument is familiar to everyone connected with apopular newspaper, and it proves that sensational journalists have theirdistinct place in the cosmogony of nature, being bound to print what isscandalous, either for the sake of those who are libelled or out ofsimple justice to those who start and spread the libel. This desire togive fair play all round, even to slanderers and malefactors, and thecommon father of these, is the crown and apex of civilization.

The consequence of this gentleman's activity was that Cora found plentyof assistance in her malicious design, to take away the characters ofAlan and Lettice. The charges which she brought against her husband wereprinted and commented on in some very respectable newspapers, and wererepeated with all kinds of enlargement and embellishment wherever theretailers of gossip were gathered together. If Alan had been under acloud before, he was now held up to scorn as a mean-spirited creaturewithout heart or conscience, who had allowed his lawful wife to sinkinto an abyss of degradation. However bad she might be, the blamecertainly rested with him as the stronger. If it was impossible to livewith her now, he might, at any rate, have stretched out his hand longago, and rescued her from the slough of despond into which she hadfallen.

This was not, of course, the universal judgment; but it was the popularone. It might not even have been the popular judgment a year before, ora year after, but it was the judgment of the day. The multitude iswithout responsibility in such cases, it decides without deliberation,and it often mistakes its instincts for the dictates of equity. Alan wasjudged without being heard, or what he did say in his defence wasreceived as though it were the mere hard-swearing of a desperate man.

The storm had begun to rage when he went to Birchmead, and it reachedits height soon after he returned. His lawyer advised him to bring anaction for libel against one paper which had committed itself moredeeply than the rest, and the threat of this had the effect of checkingpublic references to his case; but the mischief was already done.Nothing could make him more disgusted and wretched than he had been forsome time past, so far as his own interests were concerned. It was onlythe dragging of Lettice's name into the miserable business which nowpained and tormented him.

But there was one who had more right than himself to come forward as thechampion of Lettice's fair fame, and was able to do it with bettereffect. When a man is a Member of Parliament and a Queen's Counsel, heoccupies a position which his fellow-countrymen are inclined to regardas one of very considerable dignity. Editors and sub-editors think twicebefore they print unsubstantiated rumors about the near relatives ofsuch distinguished individuals as Mr. Sydney Campion, Q.C., M.P. Thus,after the first report of the proceedings at the police court, Lettice'sname scarcely appeared again. She was, indeed, referred to as "the ladywho seems, reasonably or unreasonably, to have excited the jealousy ofthe unfortunate wife," or "the third party in this lamentable case, alsowell-reputed in the world of letters, with whom the tongue of scandalhas been busy;" but she was not mentioned by name. And therein thescandal-mongers exercised a wise discretion, for Sydney had secured theassistance of Mr. Isaacs, one of the smartest solicitors in London, whofound means to impress upon everyone whom it might concern that it wouldbe a very serious matter indeed to utter anything approaching to a libelon Miss Lettice Campion.

Moreover, the worthy Mr. Isaacs had an interview with Cora, whom hefound in a sober mood, and so terrified her by his warnings and menaces,but most of all by the impressive manner and magnetic eye wherewith hewas wont to overawe malefactors of every kind and degree, that sheceased for a time to speak evil of Lettice.

Yet in Lettice's case also the mischief had been done already. All whomade a point of hearing and remembering the ill that is spoken of theirfellow-creatures, knew what had been said of her, and retailed it inprivate for the amusem*nt of their friends. The taint had spread fromAlan to her, and her character suffered before the world for absolutelyno fault of hers, but solely because she had the misfortune to know him.That was Sydney's way of putting it—and, indeed, it was Alan's wayalso, for there was no other conclusion at which it was possible toarrive.

It was a great consolation for both these men that Lettice was out ofthe country at this time. Sydney wrote to her, hinting as delicately ashe could that it was essential to her interests and to his own that sheshould remain abroad for at least two or three months longer. Alan wroteabout the same time to Mrs. Hartley, telling her in detail what hadhappened, and entreating her to put off her return to London as late asshe could. It was not a time, he thought, to hesitate as to whetheranything could justify him in making such a request.

Mrs. Hartley was treating Lettice very well at Florence, and had nointention of letting her come back in a hurry. She did not see fit totell her of Alan's letter, for her recovery had been very slow, andfresh mental worry appeared to be the last thing to which she ought tobe subjected. Nor was Lettice made aware of anything connected with Alanand his troubles, although her companion heard yet more startling newswithin the next few weeks. Mrs. Hartley had come to be very fond ofLettice, and she guarded her jealously, with all the tyranny of an oldwoman's love for a young one. The first thing, in her mind, was to getrid of the nervous prostration from which Lettice had been suffering,and to restore her to health and strength.

"We shall not go back to London," she said, in answer to a mildexpostulation from her friend, "until you are as well as ever you were.Why should we? You have no ties there, no house, no friends who cannotspare you for a month or two. By and by you can begin to write, if youmust write; but we shall quarrel if you insist on going back. What makesyou so restless?"

"I am idle; and I hate to have nothing to do. Besides, how can one tellwhat is going on, so far away from all one's friends and connections? Ifone of your friends were in difficulties or danger, would you not wishto be near him (or her), and do what you could to help?"

"Of whom are you thinking, dear?" Mrs. Hartley turned round on herquickly as she asked this question.

"I put it generally," Lettice said, looking frankly at her friend, butfeeling hot and troubled at the same time.

"Oh, it was a mere hypothesis?"

"Well, no; it was not."

"I am not questioning you, my darling. At least, I don't want to. Butyou can do no good to anybody just now—believe me! You must get quitewell and strong, and then perhaps you can fight for yourself or forother people. I don't dispute your title to fight, when and where andhow you like; and if ever I am in trouble, the Lord send me such achampion! But get strong first. If you went out with your shield thismorning, you would come back upon it to-night."

So Lettice had to be patient yet awhile.

CHAPTER XXII.

LETTICE TRIUMPHS.

But there was news of another kind which Mrs. Hartley did not concealfrom Lettice. Her novel had been published, and it was a great success.The critics, who already knew something of her literary powers, had withone consent written long and special articles about "Laurels andThorns," hailing it as a veritable triumph. It was original, andphilosophic, and irresistibly pathetic; the style sufficed to mark itsauthor as one of the few novelists whose literary form wasirreproachable. Perhaps the praise was here and there extravagant, butit was practically universal. And it was not confined to the critics.The reading world more than endorsed it. Second and third editions ofthe book were called for within a month. Writers of leading articles andspeakers on public platforms began to quote and commend her.

Most remarkable of all, her novel made a conquest of her brother Sydney.He did not care for novels as a rule, but he read "Laurels and Thorns,"and was desperately interested in it. Perhaps the phenomenal successwhich had crowned it had some effect upon him; and Lady Pynsent wrotehim a nice letter of congratulation, expressing a great desire to knowhis "distinguished sister." At all events, the thing was done, andLettice must now be definitely accepted as a writer of books. Whatchiefly puzzled him was to think where she had learned her wisdom, howshe came to be witty without his knowing it, and whence proceeded thatintimate acquaintance with the human heart of which the critics weretalking. He had not been accustomed to take much account of his sister,in spite of her knack with the pen; and even now he thought that shemust have been exceedingly lucky.

It will readily be supposed that the breath of scandal which had passedover Lettice was in no way a drawback to the triumph of her book. Themore she was talked about in connection with that sorry business, themore her novel came to be in demand at the libraries, and thus she hadsome sort of compensation for the gross injustice which had been done toher. One small-minded critic, sitting down to his task with thepreconceived idea that she was all that Cora Walcott had declared her tobe, and finding in "Laurels and Thorns" the history of a woman whor*garded the essence of virtue as somewhat more important than theoutward semblance, attacked her vehemently for a moral obliquity whichexisted in his own vision alone. This review also stimulated the runupon her book, and carried it into a fourth edition.

Lettice's fortune was made. She had nothing to do for the remainder ofher life but to choose where she would live, to take a house, to fill itwith furniture, to gratify every reasonable want, on the one conditionthat she should devote herself to honest hard work, and give to herfellow-creatures the best that she was capable of producing.

It was all that her ambition had ever led her to desire, and it came toher at a time of life when her enjoyment was likely to be most keen andcomplete. Unless her own hand put aside the cup, it was hers to drinkand to be satisfied.

And what did Alan think of it? She wondered dimly now and then if he hadread it, and what he thought of the words that she had spoken out of afull heart to him and to him alone. Did he guess it? And would he everknow? She would have been answered if she could have seen him on acertain day in April, when she was in Florence and he in London town.

Alan Walcott sat in his room, on the first floor of a house between theStrand and the River Thames, reading Lettice Campion's book. He had readit once, from beginning to end, and now he was turning back to thepassages which had moved him most deeply, anxious not to lose the lightfrom a single facet of the gem that sparkled in his hands. It would havebeen a gem to Alan even if the world had not seen its beauty, and he wasjealous of those who could lavish their praise on this woman whom heknew and worshipped, when his own hard fate compelled him to be silent.

How well he recognized her thoughts and moods in every page of thestory! How familiar were many of the reflections, and even the verywords which she employed! Here and there the dialogue recalled to hismind conversations which he had held with her in the happy days gone by.In one case, at least, he found that she had adopted a view of his ownwhich he had maintained in argument against her, and which at the timeshe had not been willing to accept. It rejoiced him to see the mark ofhis influence, however slight, upon one who had so deeply impressed herimage on his mind.

The novel was a revelation to him in more ways than one. It was as ifshe had spoken to him, for himself alone, words of wisdom and comfortand encouragement. That, indeed, was precisely what she haddone—consciously and of set purpose—though he did not know it. Theplot went home to his heart. When the heroine spoke to the hero heseemed to catch the very tones of her voice, to see the lips in motion,and to read in her eyes the spirit and confirmation of the words. Therewas nothing in the incidents of "Laurels and Thorns" which resembled hisown troubles or the relations which had existed between them—except thesimple fact of the mutual intellectual and moral sympathy of the twocentral characters. The hero had won his crown of laurels and wore hiscrown of thorns; the heroine, who could not love him in his triumph, hadloved him in his humiliation.

Both descended in the scale of material prosperity to rise in the scaleof honor and mutual respect; the glory of life was extinguished, but itgave place to the glory of love. Alan read again and again the borrowedwords with which Lettice's heroine concluded her written confession oflove for the man whom she had once rejected, and who thought himselfprecluded by his disgrace from coming to her again.

These were words of comfort to Alan, if only he dare take them tohimself, if he dare imagine that Lettice had had him in her mind as shewrote, and had sent him that message to restore his self-respect andsave him from despair.

He sat for some time with the book before him, and then another thoughtcame into his head. Why should he not write to her, just a few words tolet her know that what she had written had gone home to his heart, andthat amongst all her critics there was not one who understood her betterthan he? He was entitled to do this; it was almost due to himself to doit. He would take care not to make a fool of himself this time, as hehad done in his first letter to her.

So he took a pen and wrote:

"I have read your book. You would not expect to find me amongst thecritics: I only write to thank you for the pleasure and the courage ithas given me. Some parts have fitted my case so exactly that I haveapplied them and made use of them, as any chance comer is permitted todo with any work of art.

"This is a great work you have produced, and I always knew that youwould do great things. Count me not last of those who praise you, andwho look to see your future triumphs. Alan Walcott."

He put the letter in an envelope, sealed and addressed it. Then heleaned back in his chair, and began to muse again.

What a failure his life had been! He had told himself so a hundred timesof late, but the truth of the verdict was more and more vivid every day.Surely he had set out from the beginning with good intentions, with highmotives, with an honorable ambition. No man ever had a more just father,a more devoted mother, a happier home, a more careful and conscientioustraining. He had never seen a flaw in either of his parents, and it hadbeen his single purpose to imitate their devotion to duty, their piety,their gentle consideration for all with whom they had to deal. It hadstruck him sometimes as almost strange (he had suspected once that itwas a trifle unpoetical) that he had rather sought out than shunned hishumbler relatives in the little shop at Thorley, taking the utmost carethat their feelings should never be hurt by his more refined educationand tastes. Of these three friends of his youth who were dead he couldhonestly say (but he did not say all this), that he had been dutiful tothem, and that he had not wilfully brought sorrow upon any one of them.

Where had he gone so far astray as to merit, or even to bring about, theanguish which had fallen upon him? True, he had given himself topleasure for the few years which succeeded his father's death. He hadtraveled, he had enjoyed the society of men and women, he had lived anidle life—except inasmuch as he aspired to be a poet, and wrote two orthree volumes which the world had accepted and thanked him for, but thestandard of his boyhood had never been rejected—he had been considerateof the feelings of every man and woman (Lettice alone, perhaps, havingthe right to deny it), and had not permitted himself one pleasure, oraction, or relaxation, which might give pain to another. That had beenhis rule of life. Was it not enough?

He had teased himself, as thoughtful men and women often have done, andmore often will do, about the problem of human morals. It had notoccurred to him that the morals which have no conscious basis are likelyto be more sound and permanent than those which are consciously builtup; and, as a matter of fact, his own were of that kind, though he hadhis rule and considered himself to be guided by it. "That which gives nopain to another, and does not deteriorate another, or oneself, or anysentient being, cannot be immoral, though circ*mstances may make itinexpedient." He had written that sentence in his diary before he wastwenty, at an age when the expanding soul craves for talismans andgolden maxims, and he had clung to it ever since. For what violation ofthe law did he suffer now?

This was not Lettice's way of looking at it. The hero of her story wasan urn in the hands of a divine artist, and a sterner stress wasnecessary for the consummate work. But he, Alan, was no hero. Horace'verse was nearer the mark with him.

As water to wine were all the uses of his life henceforth, compared withthat which might have been.

But, sad as he was, if Lettice could have read within his heart shewould have been satisfied with her work.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"AM I A MURDERER?"

Footsteps outside his door roused Alan from his train of thoughts. Onlyhis landlady came along that passage, for there were no lodgers on thesame floor, nor on the one above it. A louder knock than Mrs. Gorman waswont to give made him start from his seat.

"Come in!" he cried; but before the words were spoken the door wasthrown open and Cora made her appearance. Alan turned sick at heart, andstood leaning on the end of the mantelpiece, gazing at her without aword.

"Ah, my dear," she said, with a little laugh of amusem*nt as she saw thedisconcerted look on his face, "they have not deceived me! They did notoffer to conduct me, but they said I should find you here—first floorfront—and here you are! It is long since we met, is it not? You havesent huissiers, and gendarmes, and police to bring me your messages, asa king to his subject, or a judge to a criminal. You should have comeyourself, my friend, for I have longed to see you. Are you not glad thatwe meet thus, alone, face to face, without fear of intrusion?"

She had shut the door behind her, and sat down in his easy chair by thetable, inviting him with a gesture to take a seat by her side.

"Approach!" she said, in a soft but mocking voice. "Be amiable! Let ustalk. I come for peace, not for war. Let us make terms with each other.I am sick of this farce of hostility between husband and wife—let usarrange our little disagreements. Come!"

Her familiar tone was odious to him. The sudden perversion of histhoughts from Lettice to this creature, from his dream of purity andelevation to this degrading reality, filled him with disgust. Nay,something more than disgust entered his mind as he saw the smile on herbesotted face. A demon of revenge seized upon him, and all but gainedthe mastery. For one instant he was perilously near to springing on herwhere she sat, and strangling the life out of her. All passions and allpossibilities are in the soul of every one of us, at every moment; onlythe motive power, the circ*mstance, the incitement, are needed to makeus cross the boundary of restraint. If Alan was not a murderer, it wasnot because the thing was impossible to him, but because at the crisisof temptation his heart had been penetrated by the influence of thewoman whom he revered, and filled with higher thoughts—even through thechannel of humiliation and self-contempt.

He answered her calmly.

"There is no arranging what has happened between us two—nor do you wish*t any more than I. Say what you want to say, and go."

"Good! I will say what I want to say—but I will not go. I mean to staywith my husband; it is my right. Till death do us part—are not thosethe pretty words of the farce we played together?"

"Who made it a farce—did I?"

"Listen, my friend. This is one thing I want to say. Assuredly it wasyou, and no other, who made our marriage a miserable failure. You tookme from a life I loved, from friends who loved me, from a freedom whichI valued, and you made no effort to study my tastes and accommodateyourself to my habits."

"God knows I made the effort. But what were those tastes and habits?Think of them—think of them all! Could I have accommodated myself toall—even to those you concealed from me?"

"Bah! you should have known whom you had married. You were so blind andfoolish, that I had a right to think you would never interfere with myliberty. I was the child of liberty—and liberty is a sacred possession,which it is an outrage to take away from any woman. You expected me tochange, to become all at once another being, cold and impassive likeyourself—while, as for you, you were to change in nothing! It was yourduty to come to my level—at least to approach it. I would have met youhalfway; we could have made our contract, and I would have kept my partof the bargain. You demanded too much, and that is why you losteverything. I condemn you—humanity condemns you. The ruin was yourwork!"

"There is something novel in the theory, but I don't think many peoplewould accept it." He was prepared to talk seriously with her, if shewished it, but no man could be serious in view of such a preposterousclaim. So he fell back upon the cold, ironical calmness whichexasperated Cora far more than a storm of rage would have done. "At anyrate," he said, "I did not deprive you of your liberty. You retainedthat!"

"I kept it for myself. You would have taken it away, and you hated mefor keeping it. I keep it still. I have been free to go where I would,free to wander over this terrible and desolate city, free now to comeback to you, and stay with you, until you swear to cease yourpersecutions, and swear to make a new compact on more equitable terms."

"It is impossible to make terms with you, for you do not observe them.The law will bind you down more strictly. Meanwhile you cannot remainhere, as you propose."

"Do you mean to throw me into the street?" she asked, passionately."Alive or dead, I stay here until the compact is made."

"You need have no fear of me; I am not going to kill you."

"Fear! Of you! Do not flatter yourself, my friend!"

With an insulting laugh she plucked a thin stiletto from under hercloak, and brandished it before him. Alan recognized it as one which hehad missed after her visit to Montagu Place.

"Look there! Would you like to feel if it is sharp, or will you take myword for it? We may want that before we part. I do not much care whetheryou use it or I; but I will not leave this room unless you concede allthat I ask. Do not stand so far from me, coward. You smile, but you areafraid!"

"Why should I fear your play-acting? You will not touch me, for so longas I live you hope to get money from me, and if I were dead you wouldstarve."

"Miserable hound! Do you not think that hate is stronger even than loveof gold?"

"Not your hate. Throw that useless toy away. Love of gold and love ofself make us both perfectly safe."

"Listen to my terms."

"No; they are refused before you ask them. The law is in motion—nothingshall prevent me from getting my divorce."

"That you may marry this woman!" she blazed forth, jumping from herseat, with Lettice's book in her hand. It had been lying before her, andthe name had caught her eye. "You shall never marry her—I swear it bymy father's grave. You shall never divorce me!"

She flung the book in his face.

"Let me pass!" he said, moving quietly to the door.

"Never!"

She seized the dagger, and stood before him, swaying with her violentemotion.

"Let me pass," he said again, still pressing forward.

She raised the weapon in her hand. Not a moment too soon he grasped herwrist, and tried to take it from her with his other hand.

There was a struggle—a loud scream—a heavy fall—and silence.

A minute later Mrs. Gorman, attracted by the noise, burst into the room.

Cora was lying on the floor, and Alan, with white face and bloody hand,was drawing the fatal weapon from her breast.

Mrs. Gorman's first act was to rush to the open window, and call for thepolice. Then she knelt by Cora's body, and tried to staunch the flowingblood.

A lodger from the floor beneath, who had come in behind the landlady,was looking at the prostrate body. He was a medical student, and perhapsthought it necessary to give his opinion in a case of this sort.

"She cannot live ten minutes," he said; but that did not prevent himfrom assisting Mrs. Gorman in her work.

Alan had staggered back against the wall, still holding the dagger inhis hand. He scarcely knew what had happened, but the words of the lastspeaker forced themselves upon him with terrible distinctness.

"My God," he cried, "am I a murderer?"

And he fell upon the chair, and buried his face in his hands.

CHAPTER XXIV.

HOPELESS.

"If she dies," Graham said to his wife, in answer to Clara's anxiousquestioning, on the morning after Alan Walcott's arrest, "it will be acase of murder or manslaughter. If she gets over it he will be chargedwith an attempt to murder, or to do grievous bodily harm, and as therewould be her evidence to be considered in that case the jury would besure to take the worst view of it. That might mean five or ten years,perhaps more. The best thing that could happen for him would be herdeath, then they might incline to believe his statement, and a clevercounsel might get him off with a few months' imprisonment."

"Poor man," said Clara, "how very shocking it is!" She was thinking notof Alan alone, but of Alan's friends. "Is there no hope of his beingacquitted altogether?"

"How could there be? The evidence is only too clear. The landlady heardthem quarrelling and struggling together, then there was a loud scream,and just as she entered the room the poor wretch was falling to theground. Walcott had his hand on the dagger, which was still in hiswife's breast. Then the other lodger came in, and he declares that heheard Walcott say he was a murderer. It seems as plain as it couldpossibly be."

"But think of the two, as we know them to have been, and the relationswhich have existed between them for years past. Surely that must tell inhis favor?"

"We are not the jury, remember. And, as for that, it would only go toshow a motive for the crime, and make a conviction all the more certain.No doubt it might induce them to call it manslaughter instead of murder,and the judge might pass a lighter sentence."

"I do hope she will not die. It would be terrible to have her death onhis conscience."

"Well, of course, death is an ugly word, and no one has a right to wishthat another might die. At the same time, I should say it would be ahappy release for such a creature, who can have nothing but miserybefore her. But it will make little difference to him. He is entirelyruined, so far as his reputation is concerned. He could never hold hisground in England again, though he might have a second chance at theother side of the world. What Britain can't forget, Australia forgives.Heaven created the Antipodes to restore the moral balance of Europe."

"That is a poor satisfaction," said Clara, "to a man who does not wantto live out of his own country."

"Unfortunately, my dear, we cannot always choose our lot, especiallywhen we have had the misfortune to kill or maim somebody in a fit ofpassion."

"I cannot believe that it is even so bad as that. It must have been anaccident."

"I wish I could think so; but if it is, no doubt the man may have thecourage of his conscience, and then there will be nothing to prevent himfrom trying to live it down in London. I should not care for that sortof thing myself. I confess I depend too much on other people'sopinions."

"It would be a terrible fight to live it down in London—terrible, bothfor him and his friends."

"Ah," said Graham, quickly, "it is a good thing that he has nobody inparticular depending on him, no specially intimate friends that we areaware of."

Clara looked steadily at the wall for two or three minutes, whilst herhusband finished his breakfast.

"I wrote to Lettice last night," she said at last, "but, of course, Iknew nothing of this business then."

"I am very glad you did not. What on earth put Lettice into your head?She has no conceivable interest in this miserable affair."

"I think it is rather too much to say that she has no interest at all.We know that she was interested in him."

"We know that he is a married man."

Graham's tone was growing a little savage, as it did sometimes,especially with his wife, whom he very sincerely loved. But Clara didnot heed the warning note.

"Facts are facts, and we should not ignore them. I am sure they likeeach other, and his misfortune will be a great grief to her."

"It was just what was wanted, then, to bring her to her senses. She mayrecognize now that Walcott is a man of ungovernable passions. In allprobability he will be a convicted felon before she comes back toEngland, and she will see that it is impossible to know any more ofhim."

"Oh, James, how hard you are! She will never think of him as a felon. Nomore shall I!"

"He will be one, whatever you may think. As you said yourself, facts arefacts, and they will have their proper influence upon you sooner orlater."

"But do you think that Lettice is the woman to change her opinion of aman just because he is unfortunate, or to despise him as soon as he getsinto trouble? I am perfectly sure she is not."

"We shall see," said Graham. "I give her credit for more sense. I don'tthink you recognize yet the sort of offence which Walcott has committed,so we may as well drop the subject for a time. I hope, however, that youwill not do anything which might bring her home just now. Clearly shecould not do any good, and even on your own showing it would be aneedless vexation to her."

He went off to his study, and Clara set about her household tasks with aheavy heart.

The fact was that she could hardly doubt that Alan Walcott had injuredhis wife in a moment of desperation, when he was not fully responsiblefor his actions; but she certainly doubted the justice of any law whichcould condemn him as a murderer; or doom him to be an outcast amongsthis fellowmen. Her sense of equity might have suited the Saturnian reignbetter than our matter-of-fact nineteenth century, in which the precisemore or less of criminality in the soul of an accused man is not theonly thing which has to be taken into consideration.

Was there ever a malefactor condemned to imprisonment or torment forwhom the heart of some woman or other did not plead in mitigation of hissentence? Yet the man-made laws against which untutored hearts will nowand again protest are often essentially merciful in comparison with thewild and hasty judgments that outrun the law—whether in mercy or inseverity.

It was so in Alan's case. The popular opinion was evidently against him.The great majority thought this case of attempted wife-murder too clearfor argument, and too cold-blooded to warrant anything like sympathy forthe accused. Alan's private affairs had been made public property forsome time past, and he now suffered from a storm of hostility andprejudice against which it was impossible to contend. His story, or theworld's story about him, had been current gossip for the last fewmonths, as the reader has already seen; and a large number of peopleappeared to have fixed upon him as a type of the respectable andhypocritical sinner, prosperous, refined, moving in good society andenjoying a fair reputation, yet secretly hardened and corrupt. It wasnot often that the underhand crimes of such men were plainly exposed toview, and, when they were, an example ought to be made of the offenderas a warning to his class. Ever since Cora had gained a hearing in thepolice-court at Hammersmith, Alan was set down as a heartless libertine,who had grown tired of his wife, or, at any rate, as one who wanted towash his hands of her, and throw the burden of maintaining her upon therates. Thus it became quite a popular pastime to hound down "PoetWalcott."

This is how the outcry originally began. One or two newspapers with anethical turn, which had borrowed from the pulpit a trick of improvingthe sensational events of the day for the edification of their readers,and which possessed a happy knack of writing about anything and anybodywithout perpetrating a libel or incurring a charge of contempt of court,had printed articles on "The Poet and the Pauper," "Divorce Superseded,"and the like. Stirred up by these interesting homilies, a few shallowmen and women, with too much time on their hands, began to write ineptletters, some of which were printed; and then the editors, being accusedof running after sensations, pointed to their correspondents as evidenceof a public opinion which they could not control, and to which they werecompelled to give utterance. They were, in fact, not dishonest but onlyself-deceived. They really persuaded themselves that they wereresponding to a general sentiment, though, such as it was, their ownreports and articles had called it into existence. The "gentleman incourt" who paid Cora's fine at Hammersmith began the outcry in its lastand worst form, the editorials nursed and encouraged it, and thecorrespondents gave it its malignant character. All concerned in thebusiness were equally convinced that they were actuated by the bestpossible motives.

The news that Walcott had stabbed his wife with a dagger did not takethese charitable people by surprise, though it added fuel to the fire oftheir indignation. What else could be expected from a man who had firstdeserted and then starved the unfortunate woman whom he had taken towife? It was only natural that he should try to get rid of her; but whata cruel wretch he was! Hanging would be too good for him if his poorvictim should die.

It is unnecessary to say that a great deal of interest was displayed bythe public, when the case came on for hearing at Bow Street; but no realfacts were elicited beyond those which had already been in print. Tworemands were taken, in the hope that Cora might recover sufficiently togive her evidence, but though she was at last declared to be out ofdanger, the house-surgeon at the hospital would not take theresponsibility of saying that she could safely attend at thepolice-court. Ultimately, the magistrate having heard all the evidencethat was forthcoming, and Alan's solicitor reserving his defence, theaccused was committed to take his trial at the Central Criminal Court ona charge of wounding with intent to inflict grievous bodily harm.

Nevertheless, Alan was allowed to go out on bail. He had not cared toclaim this privilege, and would almost have preferred to stay in prison.His solicitor had made much of the necessity of preparing his defence,and of the indispensable conferences between himself and his client; butAlan had not the slightest hope of being acquitted. He told Mr. Larmerprecisely how the whole thing had happened—how his wife had brought thedagger with her, how she had raised it in her hand, how he seized herwrist, and how he had never touched the weapon himself until he drew itfrom the wound as she lay on the floor.

"They won't believe me," he said. "You know what a prejudice there isagainst me, and you will never persuade a jury to take my word againsthers. She will certainly say that I stabbed her with my own dagger; andit was my dagger once: it has my name upon it."

"That is an awkward fact. If only we could prove that she brought itwith her, it would go a long way towards acquitting you."

"But we can't prove it. Then, you see, Mrs. Gorman says I had my hand onthe weapon as she was falling."

"We can easily shake her in that."

"And Hipkins says that I admitted the crime—called myself a murderer."

"We can shake that too. You said, 'Am I a murderer?' It was an odd thingto say, but your nerves were unstrung. Men in such predicaments havebeen known to say a great deal more than that."

"I assure you Larmer, my mind is so confused about it that I cannotremember whether I said 'Am I' or 'I am.' I rather incline to think thatI said 'I am a murderer;' for I believed her to be as good as dead atthe time, and I certainly thought I had killed her."

"How could you think that? You are clear in your mind that you nevertouched the dagger."

"Yes, but I touched the hand that held the dagger."

Larmer looked at his friend and client in a dubious way, as though hecould not feel quite sure of his sanity.

"My dear Walcott," he said, "you are out of tune—upset by all thismiserable business; and no wonder. You say you touched the hand thatheld the dagger that stabbed the woman. We know you did; what then? Whatmoved the fingers that touched the hand that held the dagger, etcetera?Was it a good motive or a bad motive, tell me!"

"That is just what I can't tell you, for I don't know. Perhaps it was aninstinct of self-defence; but I have no recollection of being afraidthat she would stab me. I had a confused notion that she was going tostab herself; perhaps, I only got as far as thinking that the bodkinwould be better out of her hand."

"This is a touch of your old subtlety. I do believe you could workyourself up to thinking that you actually wanted to hurt her!"

"Subtlety or no subtlety, these impressions are very acute in my ownmind. I can see the whole of that scene as plainly as I see you at thismoment. It comes before my eyes in a series of pictures, vivid andcomplete in every twist and turn; only the motives that guided me areblurred and confused. I grasped her wrist, and she struggled franticallyto shake me off. Our faces were close together, and there was a horriblefascination in her eyes—the eyes of a madwoman at that moment, beyondall question."

"I am convinced that she is mad, and has been so for years," said Mr.Larmer, positively.

"She was mad then, foaming at the mouth, and trying to bite me in herimpotent fury. I could not hold her wrist firmly—she plunged here andthere so violently that one or other of us was pretty sure to be hurt,unless I could force her to drop the murderous weapon. I was ashamedthat I could not do it; but she had the strength of a demon, and Ireally wonder that she did not master me. Then the end came. Suddenlyher resistance ceased. The desperate force with which I had been holdingher hand must have been fully exerted at the very instant when hermuscles relaxed—when the light went out of her eyes and the bodystaggered to the ground. It all happened at once. Did she faint? At anyrate, my fingers never touched the dagger until after she was stabbed."

"It was a pure accident—as clear as can be; and the whole blame of itis on her own shoulders. She brought the weapon, she held it, sheresisted you when you tried to prevent mischief. She, not you, had thedisposition to injure, and you have not an atom of responsibility."

"That is your view, as a friend. It is not the view of thescandal-mongers outside. It will not be the view of the jury. And it isnot my view."

"What do you mean?"

"I really do not know where my responsibility began or where it ended. Idon't know if her strength failed her at the critical moment, or if itwas simply overcome by mine—if, in fact, she was injured whilstresisting my violence. One thing I am sure of, and that is that my heartwas full of hatred towards her. There was vengeance in my soul if not inmy intention. Who is to discriminate between motives so near allied?Your friendship may acquit me, Larmer, but your instincts as a lawyercannot; and at any rate, I cannot acquit myself of having entertainedthe feeling out of which crimes of violence naturally spring. To allintents and purposes I am on exactly the same footing as many a man whohas ended his life on the gallows."

"I suppose you think that tribulation is good for your soul. I cannotsee any other ground on which you torment yourself in this way aboutthings you have not done and acts you have never contemplated. Iunderstand that you entrusted me with your defence!" Mr. Larmer waswaxing impatient—almost indignant—at his client's tone.

"So I do, entirely. Assuredly I have no desire to go to prison."

"Then for goodness' sake don't talk to anyone else the nonsense you havebeen talking to me!"

"I am not likely. I have known you since we were boys together, and Iwanted to relieve my mind. It seemed right that you should knowprecisely what is on my conscience in the matter."

"Well, you have told me, and the effect of it has been to convince memore than ever of your innocence. But that sort of thing would scarcelyconvince anybody else. Now take my advice, and think as little about thecase as possible. You cannot do any good—you will only demoralizeyourself still more. Everything depends on how the judge and jury may bedisposed to regard our story. I shall give a brief to the best man thatcan be had, and then we shall have done all that lies in our power."

"I know I could not be in better hands. If anyone could get me offscot-free you are the man to do it, Larmer. But I don't expect it, and Iam not sure that I care for it."

Then they parted, and Alan went to Surrey Street and cleared out hisgoods and chattels, very much to the relief of Mrs. Gorman, who assuredMr. Hipkins that she could not have slept comfortably at night with thatoutrageous man under the same roof.

He found in his desk the message which he had written to Lettice on theday of his crowning misfortune.

"Thank heaven I did not send it," he muttered to himself, as he tore itin pieces. "One week has made all the difference. Nothing could everjustify me in speaking to her again."

CHAPTER XXV.

MR. LARMER GIVES A BRIEF.

Mr. Larmer was not insensible to the notoriety which attached to him assolicitor for the defence in a case which was the talk of the town, anda topic of the sensational press. Not that it gave him any satisfactionto make capital out of the misfortunes of a friend; but he would havebeen something more than man and less than lawyer if he had despised theprofessional chance which had come in his way.

And in fact he did not despise it. There were one or two inexactstatements in the reports of the proceedings at Bow Street—he hadwritten to the papers and corrected them. Several caterers for thecuriosity of the public hashed up as many scandals as they could find,and served them hot for the entertainment of their readers. It happenedthat these tales were all more or less to the discredit of Alan Walcott,and to print them before his trial was grossly unfair. Mr. Larmer wrotea few indignant words on this subject also, and, made about two in athousand of the scandal-mongers ashamed of themselves. Not content withthis he supplied a friend with one or two paragraphs relating to thecase, which had the effect of stimulating the interest already arousedin it. By this plan he secured the insertion of a statement in the bestof the society journals, which put the matter at issue in a fair andunprejudiced way, dwelling on such facts as the pending divorce-suit,the fining of Mrs. Walcott at Hammersmith, her molestation of herhusband on various recent occasions, and her intrusion upon him inAlfred Place. This article, written with manifest knowledge of thecirc*mstances, yet with much reserve and moderation, was a veryserviceable diversion in Alan's favor, and did something to diminish theodium into which he had fallen.

Mr. Larmer would not have selected trial by ordeal in the columns of thenewspapers as the best preparation for a trial before an English judgeand jury; but the process was begun by others before he had a word tosay in the matter, and his efforts were simply directed to making themost of the situation which had been created. A mass of prejudice hadbeen introduced into the case by the worthy gentlemen who maintain thatin these evil days the press is the one thing needful for moral andpolitical salvation, and who never lose an opportunity of showing howeasy it would be to govern a nation by leading articles, or to redeemhumanity by a series of reports and interviews. Alan had given himselfup for lost when he found himself in the toils of this prejudice; butMr. Larmer saw a chance of turning it to good account both for hisclient and for himself, and not unnaturally took advantage of theawakened curiosity to put his friend's case clearly and vividly beforethe popular tribunal.

Alan nearly upset the calculation of the lawyer by his impatience of theinterviewing tribe. Half-a-dozen of them found him out at differenttimes, and would not take his no for an answer. At last worried by thepertinacity of one bolder and clumsier than all the rest, he took him bythe shoulders and bundled him out of his room, and the insultedambassador, as he called himself, wrote to his employer a particularlyspiteful account of his reception, with sundry embellishments perhapsmore picturesque than strictly accurate.

The next thing that Mr. Larmer had to do was to retain counsel, and hedetermined to secure as big a man as possible to conduct the defence.The case had assumed greater importance than would attach to an ordinaryassault upon a wife by her husband. It was magnified by the surroundingcirc*mstances, so that the interest felt in it was legitimate enough,apart from the spurious notoriety which had been added to it. Alan'sliterary fame had grown considerably within the last year, and hisfriends had been terribly shocked by the first bald statement that hehad stabbed his unfortunate wife in a fit of rage.

They had begun by refusing to believe it, then they trusted that hewould be able to prove his innocence, but by this time many of hiswarmest admirers were assuring each other that, "after all, the artisticmerit of a poem never did and never would depend upon the moralcharacter of the poet." They hoped for the best, but were quite preparedfor the worst, and thus they looked forward to the trial with an anxietynot unmingled with curious anticipation.

The indirect connection of Lettice Campion with a case of this kind wasanother intelligible reason for the concern of the respectable public.Lettice's name was in everybody's mouth, as that of the young novelistwho had made such a brilliant success at the outset of her career, andall who happened to know how she had been mixed up at an earlier stagein the quarrel between Walcott and his wife, were wondering if she wouldput in an appearance, willingly or unwillingly, at the Central CriminalCourt.

Mr. Larmer clearly saw that the business was sufficiently important tojustify the intervention of the most eminent counsel. As he was runningover the list and balancing the virtues of different men for an occasionof this sort, his eye fell on the name of Sydney Campion. He started,and sank back in his chair to meditate.

The idea of having Mr. Campion to defend a man with whom his sister'sname had been unjustly associated was a bold one, and it had notoccurred to him before. Was there any reason against it? What morenatural than that this rising pleader should come into court for thespecial purpose of safeguarding the interests of Miss Campion? Theprosecution would not hesitate to introduce her name if they thought itwould do them any good—especially as they would have the contingency ofthe divorce case in their minds; and Campion was just the man to nip anyattempt of that kind in the bud. At all events, the judge was morelikely to listen to him on such a point than to anyone else. But wouldnot the practice and etiquette of the bar put it absolutely out of thequestion.

The thing was worth considering—worth talking over with Campionhimself. So Mr. Larmer put on his hat at once, and went over to theTemple.

"I have come to see you on a rather delicate matter," he said, by way ofintroduction, "as you will understand if you happen to have seen my namein connection with the Walcott assault case. There are sundry mattersinvolved which make it difficult to keep the case within its properlimits, and I thought that an informal consultation on the subject,before I proceed to retain counsel, might facilitate matters."

"Perhaps it might; but I hardly see how I can help you."

"Well, it occurred to me that if you were in court during the trial, youwould have the opportunity of checking anything that might arise of anirrelevant character—any references——"

"And what do you propose?" said Sydney, interrupting.

"It would be hard that we should be prevented from putting our case inthe hands of such counsel as we consider best calculated to bring it toa successful issue. If there is no strong personal reason against it,but on the other hand (as it seems to me) an adequate reason in itsfavor, I trust that you will allow me to send you a brief."

"Let me ask you—did you come to me in any sense at the instance of yourclient?" said Sydney, suspiciously.

"By no means. Mr. Walcott does not know I have thought of you inconnection with his defence."

"Nor at the instance of another?"

"Certainly not. It is entirely my own idea."

Sydney looked relieved. He could not ask outright if there had been anycommunication with his sister, but that was what he was thinking about.

"I hope we may rely upon you," said Mr. Larmer.

"I don't know. I am not sure that you can. This is, as you said, aperfectly informal conversation, and I may frankly tell you that whatyou ask is out of the question. I hope you will think no more about it."

Mr. Larmer was troubled.

"It seemed to me, Mr. Campion, that the idea would commend itself atonce. I fear you did not quite take my meaning when I spoke of possibleside issues and irrelevant questions which might arise during thetrial?"

"Surely I did. You meant that counsel for the prosecution might think toadvance his cause by referring to other proceedings, past or future, andmight even go so far as to name a lady who has been most wantonly andcruelly maligned by one of the parties to this case?"

"Exactly. You use the very words in regard to it which I would have usedmyself. That is a contingency, I imagine, which you would stronglydesire to avoid."

"So strongly do I desire it, that you would not be surprised if I hadalready taken measures with that end in view."

"Decidedly not. But it will be only natural that the prosecution shouldtry and damage Walcott as much as possible—showing the motive he wouldhave for getting rid of his wife, and, going into the details of theirformer quarrels. The question is whether any man can be expected, indoing this, to abstain from mentioning the names of third parties."

"Has it never occurred to you, Mr. Larmer, that there is one way, andonly one way, in which I could certainly guarantees that the name of thelady in question should not be mentioned? Your plan, if you will excusemy saying so, is clumsy and liable to fail. Mine is perfectly secureagainst failure, and perhaps a little more congenial."

Larmer's face fell.

"You do not mean," he said, "that you have taken a brief from theprosecution!"

"If I had, I should have stopped you as soon as you began to speak, andtold you so. But I may say as much as this—if I am retained by them Ishall go into court; and, if they retain anyone else, I shall have goodreason to know that the case will be conducted precisely as I shouldconduct it myself. I imagine that this matters very little to you, Mr.Larmer. I have not done much with this class of cases, and there will beno difficulty in finding a stronger man."

Mr. Larmer was silent for a minute or two. Sydney Campion's manner tookhim aback.

"I am sorry to hear what you have said," he remarked at last. "I fear itmust inevitably prejudice my client if it is known that you are on theother side."

"I don't see why it should," Sydney said, with manifest indifference."At any rate, with respect to the point you were mentioning, it is clearthat the lady's name will not be introduced by the prosecution."

"Let it be equally clear," said Larmer, "that it will not be introducedby the defence. This was the first instruction which I received from myclient—who, I may say, was a schoolfellow of mine, and in whose honor,and not only honor, but technical innocence, I have the utmostconfidence."

"You have undertaken his defence, and I am sure he is in very goodhands," said Sydney with a rather cynical smile. "But, perhaps, the lesssaid the better as to the honor of a married man who, under falsepretenses, dares to pay attentions to an unmarried lady."

"Believe me you are mistaken! Alan Walcott has done nothing of thekind."

"He has done enough to create a scandal. You are not denying that hisattitude has been such as to bring the name of the lady forward in amost objectionable manner, without the slightest contribution on herpart to such a misfortune?"

"I do deny it, most emphatically, and I beg you to disabuse your mind ofthe idea. What possible ground can you have for such a charge? The meretipsy ravings of this unfaithful wife—whom I should probably have nodifficulty in proving insane, as well as unfaithful and intemperate.What is actually known is that she has been heard by the police, on oneor two occasions, referring by name to this lady. How far would you as alawyer, Mr. Campion, allow that fact to have weight as evidence insupport of the charge? And can you mention, beyond that, one tittle ofevidence of any kind?"

Sydney shrugged his shoulders.

"We are not considering evidence as you know very well. We are talkingas two men of the world, quite competent to draw the right deductionfrom admitted facts. I say that when a lady has been so grievouslyinsulted as Miss Campion has been, under circ*mstances of such greataggravation, the man who has brought that indignity upon her, howeverindirectly, must be held directly responsible for his conduct."

"It is useless to argue the point—the more so as I fancy that Mr.Walcott himself would be very much inclined to agree with you—which Iam not. He most bitterly regrets the annoyance to which Miss Campion hasbeen subjected, and regards it as the greatest of all the injuriesinflicted upon him by his degraded wife. Having said this on his behalf,let me add that any charge brought against him on this score, by thatwoman or by anyone else, is absolutely without foundation, and that weshall know how to defend his reputation, in or out of court, wheneverand by whomsoever it may be attacked."

"Your warmth does you credit, Mr. Larmer. I will be equally frank withyou. You speak as a friend, I speak as a brother. After all that hashappened I do not hold myself bound, nor do I intend, to consider anyoneor anything in comparison with the credit of the name which has been sofoully aspersed. It is for me to protect that name from discredit, and Ishall adopt every expedient within my reach to carry out my purpose."

"No doubt you are perfectly justified in doing so. I will merely remarkthat hostility to my client cannot assist you in your object."

"Well," said Sydney, rising from his seat, "there can be no use incontinuing the conversation." And he added, in a lighter tone, "I amsorry, Mr. Larmer, that I should be compelled to decline the first briefyou have offered me."

Larmer went back to his office a little crestfallen, but not at allsorry that he had had this interview with Campion. He was betterprepared now for the course which the trial was likely to follow. He hadno doubt that Campion would be bold enough to undertake the prosecution,and that he would do his best to get a conviction against Walcott, whomhe manifestly disliked. He was less sanguine from that moment as to theresult of his efforts; but, of course, he did not relax them. Heretained Mr. Charles Milton, a man with an excellent reputation incriminal business, and one who, as he thought, would do his utmost toavoid losing a case to Campion.

Milton, in effect, took the matter up with much zeal. He had (so far ashis professional instinct allowed him) accepted the theory of Walcott'sguilt, rather respecting him, if the truth were known, for refusing toput up any longer with the persecutions of a revolted wife. But he hadno sooner received his brief in the case than he was perfectly convincedof Walcott's innocence. The story told him by Mr. Larmer seemed not onlynatural but transparently true, and when he heard that his club-mate ofthe Oligarchy was actively interested for the other side, he determinedthat no effort on his part should be wanting to secure a verdict.

Not that he had any grudge against Sydney; but they belonged to the sameprofession, the same party, and the same club—three conceivable reasonsfor Mr. Milton's zeal.

Thus Alan's defence was well provided for, and Mr. Larmer began to feelmore easy in his mind.

When Alan heard that the prosecution was likely to be conducted bySydney Campion, he took the news quietly, though it was a very seriousmatter for him. He did not doubt its seriousness, but his heart hadalready fallen so low that it could scarcely sink lower. He saw at oncethat the motive of Lettice's brother in angling for this brief (as Alanconcluded that he must have done) was to protect the interests ofLettice; and so far, the fact was a matter of congratulation. It was hisown great desire, as Larmer knew, to prevent her name from beingmentioned, and to avoid reference to anything in which she had beenindirectly concerned, even though the reference might have been madewithout using her name. When Larmer pointed out that this quixotism, ashe called it, would make it almost impossible for his counsel to showthe extreme malignity of his wife and the intolerable persecution towhich he had been subjected, he had answered shortly and decisively,

"Let it be impossible. The first object is not my defence, but hers."

"Your vision is distorted," Larmer had said angrily. "This may seem toyou right and generous, but I tell you it is foolish and unnecessary."

"I will not be guided in this particular thing," Alan rejoined, "by yourreason, but by my feeling. An acquittal at her cost would mean alifelong sorrow."

"If I know anything of women, Miss Campion, who does not quite hate you,would insist on having the whole story told in open court. Perhaps shemay return to England in time for the trial, and then she can decide thepoint herself."

"Heaven forbid!" Alan had said. And he meant it. Worse than that, hetortured himself with the idea, which he called a firm belief, thatLettice had heard, or would hear, of his disgraceful position, that shewould be unable to doubt that he had struck the fatal blow, and that hewould be dropped out of her heart and out of her life as a matter ofcourse. How could it be otherwise? What was he to her, that she shouldbelieve him innocent in spite of appearances; or that, believing himmerely unfortunate and degraded, she should not think less well of himthan when he held his name high in the world of letters and in society?

"That dream is gone," he said. "Let me forget it, and wake to the newlife that opens before me. A new life—born in a police cell, baptizedin a criminal court, suckled in a prison, and trained in solitaryadversity. That is the fate for which I have been reserved. I may benearly fifty when I come out—a broken-down man, without reputation andwithout a hope. Truly, the dream is at an end; and oh, God of Heaven,make her forget me as though we had never met!"

So, when Mr. Larmer frankly told him all that Sydney Campion had said,Alan could not find it in his heart to blame Lattice's brother for hishostility.

CHAPTER XXVI.

IN COURT.

No doubt it was from some points of view an unprofessional act of SydneyCampion to appear in court as counsel for the prosecution of AlanWalcott. Sydney knew that he was straining a rule of etiquette, to saythe least of it; but, under the circ*mstances, he held himself justifiedin fishing for the brief.

The matter had been taken up by the Treasury, and Sydney had asked anintimate friend, who was also a friend of the Attorney-General, to givethe latter a hint. Now Sir James was, above all things, a suave andpolitic man of the world, who thought that persons of position andinfluence got on best in the intricate game of life by deftly playinginto each other's hands. When one gentleman could do something foranother gentleman, to oblige and accommodate him, it was evidently theproper course to do it gracefully and without fuss. Campion's motiveswere clearly excellent. As he understood the business (although theambassador put it very delicately indeed), a lady's reputation was atstake; and if Sir James prided himself on one thing more than another,it was his gallantry and discretion in matters of this kind. So he toldhis friend to go back and set Mr. Campion's mind at rest; and in thecourse of a day or two Sydney received his brief.

"Who is going to defend?" he asked his clerk, when he had glanced at hisinstructions.

"I heard just now that Larmer had retained Mr. Charles Milton."

"Charles Milton! The deuce! It will be a pretty little fight, Johnson!"

"They don't seem to have a leg to stand on; the evidence is all one way,even without the wife. I don't know what his story is, but it cannothave any corroboration—and hers is well supported."

"I am told she will be able to appear. She seems to be a terribletalker—that is the worst of her. I must keep her strictly within theropes."

"The other side will not have the same motives," said Johnson, who knewall about the scandal which had preceded the assault, and who wanted toget his employer to speak.

"You think Mr. Milton will draw her on?"

"Sure to, I should say. If I were defending (since you ask me), I wouldnot loose my grip until I had got her into a rage; and from all I hearthat would make the jury believe her capable of anything, even ofstabbing herself and swearing it on her husband."

"But, my good fellow, you are not defending him! And I'll take care sheis not worked up in that fashion. Thanks for the suggestion, all thesame. They will contend that it was done in a struggle."

"Against that, you have her evidence that the blow was deliberate; and Ithink the jury will believe her."

"They can't help themselves: motive, incitements, favoringcirc*mstances, are all too manifest. And that just makes the difficultyand delicacy of the case for me. I want the jury to see the whole thingimpartially, that they may do justice, without bias and without foolishweakness; and yet there are certain matters connected with it which neednot be dwelt upon—which must, in fact, be kept in the backgroundaltogether. Do you see?"

"I think I do." Johnson was a good deal in Sydney's confidence, being aman of much discretion, and with considerable knowledge of the law. Hefelt that his advice was being asked, or at any rate his opinion, and hemet Mr. Campion's searching gaze with one equally cool and serious.

"I have no doubt you know as much about it as I could tell you. You seemto hear everything from one source or another. Do you understand why itis that I am going into court? It is not altogether a regular thing todo, is it?"

"I suppose you wish to keep the evidence well in hand," Johnson replied,readily. "A lady's name has been used in a very unwarrantable manner,and—since you ask me—you have undertaken to see that there is nounnecessary repetition of the matter in court."

"Precisely so—no repetition at all."

"You will examine your own witness, and, of course, you need not gobehind the scene in Surrey Street, at which the crime was actuallycommitted—except in opening your case. What the jury will say is this:husband and wife on bad terms, separated, and divorce pending; wifecomes to husband's rooms, reproaches him; recriminations; dagger handyon the table (very bad for him that); a sudden temptation, a suddenblow, and there's an end of it. No need to prove they were on bad terms,with all those facts before you."

"But then comes the defence."

"Well, sir, what is their line going to be? If they want to persuade thejury that she did it herself, or that it was an accident, they will notdwell upon all the reasons which might have tempted him to take herlife. That would be weakening their own case."

"And Milton is capable of doing it!" said Sydney, talking to himself.

"But if they think the jury will be bound to believe that he stabbedher, no doubt they would go in for blackening her, and then they mightcross-examine her about those other things."

"That is where the danger comes in."

Sydney's words were equivalent to another question, but Johnsonpreserved a perfectly stolid face. It was all very well for him toadvise his employer, and work up his cases for him if necessary. He wasaccustomed to do both these things, and his help had been invaluable toSydney for several years past. But it was out of his line to displaymore confidence than was displayed in him, or to venture on delicateground before he had received a lead.

"Yes, that's were the danger comes in," Sydney repeated. "I have reasonto believe that there is a disposition on their part to keep the lady'sname out of the case; but they are not pledged to it; and if they findthings looking very bad for Walcott, they may show fight in thatdirection. Then there is Mr. Milton—no instructions can altogether gagcounsel. I don't know that I have ever given him cause of offence, but Ihave an instinctive feeling that he would rather enjoy putting me in ahole."

"I think you would have the judge with you in any objection which youmight take."

"But it would be a misfortune, as things stand, even to have to takeobjection. Not only do I want to avoid the introduction of theseextraneous matters, but I should strongly object to figure in any way aswatching Miss Campion's interests. It would be very bad indeed for me tohave to do that. What I desire is that her interests should at no momentof the trial appear, even to those who know the circ*mstances, to beinvolved."

"I quite see," said Johnson. "And since you ask me, I don't think youhave much to fear. It is a delicate position, but both sides are of thesame mind on the particular point, and it is most improbable that anyindiscretion will occur. Prosecution and defence both want to avoid acertain pitfall—when they won't struggle on the edge of it. What do yousay, Mr. Campion, to setting forth in your opening statement all that isknown about their previous quarrels, not concealing that the woman hasbeen rather outrageous, in her foreign fashion, but quietly ignoring thefact of her jealousy?"

"That would be too bold—it would excite her, and possibly move thedefence to needless retorts."

"As for exciting her, if she is thoroughly convinced that his convictionwill spoil his chance of a divorce, she will take the whole thing coollyenough. My idea was that by opening fully, and touching on every point,you would escape the appearance of shirking anything. And at the sametime you would be suggesting these motives for violence on Walcott'spart which, as you said, it would be their business to avoid."

"There is a good deal in that," said Sydney, reflectively. "It is worthconsidering. Yes, two heads are certainly better than one. I see that Iam instructed to ask about the attempt on her life at Aix-les-Bains.Why, what a rascal the man has been to her! No wonder she is venemousnow."

When the trial took place, the court was crowded with men and women whowere anxious to see the principal actors in what was popularly known asthe Surrey Street Mystery. They were both there—Alan pale and haggardfrom his long suspense, and Cora, much pulled down by what she had gonethrough. Of the two, she was, perhaps, the more interesting. Illness andloss of blood had done something to efface the dissipated look which hadbecome habitual with her; she was languid and soberly dressed; and,moreover, she understood, as Mr. Johnson had said she would, that theconviction of her husband would put his divorce out of the question, atany rate for some time to come. So it was her business to lookinteresting, and injured, and quiet; and she was cunning enough to playthis part successfully.

Alan, on the other hand, was completely indifferent as to the opinionwhich might be formed of him, and almost indifferent as to the verdict.When he came into court he looked carefully round at the women who werepresent among the spectators, but, not seeing the one face which he hadboth dreaded and hoped to see, he fell back into his former lethargy,and took very little interest in the proceedings.

Sydney Campion opened the case for the prosecution in a business-likeway, just glancing at the unhappy relations which had existed betweenthe prisoner and his wife for several years past, and freely admittingthat there appeared to have been faults on both sides. He took thecommon-sense view of a man of the world speaking to men of the world,and did not ask the sympathies of the jury for the injured woman who hadcome straight from the hospital to that court, but only their impartialattention to the evidence which would be brought before them, and theexpression of their deliberate opinion on the innocence or guilt of theaccused.

Nothing could be more fair than his observations—or so it appeared tothe majority of Campion's hearers. No doubt he had referred to theaffair at Aix-les-Bains as though it were a matter of evidence, insteadof mere allegation, and to the recent quarrels in England as though the"faults on both sides" had been clearly established. But he was supposedto be speaking in strict accordance with his instructions, and, ofcourse, it was open to the defence to question anything which he hadsaid.

Then came the evidence for the prosecution, the substance of which isalready known to the reader; but Cora's account of the quarrel in SurreyStreet was so ingeniously colored and distorted that Alan found himselflistening with something like genuine amusem*nt to the questions ofcounsel and the replies of his lying wife.

"And so," said Mr. Campion, after she had spoken of her earnest appealfor the renewal of friendship, and of her husband's insulting refusal,"you came to high words. Did you both keep the same positions whilst youwere talking?"

"For a long time, until I lost patience, and then—yes, let me speak thewhole truth—I threw a certain book at him."

Cora was on the point of saying why she threw the book, and whose namewas on the title-page, but she checked herself in time. It had been verydifficult to persuade her that her interests were safe in the hands ofLettice's brother, and even now she had occasional misgivings on thatpoint. Sydney went on quickly.

"A book lying close to your hand, you mean?"

"She said a certain book," Mr. Milton interjected.

"You must make allowance for her," said the judge. "You know she isFrench, and you should follow her in two languages at once. No doubt shemeant 'some book or other.' The point has no importance."

"And then," said Sydney, "you altered your positions?"

"We stood facing each other."

"What happened next?"

"Suddenly—I had not moved—an evil look came in his face. He sprang tothe table, and took from the drawer a long, sharp poignard. I rememberedit well, for he had it when we were married."

"What did he do then?"

"He raised it in his hand; but I had leaped upon him, and then began aterrible struggle."

The court was excited. Alan and his counsel were almost the only personswho remained perfectly cool.

"It was an unequal struggle?"

"Ah, yes! I became exhausted, and sank to the ground."

"Before or after you were stabbed?"

"He stabbed me as I fell."

"Could it have been an accident?"

"Impossible, for I fell backward, and the wound was in front."

After Sydney had done with his witness, Mr. Milton took her in hand; andthis was felt by every one to be the most critical stage of the trial.Milton did his best to shake Cora's evidence, not without a certain kindof success. He turned her past life inside out, made her confess herinfidelity, her intemperance, her brawling in the streets, herconviction and fine at the Hammersmith Police Court. It was all he coulddo to restrain himself from getting her to acknowledge the reason of hervisit to Maple Cottage; but his instructions were too definite to beignored. He felt that the introduction of Miss Campion's name would havetold in favor of his client—at any rate, with the jury; and he wouldnot have been a zealous pleader if he had not wished to take advantageof the point.

By this time Cora was in a rage, and she damaged herself with the juryby giving them a specimen of her ungovernable temper. The trial had tobe suspended for a quarter of an hour, whilst she recovered from a fitof hysterics; but it said much for her crafty shrewdness that she wasable to adhere, in the main, to the story which she had told. She wasseverely cross-examined about the scene in Surrey Street, and especiallyabout the dagger. She feigned intense surprise at being asked andpressed as to her having brought the weapon with her; but Mr. Miltoncould not succeed in making her contradict herself.

Then the other witnesses were heard and counsel had an opportunity ofenforcing the evidence on both sides. Mr. Milton was very severe on hislearned friend for introducing matter in his opening speech, on which hedid not intend to call witnesses; but in his own mind he had recognizedthe fact that there must be a verdict of guilty, and he brought out asstrongly as he could the circ*mstances which he thought would weigh withthe court in his client's favor. Sydney was well content with the resultof the trial as far as it had gone. There had been no reference of anykind to his sister Lettice; and, as he knew that this was due in somemeasure to the reticence of the defence, it would have argued a want ofgenerosity on his part to talk of the cruelty of the prisoner instopping his wife's allowance because she had molested him in thestreet.

The judge summed up with great fairness. He picked out the facts whichhad been sworn to in regard to the actual receiving of the wound, which,he said, were compatible with the theory of self-infliction, with thatof wilful infliction by the husband, and with that of accident. As forthe first theory, it would imply that the dagger had passed from theprisoner's hands to those of his wife, and back again, and it seemed tobe contradicted by the evidence of the landlady and the other lodger.Moreover, it was not even suggested by the defence, which relied uponthe theory of accident. An accident of this kind would certainly bepossible during a violent struggle for the possession of the dagger. Nowthe husband and wife virtually accused each other of producing thisweapon and threatening to use it. It was for the jury to decide which ofthe two they would believe. There was a direct conflict of evidence, orallegation, and in such a case they must look at all the surroundingcirc*mstances. It was not denied that the dagger belonged to theprisoner, but it was suggested in his behalf that the wife had purloinedit some time before, and had suddenly produced it when she came to herhusband's apartments in Surrey Street. If that could be proved, then thewoman had been guilty of perjury, and her evidence would collapsealtogether. Now there were some portions of her evidence which were mostunsatisfactory. She had led a dissolute life, and was cursed with anungovernable temper. But, on the other hand, she had told a consistenttale as to the occurrences of that fatal afternoon, and he could not goso far as to advise the jury to reject her testimony as worthless.

His lordship then went over the remaining evidence, and concluded asfollows:—

"Gentlemen, I may now leave you to your difficult task. It is for you tosay whether, in your judgment, the wound which this woman received wasinflicted by herself or by her husband. If you find that it wasinflicted by her husband, you must further decide, to the best of yourability, whether the prisoner wounded his wife in the course of astruggle, without intending it, or whether he did at the momentwittingly and purposely injure her. The rest you will leave to me. Youhave the evidence before you, and the constitution of your countryimposes upon you the high responsibility of saying whether this man isinnocent or guilty of the charge preferred against him."

The jury retired to consider their verdict, and after aboutthree-quarters of an hour they returned into court.

"Gentlemen of the jury," said the clerk, "are you agreed upon yourverdict?"

"We are," said the foreman.

"Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?"

"We find him guilty of wounding, with intent to inflict grievous bodilyharm."

Alan turned his face to the judge. The whole thing had been so preciselyrehearsed in his mind that no mere detail would take him by surprise. Hehad expected the verdict, and it had come. Now he expected the sentence;let it come, too. It would hardly be worse than he was prepared for.

To say that Mr. Justice Perkins was dissatisfied with the verdict wouldbe going a little too far; but he almost wished, when he heard it, thathe had dwelt at greater length upon the untrustworthy character of Mrs.Walcott's evidence. However, he had told the jury that this was a matterfor their careful consideration; and he had always been wont, even morethan some of his brother judges, to leave full responsibility to hisjuries in matters of opinion and belief.

"Alan Walcott," he said to the convicted man, "you have had a fair trialbefore twelve of your peers, who have heard all the evidence broughtbefore them, whether favorable to you or the reverse. In the exercise oftheir discretion, and actuated as they doubtless have been by the purestmotives, they have found you guilty of the crime laid to your charge. Nowords of mine are necessary to make you appreciate this verdict.Whatever the provocation which you may have received from this miserablewoman, however she may have forgotten her duty and tried you beyondendurance—and I think that the evidence was clear enough on thesepoints—she was still your wife, and had a double claim upon yourforbearance. You might well have been in a worse position. From themoment when you took that deadly weapon in your hands, everything waspossible. You might have been charged with wilful murder, if she haddied, or with intent to murder. You have been defended with greatability; and if the jury believed, as they manifestly did, that yourdefence, so fat as concerns the introduction of the dagger, could not bemaintained then they had no alternative but to find as they actually didfind. It only remains for me to pass upon you such a sentence, withinthe discretion left me by the law, as seems to be appropriate to youroffence, and that is that you be imprisoned and kept to hard labor forthe term of six calendar months."

Then the prisoner was removed; the court and the spectators dispersed todine and amuse themselves; the reporters rushed off to carry their lastcopy to the evening newspapers; and the great tide of life swept by onits appointed course. No foundering, ship on its iron-bound coast, nobroken heart that sinks beneath its waves, disturbs the law-abiding ebband flow of the vast ocean of humanity.

BOOK V.

LOVE.

CHAPTER XXVII.

COURTSHIP.

Busy as Sydney Campion was, at this juncture of his career, publicaffairs were, on the whole, less engrossing to him than usual; for a newelement had entered into his private life, and bade fair to change manyof its currents.

The rector's education of his son and daughter had produced effectswhich would have astonished him mightily could he have traced theirsecret workings, but which would have been matter of no surprise to apsychologist.

He himself had been in the main an unsuccessful man, for, although hehad enjoyed many years of peace and quiet in his country parish, he hadnever attained the objects with which he set out in life. Like manyanother man who has failed, his failure led him to value nothing onearth so highly as success. It is your fortunate man who can afford toslight life's prizes. The rector of Angleford was never heard to uttersoothing sentiments to the effect that "life may succeed in that itseems to fail," or that heaven was the place for those who had failed onearth. He did not believe it. Failure was terrible misfortune in hiseyes: intellectual failure, greatest of all. Of course he wanted hischildren to be moral and religious; it was indeed important that theyshould be orthodox and respectable, if they wanted to get on in theworld; but he had no such passion of longing for their spiritual as hehad for their mental development. Neither was it money that he wishedthem to acquire, save as an adjunct; no man had more aristocraticprejudices against trade and pride of purse than Mr. Campion; but hewanted them—and especially he wanted Sydney—to show intellectualsuperiority to the rest of the world, and by that superiority to gainthe good things of life. And of all these good things, the best wasfame—the fame that means success.

Thus, from the very beginning of Sydney's life, his father sedulouslycultivated ambition in his soul, and taught him that failure meantdisgrace. The spur that he applied to the boy acted with equal force onthe girl, but with different results. For with ambition the rector sowedthe seeds of a deadly egotism, and it found a favorable soil—at leastin Sydney's heart. That the boy should strive for himself and his ownglory—that was the lesson the rector taught him; and he ought not tohave been surprised when, in later years, his son's absorption in selfgave him such bitter pain.

Lettice, with her ambition curbed by love and pity, accepted thediscipline of patience and self-sacrifice, set before her by theselfishness of other people; but Sydney gave free rein to his ambitionand his pride. He could not make shift to content himself, as his fatherhad done, with academic distinction alone. He wanted to be a leader ofmen, to take a foremost place in the world of men. He sometimes toldhimself that his father had equipped him to the very best of his powerfor the battle of life, and he was grateful to him for his care; but hedid not think very much about the sacrifices made for him by others. Asa matter of fact, he thought himself worth them all. And for the prizehe desired, he bartered away much that makes the completer man: for heextinguished many generous instincts and noble possibilities, andthought himself the gainer by their loss.

In Lettice, the love of fame was also strong, but in a modified form.Her tastes were more literary than those of Sydney, but success was assweet to her as to him. The zest with which she worked was also in partdue to the rector's teaching; but, by the strange workings-out ofinfluence and tendency, it had chanced that the rector's carelessnessand neglect had been the factors that disciplined a nature both strongand sweet into forgetfulness of self and absorption in work rather thanits rewards.

But already Nature had begun with Sydney Campion her grand process ofamelioration, which she applies (when we let her have her way) to allmen and women, most systematically to those who need it most, securingan entrance to their souls by their very vices and weaknesses, andinvariably supplying the human instrument or the effective circ*mstanceswhich are best calculated to work her purpose. Such beneficent work ofNature may be called, as it was called by the older writers, the Hand ofGod.

Sydney's great and overweening fault was that form of "moral stupidity"which we term selfishness. Something of it may have come with thefaculties which he had inherited—in tendencies and inclinationsmysteriously associated with his physical conformation; much had beenadded thereto by the indulgence of his parents, by the pride of hisuniversity triumphs, and by the misfortune of his association in Londonwith men who aggravated instead of modifying the faults of his naturaldisposition. The death of his father had produced a good effect for thetime, and made him permanently more considerate of his mother's andsister's welfare. But a greater and still more permanent effect seemedlikely to be produced on him now, for he had opened his heart to theinfluences of a pure and elevating affection; and for almost the firsttime there entered into his mind a gradually increasing feeling ofcontrition and remorse for certain past phases of his life which he knewto be both unworthy in themselves and disloyal (if persisted in) to thewoman whom he hoped to make his wife. By a determined effort of will, hecut one knot which he could not untie, but, his thoughts being stillcentred upon himself, he considered his own rights and needs almostentirely in the matter, and did not trouble himself much about therights or needs of the other person concerned. He had broken free, andwas disposed to congratulate himself upon his freedom; vowing,meanwhile, that he would never put himself into any bonds again exceptthe safe and honorable bonds of marriage.

Thus freed, he went down with Dalton to Angleford for the Easter recess,which fell late that year. He seemed particularly cheery and confident,although Dalton noticed a slight shade of gloom or anxiety upon his browfrom time to time, and put it down to his uncertainty as to thePynsents' acceptance of his attentions to Miss Anna Pynsent, which werealready noticed and talked about in society. Sydney was a rising man,but it was thought that Sir John might look higher for his beautifulyoung sister.

The Parliamentary success of the new member for Vanebury had been asgreat as his most reasonable friends anticipated for him, if not quiteas meteoric as one or two flatterers had predicted. Meteoric success inthe House of Commons is not, indeed, so rare as it was twenty years ago,for the studied rhetoric which served our great-grandfathers in theirambitious pursuit of notoriety has given place to the arts of audacity,innovation, and the sublime courage of youthful insolence, which haveoccasionally worked wonders in our own day.

Sydney had long been a close observer of the methods by which men gainedthe ear of the House, and he had learned one or two things that werevery useful to him now that he was able to turn them to account.

"We have put the golden age behind us," he said one day to Dalton, withthe assured and confident air which gave him so much of his poweramongst men, "and also the silver age, and the age of brass. We areliving in the great newspaper age, and, if a public man wants to getinto a foremost place before he has begun to lose his teeth, he mustplay steadily to the readers of the daily journals. In my small way Ihave done this already, and now I am in the House, I shall make it mybusiness to study and humor, to some extent, the many-faced monster whor*ads and reflects himself in the press. In other times a man had towork himself up in Hansard and the Standing Orders, to watch andimitate the old Parliamentary hands, to listen for the whip and followclose at heel; but, as I have often heard you say, we have changed allthat. Whatever else a man may do or leave undone, he must keep himselfin evidence; it is more important to be talked and written aboutconstantly than to be highly praised once in six months. I don't knowany other way of working the oracle than by doing or saying somethingevery day, clever or foolish, which will have a chance of getting intoprint."

He spoke half in jest, yet he evidently more than half meant what hesaid.

"At any rate, you have some recent instances to support your theory,"Dalton said, with a smile. They were lighting their cigars, preparatoryto playing a fresh game of billiards, but Sydney was so much interestedin the conversation, that, instead of taking up his cue, he stood withhis back to the fire and continued it.

"Precisely so—there can be no doubt about it. Look at Flumley, andWarrington, and Middlemist—three of our own fellows, without going anyfurther. What is there in them to command success, except not deservingit, and knowing that they don't? The modest merit and perseverancebusiness is quite played out for any man of spirit. The only line totake in these days is that of cheek, pluck, and devil-may-care."

"Do you know, Campion, you have grown very cynical of late?" said BrookeDalton, rather more gravely than usual. "I have been rather disposed totake some blame to myself for my share in the heartless kind of talkthat used to go on at the Oligarchy. I and Pynsent were your sponsorsthere, I remember. You may think this an odd thing to say, but the factis I am becoming something of a fogy, I suppose, in my ideas, and Idaresay you'll tell me that the change is not for the better."

"I don't know about that," said Sydney, lightly. "Perhaps it is for thebetter, after all. You see, you are now laying yourself out topersuade your fellowmen that you can cure them of all the ills thatflesh is heir to! But I'll tell you what I have noticed, old man, andwhat others beside me have noticed. We miss you up in town. You nevercome to the Club now. The men say you must be ill, or married, orbreaking up, or under petticoat government—all stuff and nonsense, youknow; but that is what they say."

"They can't be all right," said Brooke, with a rather embarrassed laugh,"but some of them may be." He made a perfectly needless excursion acrossthe room to fetch a cue from the rack that he did not want, while Sydneysmoked on and watched him with amused and rather curious eyes. "Isuppose I am a little under petticoat government," said Dalton,examining his cue with interest, and then laying it down on the table,"as you may see for yourself. But my sister manages everything socleverly that I don't mind answering to the reins and letting her get mewell in hand."

"No one ever had a better excuse for submitting to petticoat government.But you know what is always thought of a man when he begins to give uphis club."

"I am afraid it can't be helped. Then again—perhaps there is anotherreason. Edith, you know, has a little place of her own, about a milefrom here, and she tells me that she will not keep house for me muchlonger—even to rescue me from club life. The fact is, she wants me tomarry."

"Oh, now I see it all; you have let the cat out the bag! And you aregoing to humor her in that, too?"

"Well, I hardly think I should marry just to humor my sister. But—whoknows? She is always at me, and a continual dropping——"

"Wears away the stony heart of Brooke Dalton. Why, what a convertedclubbist you will be!"

"There was always a corner of my heart, Campion, in which I rebelledagainst our bachelor's paradise at the Oligarchy—and you would haveopened your eyes if you could have seen into that corner through thesmoke and gossip of the old days in Pall Mall."

"The old days of six months ago!" said Sydney, good-humoredly.

"Do you know that Edith and I are going abroad next week?"

The question sounded abrupt, but Dalton had not the air of a man whowants to turn the conversation.

"No," said Sydney, in some surprise. "Where are you going?"

"Well, Edith wants to go to Italy, and I should not wonder if we were tocome across a cousin of mine, Mrs. Hartley, who is now at Florence. Youknow her, I believe?"

"I hardly know her, but I have heard a good deal about her. She has beenvery kind to my sister—nursed her through a long illness, and lookedafter her in the most generous manner possible. I am under greatobligations to Mrs. Hartley. I hope you will say so to her if you meet."

"All right. Anything else I can do for you? No doubt we shall see yoursister. We are old friends, you know. And I have met her several timesat my cousin's this winter."

"At those wonderful Sunday gatherings of hers?"

"I dropped in casually one day, and found Miss Campion there—and Iadmit that I went pretty regularly afterwards, in the hope of improvingthe acquaintance. If I were to tell you that I am going to Florence nowfor precisely the same reason, would you, as her brother, wish me goodspeed, or advise me to keep away?"

"Wish you good speed?"

"Why, yes! Is not my meaning clear?"

"My dear Dalton, you have taken me absolutely by surprise," said Sydney,laying down his cigar. "But, if I understand you aright, I do wish yougood speed, and with all my heart."

"Mind," said Dalton hurriedly, "I have not the least idea what myreception is likely to be. I'm afraid I have not the ghost of a chance."

"I hope you will be treated as you deserve," said Sydney, ratherresenting this constructive imputation on his sister's taste. Privately,he thought there was no doubt about the matter, and was delighted withthe prospect of so effectually crushing the gossip that still hung aboutLettice's name. The memory of Alan Walcott's affairs was strong in theminds of both men as they paused in their conversation, but neitherchose to allude to him in words.

"I could settle down here with the greatest pleasure imaginable, undersome circ*mstances," said Brooke Dalton, with a faint smile irradiatinghis fair, placid, well-featured countenance. "Do you think your sisterwould like to be so near her old home?"

"I think she would consider it an advantage. She was always fond ofAngleford. Your wife will be a happy woman, Dalton, whoever she maybe—sua si bona norit!"

"Well, I'm glad I spoke to you," said Brooke, with an air of visiblerelief. "Edith knows all about it, and is delighted. How the time flies!We can't have a game before dinner, I'm afraid. Must you go to-morrow,Campion?"

"It is necessary. The House meets at four; and besides, I have arrangedto meet Sir John Pynsent earlier in the day. I want to have a littletalk with him."

"To put his fate to the touch, I suppose," meditated Brooke, glancing atSydney's face, which had suddenly grown a little grave. "I suppose itwould be premature to say anything—I think," he said aloud, "that wealmost ought to be dressing now."

"Yes, we've only left ourselves ten minutes. I say, Dalton, now I thinkof it, I'll give you a letter to my sister, if you'll be kind enough todeliver it."

"All right."

"There will be no hurry about it. Give it to her whenever you like. Ithink it would be serviceable, and I suppose you can trust mydiscretion; but, understand me—you can deliver the letter or not, asseems good to you when you are with her. I'll write it to-night, and letyou have it to-morrow morning before I go."

It would not have occurred to Brooke Dalton to ask for a letter ofrecommendation when he went a-courting, but Sydney's words did notstrike him as incongruous at the time, and he was simple enough tobelieve that a brother's influence would weigh with a woman of Lettice'scalibre in the choice of a partner for life.

Sydney delivered the letter into his keeping next day, and then went upto town, where he was to meet Sir John Pynsent at the Club.

Dalton had been mistaken when he conjectured that Sydney's intentionswere to consult Sir John about his pretension to Miss Pynsent's hand.Sydney had not yet got so far. He had made up his mind that he wantedAnna Pynsent for a wife more than he had ever wanted any woman in theworld; and the encouragement that he had received from Sir John and LadyPynsent made him conscious that they were not very likely to deny hissuit. And yet he paused. It seemed to him that he would like a longerinterval to pass before he asked Nan Pynsent to marry him—a longerspace in which to put away certain memories and fears which became morebitter to him every time that they recurred.

It was simply a few words on political matters that he wanted with SirJohn; but they had the room to themselves, and Sydney was hardlysurprised to find that the conversation had speedily drifted round topersonal topics, and that the baronet was detailing his plans for theautumn, and asking Sydney to form one of his house-party in September.Sydney hesitated in replying. He thought to himself that he should notcare to go unless he was sure that Miss Pynsent meant to accept him.Perhaps Sir John attributed his hesitation to its real cause, for hesaid, more heartily than ever.

"We all want you, you know. Nan is dying to talk over your constituentswith you. She has got some Workmen's Club on hand that she wants themember to open, with an appropriate speech, so you had better prepareyourself."

"Miss Pynsent is interested in the Vanebury workmen. I shall bedelighted to help at any time."

"Too much interested," said Sir John, bluntly. "I'll tell her she'll bean out and out Radical by and by. You know she has a nice little placeof her own just outside Vanebury, and she vows she'll go and live therewhen she is twenty-one, and work for the good of the people. Myauthority over her will cease entirely when she is of age."

"But not your influence," said Sydney.

"Well—I don't know that I have very much. The proper person toinfluence Nan will be her husband, when she has one."

"If I were not a poor man——" Sydney began impulsively, and thenstopped short. But a good-humored curl of Sir John's mouth, an inquiringtwinkle in his eye, told him that he must proceed. So, in five minutes,his proposal was made, and a good deal earlier than he had expected itto be. It must be confessed that Sir John had led him on. And Sir Johnwas unfeignedly delighted, though he tried to pretend doubt andindifference.

"Of course I can't answer for my sister, and she is full young to makeher choice. But I can assure you, Campion, there's no man living to whomI would sooner see her married than to yourself," he said at theconclusion of the interview. And then he asked Sydney to dinner, andwent home to pour the story into the ears of his wife.

Lady Pynsent was not so much pleased as was he. She had had visions of atitle for her sister-in-law, and thought that Nan would be throwingherself away if she married Sydney Campion, although he was a risingman, and would certainly be solicitor-general before long.

"Well, Nan will have to decide for herself," said Sir John, evading hiswife's remonstrances. "After all, I couldn't refuse the man for her,could I?" He did not say that he had tried to lead the backward loveron.

"Yes, you could," said Lady Pynsent. "You could have told him it was outof the question. But the fact is, you want it. You have literally thrownNan at his head ever since he stayed with us last summer. You are sodevoted to your friend, Mr. Campion!"

"You will see that he is a friend to be proud of," said Sir John, withconviction. "He is one of the cleverest men of the day, he will be oneof the most distinguished. Any woman may envy Nan——"

"If she accepts him," said Lady Pynsent.

"Don't you think she will?"

"I have no idea. In some ways, Nan is so childish; in others, she is awoman grown. I can never answer for Nan. She takes such idealistic viewsof things."

"She's a dear, good girl," said Sir John, rather objecting to this viewof Nan's character.

"My dear John, of course she is! She's a darling. But she is quiteimpracticable sometimes, as you know."

Yes, Sir John knew. And for that very reason, he wanted Nan to marrySydney Campion.

He warned his wife against speaking to the girl on the subject: he hadpromised Campion a fair field, and he was to speak as soon as he got theopportunity. "He's coming to dinner next Wednesday; he may get hischance then."

But Sydney got it before Wednesday. He found that the Pynsents wereinvited to a garden party—a social function which he usually avoidedwith care—for which he also had received a card. The hostess lived atFulham, and he knew that her garden was large and shady, sloping to theriver, and full of artfully contrived sequestered nooks, where many aflirtation was carried on.

"She won't like it so well as Culverley," said Sydney to himself, with ahalf smile, "but it will be better than a drawing-room."

He did not like to confess to himself how nervous he felt. His theoryhad always been that a man should not propose to a woman unless he issure that he will be accepted. He was not at all sure about Nan'sfeelings towards him, and yet he was going to propose. He told himselfa*gain that he had not meant to speak so soon—that if he saw any signsof distaste he should cut short his declaration altogether and defer itto a more convenient season; but all the same, he knew in his own heartthat he would be horribly disappointed if fate deprived him of thechance of a decisive interview with Anna Pynsent.

Those who saw him at Lady Maliphant's party that afternoon, smiling,handsome, debonnair, as usual faultlessly attired, with a pleasant wordfor everyone he met and an eye that was perfectly cool and careless,would have been amazed could they have known the leap that his heartgave when he caught sight of Lady Pynsent's great scarlet parasol andtrailing black laces, side by side with Nan's dainty white costume. Thegirl wore an embroidered muslin, with a yellow sash tied loosely roundher slender waist; the graceful curve of her broad-brimmed hat, fastenedhigh over one ear like a cavalier's, was softened by drooping whiteostrich feathers; her lace parasol had a knot of yellow ribbon at oneside, to match the tint of her sash. Her long tan gloves and theMaréchál Niel roses at her neck were finishing touches of the picturewhich Sydney was incompetent to grasp in detail, although he felt itscharm on a whole. The sweet, delicate face, with its refined featuresand great dark eyes, was one which might well cause a man to barter allthe world for love; and, in Sydney's case, it happened that to gain itsowner meant to gain the world as well. It spoke well for Sydney'sgenuine affection that he had ceased of late to think of the worldlyfortune that Nan might bring him, and remembered only that he wanted NanPynsent for herself.

She greeted him with a smile. She had grown a little quieter, a littlemore conventional in manner of late: he did not like her any the worsefor that. But, although she did not utter any word of welcome, hefancied from her face that she was glad to see him; and it was not longbefore he found some pretext for strolling off with her to a shadowy andsecluded portion of the grounds. Even then he was not sure whether hewould ask her to be his wife that day, or whether he would postpone thedecisive moment a little longer. Nan's bright, unconscious face was verycharming, undisturbed by fear or doubt: what if he brought a shadow toit, a cloud that he could not dispel? For one of the very few times inhis life, Sydney did not feel sure of himself.

"Where are you going this summer?" she asked him, as they stood besidethe shining water, and watched the eddies and ripples of the stream.

"I usually go abroad. But Sir John has been asking me to Culverleyagain."

"You do not mean to go to Switzerland, then? You spoke of it the otherday."

"No, I think not. I do not want to be so far away from—from London."

"You are so fond of your work: you do not like to be parted from it,"she said smiling.

"I am fond of it, certainly. I have a good deal to do."

"Oh!" said Nan, innocently, "I thought people who were in Parliament didnothing but Parliamentary business-like John."

"I have other things to do as well, Miss Pynsent. And in Parliament eventhere is a good deal to study and prepare for, if one means to take up astrong position from the beginning."

"Which, I am sure, you mean to do," she said quickly.

"Thank you. You understand me perfectly—you understand my ambitions, myhopes and fears——"

She did not look as if she understood him at all.

"Are you ambitious, Mr. Campion? But what do you wish for more than youhave already?"

"Many things. Everything."

"Power, I suppose," said Nan doubtfully; then, with a slightlyinterrogative intonation—"and riches?"

"Well—yes."

"But one's happiness does not depend on either."

"It rarely exists without one or the other."

"I don't know. I should like to live in a cottage and be quite poor andbake the bread, and work hard all day, and sleep soundly all night——"

"Yes, if it were for the sake of those you loved," said Sydney,venturing to look at her significantly.

Nan nodded, and a faint smile curved her lips: her eyes grew tender andsoft.

"Can you not imagine another kind of life? where you spent yourselfequally for those whom you loved and who loved you, but in happiercirc*mstances? a life where two congenial souls met and worked together?Could you not be happy almost anywhere with the one—the man—youloved?"

Sydney's voice had sunk low, but his eyes expressed more passion thanhis voice, which was kept sedulously steady. Nan was more aware of thelook in his eyes than of the words he actually used. She cast ahalf-frightened look at him, and then turned rosy-red.

"Could you be happy with me?" he asked her, still speaking very gently."Nan, I love you—I love you with all my heart. Will you be my wife?"

And as she surrendered her hands to his close clasp, and looked halfsmilingly, half timidly into his face, he knew that his cause was won.

But, alas, for Sydney, that at the height of his love-triumph, a bitterdrop of memory should suddenly poison his pleasure at the fount!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A SLUMBERING HEART.

Time had hung heavily on Lettice's hands during the first month or twoof her stay on the Continent. No one could have been kinder to her thanMrs. Hartley, more considerate of her needs and tastes, more anxious toplease and distract her. But the recovery of her nerves from the shockand strain to which they had been subjected was a slow process, and hermind began to chafe against the restraint which the weakness of the bodyimposed upon it.

The early spring brought relief. Nature repairs her own losses as shepunishes her own excess. Lettice had suffered by the abuse of her energyand power of endurance, but three months of idleness restored thebalance. The two women lived in a small villa on the outskirts ofFlorence, and when they were not away from home, in quest of art ormusic, scenery or society, they read and talked to each other, orrecorded their impressions on paper. Mrs. Hartley had many friends inEngland, with whom she was wont to exchange many thousand words; andthese had the benefit of the ideas which a winter in Florence hadexcited in her mind. Lettice's confidant was her diary, and she sighednow and then to think that there was no one in the world to whom shecould write the inmost thoughts of her heart, and from whom she couldexpect an intelligent and sympathetic response.

No doubt she wrote to Clara, and gave her long accounts of what she sawand did in Italy; but Clara was absorbed in the cares of matrimony andmotherhood. She had nothing but actualities to offer in return for theidealities which were Lettice's mental food and drink. This had alwaysbeen the basis of their friendship; and it is a basis on which many afirm friendship has been built.

Lettice had already felt the elasticity of returning health in everylimb and vein when the news reached her of the success of her novel; andthat instantly completed the cure. Her publisher wrote to her in highspirits, at each demand for a new edition, and he forwarded to her ahandsome cheque "on account," which gave more eloquent testimony of hissatisfaction than anything else. Graham sent her, through Clara, abundle of reviews which he had been at the pains of cutting out of thepapers, and Clara added many criticisms, mostly favorable, which she hadheard from her husband and his friends. Lettice had a keen appetite forpraise, as for pleasure of every kind, and she was intoxicated by thegood things which were spoken of her.

"There, dear," she said to Mrs. Hartley one morning, spreading outbefore her friend the cheque which she had just received from Mr.MacAlpine, "you told me that my stupid book had given me nothing morethan a nervous fever, but this has come also to pay the doctor's bill.Is it not a great deal of money? What a lucky thing that I went in forhalf profits, and did not take the paltry fifty pounds which theyoffered me?"

"Ah, you need not twit me with what I said before I knew what your bookwas made of," said Mrs. Hartley affectionately. "How was I to know thatyou could write a novel, when you had only told me that you couldtranslate a German philosopher? The two things do not sound particularlyharmonious, do they?"

"I suppose I must have made a happy hit with my subject, though I neverthought I had whilst I was writing. I only went straight on, and had notthe least idea that people would find much to like in it. Nor had Mr.MacAlpine either, for he did not seem at all anxious to publish it."

"It was in you, my darling, and would come out. You have discovered amine, and I daresay you can dig as much gold out of it as will sufficeto make you happy."

"Now, what shall we do with this money? We must have a big treat; and Iam going to manage and pay for everything myself starting from to-day.Shall it be Rome, or the Riviera, or the Engadine; or what do you say toreturning by way of Germany? I do so long to see the Germans at home."

Mrs. Hartley was downcast at once.

"The first thing you want to do with your wealth," she said, "is to makeme feel uncomfortable! Have we not been happy together these six months,and can you not leave well alone? You know that I am a rich woman,through no credit of my own—for everything I have came from my husband.If you talk of spending your money on anyone but yourself, I shall thinkthat you are pining for independence again, and we may as well pack upour things and get home."

"Oh dear, what have I said? I did not mean it, my dearest friend—mybest friend in the world! I won't say anything like it again: but I mustgo out and spend some money, or I shall not believe in my good fortune.Can you lend me ten pounds?"

"Yes, that I can!"

"Then let us put our things on, and go into paradise."

"What very dissolute idea, to be sure! But come along. If you will be soimpulsive, I may as well go to take care of you."

So they went out together—the woman of twenty-six and the woman ofsixty, and roamed about the streets of Florence like a couple ofschool-girls. And Lettice bought her friend a brooch, and herself a ringin memory of the day; and as the ten pounds would not cover it sheborrowed fifteen; and then they had a delightful drive through the noblesquares, past many a venerable palace and lofty church, through richlystoried streets, and across a bridge of marble to the other side of theArno; so onward till they came to the wood-enshrouded valley, where thetrees were breaking into tender leafa*ge, every shade of greencommingling with the blue screen of the Apennines beyond. Back againthey came into the city of palaces, which they had learned to love, andalighting near the Duomo sought out a pasticceria in a street hard by,and ate a genuine school-girl's meal.

"It has been the pleasantest day of my life here!" said Lettice as theyreached home in the evening. "I have not had a cloud upon myconscience."

"And it has made the old woman young," said Mrs. Hartley, kissing herfriend upon the cheek. "Oh, why are you not my daughter!"

"You would soon have too much of me if I were your daughter. But tell mewhat a daughter would have done for you, and let me do it while I can."

"It is not to do, but to be. Be just what you are and never desert me,and then I will forget that I was once a childless woman."

So the spring advanced, and drew towards summer. And on the first of MayMrs. Hartley, writing to her cousin, Edith Dalton, the most intimate ofall her confidants, gave a glowing account of Lettice.

"My sweetheart here (she wrote) is cured at last. Three months have gonesince she spoke about returning to England, and I believe she isthoroughly contented. She has taken to writing again, and seems to befairly absorbed in her work, but you may be sure that I shall not lether overdo it. The death of her mother, and the break-up of their home,probably severed all the ties that bound her to London; and, so far as Ican see, not one of them remains. I laughed to read that you werejealous of her. When you and Brooke come here I am certain you will likeher every bit as much as I do. What you tell me of Brooke is rather asurprise, but I know you must be very happy about it. To have had himwith you for six months at a time, during which he has never once beenup to his club, is a great triumph, and speaks volumes for your clevermanagement, as well as for your care and tenderness. We shall see himmarried and domesticated before a year has passed! I am impatient foryou both to come. Do not let anything prevent you."

It was quite true that Lettice had set to work again, and that sheappeared to have overcome the home-sickness which at one time made herlong to get back to London. Restored health made her feel more satisfiedwith her surroundings, and a commission for a new story had found herjust in the humor to sit down and begin. She was penetrated by thebeauty of the Tuscan city which had been her kindly nurse, which was nowher fount of inspiration and inexhaustible source of new ideas. A plot,characters, scenery, stage, impressed themselves on her imagination asshe wandered amongst the stones and canvasses of Florence; and they grewupon her more and more distinctly every day, as she steeped herself inthe spirit of the place and time. She would not go back to thepicturesque records of other centuries but took her portraits from menand women of the time, and tried to recognize in them the descendants ofthe artists, scholars, philosophers, and patriots, who have shed undyingfame on the queen-city of northern Italy.

Entirely buried in her work, and putting away from her all that mightinterfere with its performance, she forgot for a time both herself andothers. If she was selfish in her isolation it was with the selfishnessof one who for art's sake is prepared to abandon her ease and pleasurein the laborious pursuit of an ideal. Mrs. Hartley was content to leaveher for a quarter of the day in the solitude of her own room oncondition of sharing her idleness or recreation during the rest of theirwaking hours.

Had Lettice forgotten Alan Walcott at this crisis in the lives of both?When Mrs. Hartley was assuring her cousin that all the ties which hadbound the girl to London were severed, Alan was expiating in prison thecrime of which he had been convicted, which, in his morbid abasem*nt anddespair he was almost ready to confess that he had committed. Was he,indeed, as he had not very sincerely prayed to be, forgotten by thewoman he loved?

It is no simple question for her biographer to answer off-hand. Lettice,as we know, had admitted into her heart a feeling of sympathetictenderness for Alan, which, under other circ*mstances, she would haveaccepted as worthy to dominate her life and dictate its moods andduties. But the man for whom this sympathy had been aroused was sosituated that he could not ask her for her love, whilst she could not inany case have given it if she had been asked. Instinctively she had shuther eyes to that which she might have read in her own soul, or in his,if she had cared or dared to look. She had the book before her, but itwas closed and sealed. Where another woman might, have said, "I mustforget him—there is a barrier between us which neither can cross," shesaid nothing; but all her training, her instinct, her delicate feeling,even her timidity and self-distrust, led her insensibly to shun thepaths of memory which would have brought her back to the prospect thathad allured and alarmed her.

Be it remembered that she knew nothing of his later troubles. She hadheard nothing about him since she left England; and Mrs. Hartley, whohonestly believed that Alan had practically effaced himself from theirlives by his own rash act, was sufficiently unscrupulous to keep herfriend in ignorance of what had happened.

So Lettice did not mention Alan, did not keep him in her mind or try torecall him by any active exercise of her memory; and in this sense shehad forgotten him. Time would show if the impression, so deep and vividin its origin, was gradually wearing away, or merely hidden out ofsight. No wonder if Mrs. Hartley thought that she was cured.

Lettice heard of the arrival of the Daltons without any other feelingthan half-selfish misgiving that her work was to be interrupted at acritical moment, when her mind was full of the ideas on which her storydepended for its success. She had created by her imagination a littleworld of human beings, instinct with life and endowed with vividcharacter; she had dwelt among her creatures, guided their steps andinspired their souls, loved them and walked with them from day to day,until they were no mere puppets dancing to the pull of a string, butreal and veritable men and women. She could not have deserted them byany spontaneous act of her own, and if she was to be torn away from theworld, which hung upon her fiat, she could not submit to the banishmentwithout at least an inward lamentation. Art spoils her votaries for theservice of society, and society, as a rule, takes its revenge bydespising or patronizing the artist whilst competing for the possessionof his works.

Brooke Dalton and his sister were lodged in an old palace not far fromMrs. Hartley's smaller and newer residence; and frequent visits betweenthe two couples soon put them all on terms of friendly intimacy. Letticehad always thought well of Mr. Dalton. He reminded her of Angleford, andthe happy days of her early youth. In London he had been genial withher, and attentive, and considerate in every sense, so that she had beenquite at her ease with him. They met again without constraint, and undercirc*mstances which enabled Dalton to put forth his best efforts toplease her, without exciting any alarm in her mind, to begin with.

Edith Dalton captivated Lettice at once. She was a handsome woman ofaristocratic type and breeding, tall, slender, and endowed with thegraceful manners of one who has received all the polish of refinedsociety without losing the simplicity of nature. A year or two youngerthan her brother, she had reached an age when most women have given upthe thought of marriage; and in her case there was a sad and sufficientreason for turning her back upon such joys and consolations as a womanmay reasonably expect to find in wedded life. She had been won in hergirlhood by a man thoroughly fitted to make her happy—a man of wealthand talent, and honorable service in the State; who, within a week oftheir marriage day, had been thrown from his horse and killed. Edith hadnot in so many words devoted herself to perpetual maidenhood; but thatwas the outcome of the great sorrow of her youth. She had remainedsingle without growing morose, and her sweet and gentle moods endearedher to all who came to know her.

With such a companion Lettice was sure to become intimate; or at anyrate, she was sure to respond with warmth to the kindly feelingdisplayed for her. Yet there were many points of unlikeness between herand Edith Dalton. She too was refined, but it was the refinement ofmental culture rather than the moulding of social influences. She tooretained the simplicity of nature, but it was combined with an outspokencandor which Edith had been taught to shun. Where Lettice would be readyto assert herself, and claim the rights of independence, Edith wouldshrink back with fastidious alarm; where the one was fitted to wage thewarfare of life, and, if need be, to stand out as a champion or pioneerof her sex, the other would have suffered acutely if she had been forcedinto any kind of aggressive combat.

When Brooke told his sister that he had met a woman whom he could love,she was unfeignedly glad, and never thought of inquiring whether thewoman in question was rich, or well-connected, or moving in goodsociety. Perhaps she took the last two points for granted, and no doubtshe would have been greatly disappointed if she had found that Brooke'schoice had been otherwise than gentle and refined. But when she sawLettice she was satisfied, and set herself by every means in her powerto please and charm her new friend.

As Mrs. Hartley knew and backed the designs of the Daltons, Lettice wasnot very fairly matched against the wiles and blandishments of thethree. Brooke Dalton, indeed, felt himself in a rather ridiculousposition, as though he were proceeding to the siege of Lettice's heartrelying upon the active co-operation of his sister and cousin, to saynothing of her brother's letter which he carried in his pocket. But,after all, this combination was quite fortuitous. He had not asked forassistance, and he knew very well that if such assistance were tooopenly given it would do his cause more harm than good.

Dalton was one of those good-tempered men who are apt to get too muchhelp in spite of themselves from the womenfolk of their family andhousehold, who are supposed to need help when they do not, and who haveonly themselves to thank for their occasional embarrassment of wealth inthis particular form. Nature intends such men to be wife-ridden andhappy. If is not alien to their disposition that they should spend theirearlier manhood, as Dalton had done, amongst men who take life tooeasily and lightly; but they generally settle down before the whole oftheir manhood is wasted, and then a woman can lead them with a thread ofsilk.

It was for Lettice, if she would, to lead this gentle-hearted Englishsquire, to be the mistress of his house and fair estate, to ensure thehappiness of this converted bachelor of Pall Mall, and to bid good-byeto the cares and struggles of the laborious life on which she hadentered.

The temptation was put before her. Would she dally with it, and succumbto it? And could anyone blame her if she did?

CHAPTER XXIX.

"IT WAS A LIE!"

Up the right-hand slopes of the Val d'Arno, between Florence andFiesole, the carriage-road runs for some distance comparatively broadand direct between stone walls and cypress-hedges, behind which thepasser-by gets glimpses of lovely terraced gardens, of the winding riverfar below his feet, of the purple peaks of the Carrara mountains faraway. But when the road reaches the base of the steep hill on which theold Etruscans built their crow's-nest of a city—where Catiline gatheredhis host of desperadoes, and under whose shadow, more than threecenturies later, the last of the Roman deliverers, himself a barbarian,hurled back the hordes of Radegast—it winds a narrow and tortuous wayfrom valley to crest, from terrace to terrace, until the crowning stageis reached.

Here in the shadow of the old Etruscan fortifications, the wayfarermight take his stand and look down upon the wondrous scene beneath him."Never," as Hallam says, "could the sympathies of the soul with outwardnature be more finely touched; never could more striking suggestions bepresented to the philosopher and the statesman" than in this Tuscancradle of so much of our modern civilization, which even the untraveledislander of the northern seas can picture in his mind and cherish withlively affection. For was it not on this fertile soil of Etruria thatthe art and letters of Italy had birth? and was it not in fair Florence,rather than in any other modern city, that they were born again in thefulness of time? Almost on the very spot where Stilicho vainly stemmedthe advancing tide which was to reduce Rome to a city of ruins, the newlight dawned after a millennium of darkness. And there, from the sacredwalls of Florence, Dante taught our earlier and later poets to sing;Galileo reawoke slumbering science with a trumpet-call which frightenedthe Inquisition out of its senses; Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, Da Vinci,Del Sarto created models of art for all succeeding time. Never was therein any region of the world such a focus of illuminating fire. Never willthere live a race that does not own its debt to the great seers andcreators of Tuscany.

Late on an autumn afternoon, towards the close of the September of 1882,four English friends have driven out from Florence to Fiesole, and,after lingering for a time in the strange old city, examining theCathedral in the Piazza and the remains of the Roman Theatre in thegarden behind it, they came slowly down the hill to the beautiful oldvilla which was once the abode of Lorenzo the Magnificent. The carriagewaited for them in the road, but here, on the terrace outside the villagates, they rested awhile, feasting their eyes upon the lovely scenewhich lay below.

They had visited the place before, but not for some months, for they hadbeen forced away from Florence by the fierce summer heat, and had spentsome time in Siena and Pistoja, finally taking up their residence in acool and secluded nook of the Pistojese Apennines. But when autumn came,and the colder, mountain breezes began to blow, Mrs. Hartley hastenedher friends back to her comfortable little Florentine villa, proposingto sojourn there for the autumn, and then to go with Lettice and perhapswith the Daltons also, on to Rome.

"We have seen nothing so beautiful as this in all our wanderings,"Lettice said at last in softened tones.

She was looking at the clustering towers of the city, at Brunelleschi'smagnificent dome, and the slender grace of Giotto's Campanile, andthence, from those storied trophies of transcendant art, her gazewandered to the rich valley of the Arno, with its slopes of green andgrey, and its distant line of purple peaks against an opalescent sky.

"It is more beautiful in spring. I miss the glow and scent of theflowers—the scarlet tulips, the sweet violets," said Mrs. Hartley.

"I cannot imagine anything more beautiful," Edith Dalton rejoined. "Onefeels oppressed with so much loveliness. It is beyond expression."

"Silence is most eloquent, perhaps, in a place like this," said Lettice."What can one say that is worth saying, or that has not been saidbefore?"

She was sitting on a fragment of fallen stone, her hands loosely claspedround her knees, her eyes fixed wistfully and dreamily upon the faintamethystine tints of the distant hills. Brooke Dalton looked down at herwith an anxious eye. He did not altogether like this pensive mood ofhers; there was something melancholy in the drooping curves of her lips,in the pathos of her wide gaze, which he did not understand. He tried tospeak lightly, in hopes of recalling her to the festive mood in whichthey had all begun the day.

"You remind me of two friends of mine who are just home from Egypt. Theysay that when they first saw the Sphinx they sat down and looked at itfor two hours without uttering a word."

"You would not have done that, Brooke," said Mrs. Hartley, a littlemaliciously.

"But why not? I think it was the right spirit," said Lettice, and againlapsed into silence.

"Look at the Duomo, how well it stands out in the evening light!"exclaimed Edith. "Do you remember what Michael Angelo said when heturned and looked at it before riding away to Rome to build St. Peter's?'Come te non voglio: meglio di te non posso.'"

"I am always struck by his generosity of feeling towards other artists,"remarked Mrs. Hartley. "Except towards Raffaelle, perhaps. But think ofwhat he said of Santa Maria Novella, that it was beautiful as a bride,and that the Baptistery gates were worthy of Paradise. It is only thegreat who can afford to praise so magnificently."

Again there was a silence. Then Mrs. Hartley and Edith professed to beattracted by a group of peasant children who were offering flowers andfruit for sale; and they strolled to some little distance, talking tothem and to a black-eyed cantadina, whose costume struck them asunusually gay. They even walked a little in the shade of the cypresses,with which the palazzo seemed to be guarded, as with black and ancientsentinels; but all this was more for the sake of leaving Brooke alonewith Lettice than because they had any very great interest in theItalian woman and her children, or the terraced gardens of the VillaMozzi. For the time of separation was at hand. The Daltons werereturning very shortly to England, and Brooke had not yet carried outhis intention of asking Lettice Campion to be his wife. He had askedMrs. Hartley that day to give him a chance, if possible, of half anhour's conversation with Lettice alone; but their excursion had nothitherto afforded him the coveted opportunity. Now, however, it hadcome; but while Lettice sat looking towards the towers of Florence withthat pensive and abstracted air, Brooke Dalton shrank from breaking inupon her reverie.

In truth, Lettice was in no talkative mood. She had been troubled in hermind all day, and for some days previously, and it was easier for her tokeep silence than for any of the rest. If she had noticed the absence ofMrs. Hartley and Edith, she would probably have risen from her seat andinsisted on joining them; but strong in the faith that they were but afew steps away from her, she had thrown the reins of restraint upon thenecks of her wild horses of imagination, and had been borne away by themto fields where Brooke's fancy was hardly likely to carry him—fields ofpurely imaginative joy and ideal beauty, in which he had no mentalshare. It was rest and refreshment to her to do this, after the growingperplexity of the last few days. Absorbed in her enjoyment of the lucentair, the golden and violet and emerald tints of the landscape; consciousalso of the passionate joy which often thrills the nerves of Italy'slovers when they find them selves, after long years of waiting, uponthat classic ground, she had for the time put away the thoughts thatcaused her perplexity, and abandoned herself to the sweet influences ofthe time and place.

The Daltons had been in Italy since May, and she had seen a great dealof Edith. Brooke Dalton had sometimes gone off on an expedition byhimself, but more frequently he danced attendance on the women; andLettice had found out that when he was absent she had a great deal moreof him than when he was present. So much had Edith and Mrs. Hartley tosay about him, so warmly did they praise his manners, his appearance,his manly and domestic virtues, and his enviable position in the world,that in course of time she knew all his good points by heart. She hadactually found herself the day before, more as a humorous exercise ofmemory than for any other reason, jotting them down in her diary.

"B. D.—testibus E. D. et M. H.

"He is handsome, has a manly figure, a noble head, blue eyes, chestnuthair (it is turning grey—L. C.), a dignified presence, a look thatshows he respects others as much as himself.

"He is truthful, simple in tastes, easily contented, lavishly generous(that I know—L. C.), knows his own mind (that I doubt—L. C.), is fondof reading (?), a scholar (??), with a keen appreciation of literature(???).

"He has one of the most delightful mansions in England (as I know—L.C.), with gardens, conservatories, a park, eight thousand a year.

"He is altogether an enviable man, and the woman who marries him will bean enviable woman (a matter of opinion—L. C.), and he is on thelook-out for a wife (how would he like to have that said of him?—L.C.)."

Lettice had sportively written this in her diary, and had scribbled itout again; but it represented fairly enough the kind of ideas whichBrooke Dalton's sister and cousin had busily instilled into her mind.The natural consequence was that she had grown somewhat weary oflistening to the praises of their hero, and felt disposed to considerhim as either much too superior to be thoroughly nice, or much too niceto be all that his womenfolk described him.

Of some of his estimable qualities, however, she had had personalexperience; and, notably of his lavish generosity. A few days ago he hadtaken them all to the shop of a dealer of old-fashioned works of art andrare curiosities, declaring that he had brought them there for theexpress purpose of giving them a memento of Florence before they leftthe city.

Then he bade them choose, and, leaving Edith and Mrs. Hartley to maketheir own selection, which they did modestly enough, letting him off atabout a sovereign a-piece, he insisted on prompting and practicallydictating the choice of Lettice, who, by constraint and cajolerytogether, was made to carry away a set of intaglios that must have costhim fifty pounds at least.

She had no idea of their value, but she was uneasy at having taken thegift. What would he conclude from her acceptance of such a valuablepresent? It was true that she was covered to some extent by the factthat Edith and Mrs. Hartley were with her at the time, but she could notfeel satisfied about the propriety of her conduct, and she had a subtleargument with herself as to the necessity of returning the gems sooneror later, unless she was prepared to be compromised in the opinion ofher three friends.

She had for the present, however, banished these unpleasant doubts fromher mind, and the guilty author of her previous discomfort stood idly byher side, smoking his cigar, and watching the people as they passedalong the road. The other ladies were out of sight, and thus Brooke andLettice were left alone.

After a time she noticed the absence of her friends, and turned roundquickly to look for them. Brooke saw the action, and felt that if he didnot speak now he might never get such a good opportunity. So, withnothing but instinct for his guide, he plunged into the business withoutfurther hesitation.

"I hope you will allow, Miss Campion, that I know how to be silent whenthe occasion requires it! I did not break in upon your reverie, andshould not have done so, however long it might have lasted."

"I am sorry you have had to stand sentinel," said Lettice; "but you toldme once that a woman never need pity a man for being kept waiting solong as he had a cigar to smoke."

"That is quite true; and I have not been an object for pity at all.Unless you will pity me for having to bring my holiday to an end. Youknow that Edith and I are leaving Florence on Monday?"

"Yes, Edith told me; but she did not speak as though it would end yourholiday. She said that you might go on to Rome—that you had not made upyour mind what to do."

"That is so—it depends upon circ*mstances, and the decision does notaltogether rest with us. Indeed, Miss Campion, my future movements arequite uncertain until I have obtained your answer to a question which Iwant to put to you. May I put it now?"

"If there is anything I can tell you—" said Lettice, not withoutdifficulty. Her breath came quick, and her bosom heaved beneath herlight dress with nervous rapidity. What could he have to say to her? Shehad refused all these weeks to face the idea which had been forcingitself upon her; and he had been so quiet, so unemotional, that untilnow she had never felt uneasy in his presence.

"You can tell me a great deal," said Brooke, looking down at her withincreased earnestness and tenderness in his eyes and voice. Her face washalf averted from him, but he perceived her emotion, and grew morehopeful at the sign. "You can tell me all I want to know; but, unlessyou have a good message for me, I shall wish I had not asked you myquestion, and broken through the friendly terms of intercourse fromwhich I have derived so much pleasure, and which have lasted so longbetween us."

Why did he pause? What could she say that he would care to hear?

"Listen to me!" he said, sinking down on the seat beside her, andpleading in a low tone. "I am not a very young man. I am ten or twelveyears older than yourself. But if I spoke with twice as much passion inmy voice, and if I had paid you ten times as much attention and court asI have done, it would not prove me more sincere in my love, or moreeager to call you my wife. You cannot think how I have been lookingforward to this moment—hoping and fearing from day to day, afraid toput my fate to the test, and yet impatient to know if I had any chanceof happiness. I loved you in London—I believe I loved you as soon as Iknew you; and it was simply and solely in order to try and win your lovethat I followed you to Italy. Is there no hope for me?"

She did not answer. She could not speak a word, for a storm ofconflicting feelings was raging in her breast. Feelings only—she hadnot begun to think.

"If you will try to love me," he went on, "it will be as much as I havedared to hope. If you will only begin by liking me, I think I cansucceed in gaining what will perfectly satisfy me. All my life shall bedevoted to giving you the happiness which you deserve. Lettice, have younot a word to say to me?"

"I cannot—" she whispered at length, so faintly that he could scarcelyhear.

"Cannot even like me!"

"Oh, do not ask me that! I cannot answer you. If liking were all—butyou would not be content with that."

"Say that you like me. Lettice, have a little pity on the heart thatloves you!"

"What answer can I give? An hour ago I liked you. Do you not see thatwhat you have said makes the old liking impossible?"

"Yes—I know it. And I have thrown away all because I wanted more! Ispoke too suddenly. But do not, at any rate, forbid me still to nurse myhope. I will try and be patient. I will come to you again for myanswer—when? In a month—in six months? Tell me only one thing—thereis no one who has forestalled me? You are not pledged to another?"

Lettice stood up—the effort was necessary in order to control herbeating heart and trembling nerves. She did not reply. She only lookedout to the sunlit landscape with wide, unseeing eyes, in which lurked asecret, unspoken dread.

"Tell me before we part," he said, in a voice which was hoarse withsuppressed passion. "Say there is no one to whom you have given yourlove!"

"There is no one!"—But the answer ended in a gasp that was almost asob.

"Thank God!" said Brooke Dalton, as a look of infinite relief came intohis face. "Then a month to-day I will return to you, wherever you maybe, and ask for my answer again."

Mrs. Hartley and Edith came back from the garden terraces. With kindlymischief in their hearts, they had left these two together, watchingthem with half an eye, until they saw that the matter had come to aclimax. When Lettice stood up, they divined that the moment had come fortheir reappearance.

Lettice advanced to meet them, and when they were near enough Edithpassed her hand through her friend's still trembling arm.

"Those dear little Italian children!" said Mrs. Hartley. "They are sobeautiful—so full of life and spirits, I could have looked at them foranother hour. Now, good people, what is going to be done? We must begetting home. Brooke, can you see the carriage? You might find it, andtell the driver to come back for us."

Brooke started off with alacrity, and the women were left alone. ThenEdith began to chatter about nothing, in the most resolute fashion, inorder that Lettice might have time to pull herself together.

She was glad of their consideration, for indeed she needed all herfortitude. What meant this suffocation of the heart, which almostprevented her from breathing? It ached in her bosom as though someonehad grasped it with a hand of ice; she shuddered as though a ghost hadbeen sitting by her and pleading with her, instead of a lover. Her ownname echoed in her ears, and she remembered that Brooke Dalton hadcalled her "Lettice." But it was not his voice which was calling to hernow.

Dalton presently reappeared with the news that the carriage was waitingfor them in the road below.

So in an hour from that time they were at home again, and Lettice wasable to get to her own room, and to think of what had happened.

If amongst those who read the story of her life Lettice Campion has madefor herself a few discriminating friends, they will not need to bereminded that she was not by any means a perfect character. She was, inher way, quite as ambitious as her brother Sydney, although not quite soeager in pursuit of her own ends, her own pleasure and satisfaction. Shewas also more scrupulous than Sydney to the means which she would adoptfor the attainment of her objects, and she desired that others shouldshare with her the good things which fell to her lot; but she had neverbeen taught, or had never adopted the rule, that mere self-denial, forself-denial's sake, was the soundest basis of morality and conduct. Shewas thoroughly and keenly human, and she did but follow her naturalbent, without distortion and without selfishness, in seeking to givehappiness to herself as well as to others.

Brooke Dalton's offer of marriage placed a great temptation before her.All the happiness that money, and position, and affection, and aluxurious home could afford was hers if she would have it; and thesewere things which she valued very highly. Edith Dalton had done her bestto make her friend realize what it would mean to be the mistress ofBrooke's house; and poor Lettice, with all her magnanimity, was dazzledin spite of herself, and did not quite see why she should say No, whenBrooke made her his offer. And yet her heart cried out against acceptingit.

She had needed time to think, and now the process was already beginning.He had given her a month to decide whether she could love him—or evenlike him well enough to become his wife. Nothing could be more generous,and indeed she knew that he was the soul of generosity andconsideration. A month to make up her mind whether she would accept fromhim all that makes life pleasant, and joyful, and easy, and comfortable;or whether she would turn her back upon the temptation, and shundelights, and live laborious days.

Could she hesitate? What woman with nothing to depend upon except herown exertions, and urged to assent (as she would be) by her onlyintimate friends, would have hesitated in her place? Yet she didhesitate, and it was necessary to weigh the reasons against accepting,as she had dwelt upon the reasons in favor of it.

If it was easy to imagine that life at Angleford Manor might be verypeaceful and luxurious, there could be no doubt that she would have topurchase her pleasure at the cost of a great deal of her independence.She might be able to write, in casual and ornamental fashion; but shefelt that there would be little real sympathy with her literaryoccupations, and the zest of effort and ambition which she now feltwould be gone. Moreover, independence of action counted for very littlein comparison with independence of thought—and how could she nurse hersomewhat heretical ideas in the drawing-room of a Tory High Churchsquire, a member of the Oligarchy, whose friends would nearly all belike-minded with himself? She had no right to introduce so great adiscord into his life. If she married him, she would at any rate try(consciously, or unconsciously) to adopt his views, as the proper basisof the partnership; and therefore to marry him unquestionably meant thesacrifice of her independent judgment.

So much for the intellectual and material sides of the question. But,Lettice asked herself, was that all?

No, there was something else. She had been steadily and obstinately, yetalmost unconsciously, trying to push it away from her all the time—eversince Brooke Dalton began to betray his affection, and even before thatwhen Mrs. Hartley, unknown to her, kept her in ignorance of things whichshe ought to have known. She had refused to face it, pressed it out ofher heart, made believe to herself that the chapter of her life whichhad been written in London was closed and forgotten—and how nearly shehad succeeded! But she had not quite succeeded. It was there still—thememory, the hope, the pity, the sacrifice.

She must not cheat herself any longer, if she would be an honest andhonorable woman. She would face the truth and not palter with it, nowthat the crisis had really come. What was Alan Walcott to her? Could sheforget him, and dismiss him from her thoughts, and go to the altar withanother man? She went over the scenes which they had enacted together,she recalled his words and his letters, she thought of his sorrows andtrials, and remembered how he had appealed to her for sympathy. Therewas good reason, she thought, why he had not written to her, for he wasbarred by something more than worldly conventionality. When she,strong-minded as she thought herself, had shrunk from the display of hislove because he still had duties to his lawful wife, she had imposedupon him her demand for conventional and punctilious respect, and hadrather despised herself, she now remembered, for doing it. He had obeyedher, he had observed her slightest wishes—it was for her, not for him,to break through the silence. How had she been able to remain so long inignorance of his condition, to live contentedly so many miles away fromhim?

As she thought of all these things in the light of her new experience,her heart was touched again by the old sympathy, and throbbed once morewith the music which it had not known since her illness began. It was aharp which had been laid aside and forgotten, till the owner, coming bychance into the disused room, strung it anew, and bade it discourse thesymphonies of the olden time.

Not until Lettice had reached this point in her retrospect did sheperceive how near she had gone to the dividing line which separateshonor from faithlessness and truth from falsehood. She had said, "Thereis no one to whom my love is pledged." Was that true? Which is strongeror more sacred—the pledge of words or the pledge of feeling? She hadtried to drown the feeling, but it would not die. It was there, it hadnever been absent; and she had profaned it by listening to thetemptations of Brooke Dalton, and by telling him that her heart wasfree.

"It was a lie!"

She sank on the sofa as she made the confession to herself. Alan'sletters were in her hand; she clasped them to her breast, and murmured,

"It was a lie—for I love you!"

If the poor wretch in his prison cell, who, worn out at last by dailyself-consuming doubts, lay tossing with fever on a restless bed, couldhave heard her words and seen her action, he might have been called backto life from the borderland of the grave.

CHAPTER XXX.

AWAKENED.

"What is it, darling?" Mrs. Hartley said to her friend when they met thenext morning at the late breakfast which, out of deference to foreigncustoms, they had adopted. She looked observantly at the restlessmovements of the girl, and the changing color in her cheeks. "You havenot eaten anything, and you do nothing but shiver and sigh."

Mrs. Hartley was quite convinced in her own mind that Lettice hadreceived an offer of marriage from her cousin Brooke Dalton. Possiblyshe had already accepted it. She should hear all about it that morning.The symptoms overnight had not been too favorable but she put down thedisturbance which Lettice had shown to an excess of nervous excitement.Women do not all receive a sentence of happiness for life in preciselythe same manner, she reflected: some cry and some laugh, some dance andsing, others collapse and are miserable. Lettice was one of the latterkind, and it was for Mrs. Hartley to give her a mother's sympathy andcomfort. So she awaited the word which should enable her to cut thedykes of her affection.

Lettice turned white and cold, and her grey eyes were fixed with a stonylook on the basket of flowers which decorated the breakfast table.

"I am not well," she said, "but it is worse with the mind than the body.I have done a wicked thing, and to atone for it I am going to do a cruelthing; so how could you expect me to have an appetite?"

"My dear pet!" said Mrs. Hartley, putting out her hand to touch thefingers of her friend, which she found as cold as ice, "you need nottell me that you have done anything wicked, for I don't believe it. AndI am sure you would not do anything cruel, knowing beforehand that itwas cruel."

"Is it not wicked to tell a lie?—for I have done that."

"No, no!"

"And will it not be cruel to you and to Edith that I should cause painto your cousin, and make him think me insincere and mercenary?"

"He could not possibly think so," said Mrs. Hartley with decision.

"He must."

"What are you going to do, Lettice?"

"I am going to tell him that I was not honest when I allowed him to saythat he would come for my answer in a month, and to think it possiblethat the answer might be favorable—when God knows that it cannot."

"Brooke has asked you to be his wife?"

"Yes."

"And you told him to come for his answer in a month?"

"I agreed to it."

"Well, darling, I think that was very natural—if you could not say'yes' at once to my cousin."

There was a touch of resentment in the words "my cousin," which Letticefelt. Mrs. Hartley could not understand that Brooke Dalton should haveto offer himself twice over—even to her Lettice.

"Wait this month," she went on, "and we shall see what you think at theend of it. You are evidently upset now—taken by surprise, littleinnocent as you are. The fact is, you have never really recovered fromyour illness, and I believe you set to work again too soon. Ahard-working life would not have suited you; but, thank Heaven, there isan end of that. You will never have to make yourself a slave again!"

"Dear, you do not understand. I did a wicked thing yesterday, and now Imust tell Mr. Dalton, and ask him to forgive me."

"Nonsense, child!"

"Ah!" said Lettice, sadly, "it is the first time you have ever spokensharply to me, and that is part of my punishment!"

Mrs. Hartley sank back in her chair, and looked as though she was aboutto take refuge in a quiet fit of weeping.

"I can't comprehend it," she said; "I thought we were going to be sohappy; and I am sure you and Brooke would suit each other exactly."

"Oh no, indeed; there are thousands of women who will make him a betterwife than I could ever have done."

"Now, do listen to me, and give yourself at least a week to think itover, before you say all this to Brooke! That cannot make things worse,either for him or for yourself. Why should you be so rash about it?"

"I wish I could see any other way out of it—but I cannot; and I havebeen thinking and thinking all the night long. It is a case ofconscience with me now."

"You cannot expect me to see it, dear," said Mrs. Hartley, rising fromher chair. "It is simply incomprehensible, that you should first agreeto wait a month, and then, after a few hours, insist on giving such apointed refusal. Think, think, my darling!" she went on, laying acaressing hand on Lettice's shoulder. "Suppose that Brooke should feelhimself insulted by such treatment. Could you be surprised if he did?"

Lettice buried her face in her hands, mutely despairing. Her punishmentwas very hard to bear, and the tears which trickled through her fingersshowed how much she felt it. With an effort she controlled herself, andlooked up again.

"I will tell him all," she said. "He shall be the judge. If he stillwishes to renew his question in a month, I will hold myself to thatarrangement. I shall claim nothing and refuse nothing; but if hevoluntarily withdraws his offer, then, dear, you will see that therecould be no alternative."

Mrs. Hartley bent to kiss her.

"I suppose that is all that can be done, Lettice. I am very sorry thatmy darling is in trouble; but if I could help you, you would tell memore."

Then she left the room, and Lettice went to her desk and wrote herletter.

It was written; and without waiting to criticize her own phrases, shesent it to the Palazzo Serafini by a special messenger.

Brooke Dalton knew that he did not excel in letter writing. He couldindite a good, clear, sensible business epistle easily enough; but toexpress love or sorrow or any of the more subtle emotions on paper wouldhave been impossible to him. Therefore he did not attempt the task. Heat once walked over to Mrs. Hartley's villa and asked to see MissCampion.

He was almost sorry that he had done so when Lettice came down to him inthe little shaded salon where Mrs. Hartley generally receivedvisitors, and he saw her face. It was white, and her eyes were red withweeping. Evidently that letter had cost her dear, and Brooke Daltongathered a little courage from the sight.

She came up to him and tried to speak, but the words would not come.Brooke was not a man of very quick intuitions, as a rule; but in thiscase love gave him sharpness of sight. He took her hand in both his ownand held it tenderly while he spoke.

"There is no need for you to say anything," he said; "no need for you todistress yourself in this way. I have only come to say one thing to you,because I felt that I could say it better than I could write it. Ofcourse, I was grieved by your note this morning—terribly grievedand—and—disappointed; but I don't think that it leaves me quitewithout hope, after all."

"Oh," Lettice was beginning in protest; but he hushed her with apressure of his hand.

"Listen to me one moment. My last question yesterday was unwarrantable.I never ought to have asked it; and I beg you to consider it and youranswer unspoken. Of course, I should be filled with despair if Ibelieved—but I don't believe—I don't conclude anything from the littleyou have said. I shall still come to you at the end of the month and askfor my answer then."

"It will be of no use," she said, sadly, with averted face and downcasteyes.

"Don't say so. Don't deprive me of every hope. Let me beg of you to saynothing more just now. In a month's time I will come to you, whereveryou are, and ask for your final decision."

He saw that Lettice was about to speak, and so he went on hastily, "Idon't know if I am doing right, or wrong in handing you this letter fromyour brother. He gave it me before I left England, and bade me deliverit or hold it back as I saw fit."

"He knew?" said Lettice, trembling a little as the thought of herbrother's general attitude towards her wishes for independence and herfriendship for Alan Walcott. "You had told him?"

"Yes, he knew when he wrote it that I meant to ask you to be my wife. Ido not know what is in it; but I should imagine from the circ*mstancesthat it might convey his good wishes for our joint happiness, if such athing could ever be! I did not make up my mind to give it to you until Ihad spoken for myself."

Lettice took the letter and looked at it helplessly, the color flushinghigh in her cheeks. Dalton saw her embarrassment, and divined that shewould not like to open the letter when he was there.

"I am going now," he said. "Edith and I leave Florence this afternoon.We are going to Rome—I shall not go back to England until I have youranswer. For the present, good-bye."

Lettice gave him her hand again. He pressed it warmly, and left herwithout another word. She was fain to acknowledge that he could not havebehaved with more delicacy or more generosity. But what should she sayto him when the month was at an end?

She sat for some time with Sydney's letter in her lap, wishing it werepossible for her to give Brooke Dalton the answer that he desired. Butshe knew that she could not do it. It was reserved for some other womanto make Brooke Dalton happy. She, probably, could not have done it ifshe had tried; and she consoled herself by thinking that he would liveto see this himself.

Sydney's handwriting on the sealed envelope (she noticed that it wasDalton's seal) caught her eye. What could he have to say to her in hisfriend's behalf? What was there that might be said or left unsaid at Mr.Dalton's pleasure? She had not much in common with Sydney now-a-days;but she knew that he was just married, and that he loved his wife, andshe thought that he might perhaps have only kindly words in store forher—words written perhaps when his heart was soft with a new sort oftenderness. Lettice was hungering for a word of love and sympathy. Sheopened, the letter and read:

Mrs. Hartley was busy in the next room, arranging and numbering a largecollection of pictures which she had bought since she came to Florence,and thinking how very useful they would be at her Sunday afternoon andevening receptions, when she went back to London in October. That wasthe uppermost thought in her mind when she began her work, but Brooke'svisit had excited her curiosity, and she was longing to know whether itwould succeed in removing her friend's incomprehensible scruples.

Suddenly she was startled by a cry from the other room. It was like acry of pain, sharp at the beginning, but stifled immediately. Mrs.Hartley ran to the door and looked in. Lettice, with an open letter inher hand, was lying back in her chair, half unconscious, and as white inthe face as the letter itself. A glance showed Mrs. Hartley that thisletter was not from Brooke; but her only concern at the moment was forher friend.

Poor Lettice had been stunned by Sydney's blundering missive; and yet itwas not altogether Sydney's fault that the statement of facts came uponher with crushing force. It was Mrs. Hartley herself who was mainlyresponsible for the concealment of what had happened to Alan; and she nodoubt, had done her part with the best intentions. But the result wasdisastrous so far as her intrigue and wishes were concerned.

With a little care and soothing, Lettice presently recovered from theshock, at any rate sufficiently to stand up and speak.

"Read this," she said faintly to Mrs. Hartley, steadying herself againstthe table. "Is it true? Is Alan Walcott in prison? Did you know it?"

"Yes, my darling, I knew it!"

"And never told me? When was it?"

Lettice looked at her friend reproachfully, yet without a trace ofanger.

"My dearest Lettice, would it have been wise for me to tell you at thetime—the trial was in April—when you were still dangerously weak andexcitable? It was not as if I had known that it would be—what shall Isay?—a matter of such great concern to you. Remember that we had nevermentioned his name since we left England, and I could not assume thatthe old friendly interest in him survived."

"I do not blame you, dear," said Lettice faintly. "I do not blameSydney—unless it is for prosecuting him. I cannot think or reason aboutit—I can only feel; and I suppose that what I feel amounts to my owncondemnation."

"Don't talk of condemnation! Your kind heart makes you loyal to everyonewhom you have called a friend—and what can be more natural? I wasterribly grieved for the unfortunate man when I heard of the trouble hehad brought on himself. But we cannot bear each other's sorrows in thisworld. Each one must reap as he has sown."

"And do you think that Alan has sown what he is reaping? Do you believethat he stabbed his wife?"

"My dear, I must believe it. Everyone believes it."

"Alan!" said Lettice, half raising her hand, and gazing out through theopen window, over the banks of the yellow-flowing Arno, with a look ofineffable trust and tenderness in her face, "Alan, did you try to killthe woman who has cursed and degraded you? Did you strike her once inreturn for her thousand malicious blows? Did you so much as wish her illto gratify your anger and revenge? No!—there is one, at least, who doesnot believe you guilty of this crime!"

"Lettice, darling!"

"I hear no voice but that of Alan, calling to me from his prison cell."She sprang to her feet and stood as if listening to a far-off call.

"Lettice, for Heaven's sake, do not give way to delusions. Think ofthose who love you best, who will be in despair if ill should befallyou."

"Yes, I will think of those who love me best! I must go to him. DearMrs. Hartley, I am not losing my senses, but the feeling is so strongupon me that I have no power to resist it. I must go to Alan."

"My child, consider! You cannot go to him. He is in prison."

"I will go and live at the gates until he comes out."

"You must not talk like this. I cannot let you go—you, a woman! Whatwould the world think of you?"

"What does the world think of him? It says he is guilty—when I knowthat he is not!"

"You cannot know, Lettice. All that was proved against him is that insome way or other, goaded by her reproaches, he stabbed her with hisdagger. But that was proved, and you cannot get over it. I can quitebelieve that he is more unfortunate than maliciously guilty; yet,surely, you must admit that he is ruined."

"Never!" said Lettice, passionately. She could almost have stamped herfoot with rage to hear another say what was already in her own mind. Butold habits of self-restraint came to her aid. She raised her headproudly as she replied: "A man is never ruined. Alan Walcott has afuture."

"He may have a future, dear, but it is one in which we cannot beconcerned. Listen to me, Lettice—I do so strongly feel that this is thecrisis and turning point of your life! There are lines beyond which nowoman who respects herself, or who would be respected by the world, cango. If you do not act with prudence and common sense to-day, you mayhave to repent it all the rest of your life. You are strong—use yourstrength to good purpose, and think, for Heaven's sake think, of thecourage and self-sacrifice which are expected from women of yourbreeding and position." She ended with tears in her eyes, for althoughshe spoke conventionally, and as conventional women speak, her heart wasfull of the truest anxiety and tenderness for her friend.

Lettice was looking out of the window again, as though for inspirationin her difficulty. When she answered, it was with inexpressible sadnessand regret.

"You have been so good and kind to me that it cuts my heart to disagreewith you in any way. Have I reached such a turning point as you say?Perhaps it is so—but I have been brought to it; I have not wilfullywalked up to it. You said that Alan's future was one in which we couldnot be concerned. What I feel at this moment, more vividly than I everfelt anything in my life, is that I am concerned and involved in hisfuture. I have fought against this, and put it aside, as you, my dearfriend, must know. I have tried to forget him—and my shame of the pastfew weeks has been that I tried to care for some one else. Well, Ifailed; and see how the very trying has brought me to this clear andirresistible knowledge of my own heart! If I were superstitious, Ishould say that it was my fate. I don't know what it is—I don'tknow if my view or your view of my duty is right—but I am quitesure of this, that I shall have to act on my own view. Courage andself-sacrifice—yes! They are primary virtues in a woman; but couragefor what? Self-sacrifice for whom?"

"For society! For the world in general!"

"But the world in general has the world to help it. If one man needs awoman's sacrifice, he has only one woman to look to. I am very, verysorry that I cannot go my own way without giving you pain, and if only Icould think that by any act which it is in my power to do——"

"I don't know what you mean by going your own way, child; but I hope youwill come to a better mind before you take a decided step." Mrs. Hartleywas growing thoroughly alarmed.

"Indeed, I have come to the best, the only possible resolution; and thequestion is, how soon I can be in London. We have been in Italy a longtime, have we not?"

"Eleven months."

"Do you wish to stay much longer?"

"I see very plainly, Lettice, that, if I did want to stay, it would endin my being here alone. But I shall not let you travel by yourself. Ifyour interest in Italy has gone, so has mine. We will start onSaturday."

Mrs. Hartley was sorely disappointed, and even angry with Lettice; butshe thought that at any rate she ought not to talk with her until theywere back again in London. And there was at least a hope that she wouldbe more prudent a week hence than she was to-day.

As for Lettice, she found it very hard to wait. If she had been aloneshe would have left Florence within an hour of reading Sydney's letter,for her heart was on fire with impatience.

She did not speak to Brooke Dalton again, except in the presence of herfriends; but after he and Edith had gone she wrote him another letter tothe address which he had given them. In this letter she begged him, askindly as she could, to consider her last answer as final. "Sydney'snote," she said, "has only strengthened my decision. Indeed, it has mademe ten times more decided. My heart is not mine to give. You will notexpect that I should say more than this. The best thing I can hope fromyou is that you will judge me charitably, and that if others reproach meyou will not join in the chorus."

Poor Brooke Dalton kissed the letter quietly, and said nothing about it;nor did he openly give utterance to the words which entered his mind inreference to Sydney's intervention. Mrs. Hartley silently resolved tosee Sydney Campion as soon as she got back to London, and beg him toreason with Lettice, and, if possible, bring her to a better mind. Butshe was disappointed to find that Sydney was not in town. His marriagehad taken place in September and he had gone to Scotland with his wife.She knew that he was on fairly good terms with Lettice, and had pressedher to be present at the wedding, also that Miss Pynsent had sent a verycharming and affectionate letter to her future sister-in-law. Butwhether Lettice had written to him and told him of her intentions andopinions, Mrs. Hartley did not know.

CHAPTER XXXI.

AMBITION AT THE HELM.

Sydney Campion and Anna Pynsent were married early in September, whileLettice was still in Italy. There had been a death in the Pynsent familysince the death of Sydney's mother, and Nan was not sorry to make this apretext for arranging every thing in the simplest possible manner. Shehad no bridesmaids, and did without a wedding-feast; and, strange tosay, Sydney was perfectly well content.

For it might have been expected that Sydney—with whom the roots ofworldliness and selfishness had struck very deep—would desire a weddingthat would make a noise in the world, and would not be satisfied with abride in a severely simple white dress and a complete absence of alldisplay. But it seemed as if all that was good in his character had beenbrought to the surface by a marriage which his club-friends chuckledover as so absolutely unexceptionable from a worldly point of view. Foralmost the first time in his life he was a little ashamed of hisworldliness. His marriage with Nan Pynsent was making—or so hethought—everything easy for him! His selfishness was pampered by thegirl's adoring love, by her generosity, even by her beauty and herwealth; and it recoiled upon itself in an utterly unexpected way.Finding life no longer a battle, Sydney became suddenly ashamed of someof his past methods of warfare; and, looking at his betrothed, couldonly breathe a silent and fervent aspiration that she might never knowthe story of certain portions of his life.

He was thoroughly in love with his wife; and—what was more important ina man of his temperament—he admired as well as loved her. Her personalcharm was delightful to him, and the high-bred quietness of her manner,the refinement of her accent, the aroma of dignity and respect whichsurrounded the Pynsent household in general, were elements of hisfeeling for her as strong as his sense of her grace and beauty. With hishigh respect for position and good birth, it would have been almostimpossible for him to yield his heart for long to a woman in a lowergrade of society than his own; even a woman who might be considered hisequal was not often attractive to him; he preferred one—otherconsiderations apart—who was socially a little his superior, and couldmake a link for him with the great families of England. Had Nan been thepretty governess whom he thought her at first, not all her charm, hertalent and her originality of character, would have prevailed to makehim marry her.

But in spite of these defects, when once his judgment had assented, hegave free rein to his heart. Nan satisfied his taste and his intellect,to begin with; his senses were equally well content with her beauty; andthen—then—another kind of emotion came into play. He was a littlevexed and impatient with himself at first, to find the difference thatshe made in his life. She interested him profoundly, and he had neverbeen profoundly interested in any woman before. Her earnestness charmedwhile it half-repelled him. And her refinement, her delicacy of feeling,her high standard of morality, perpetually astonished him. He rememberedthat he had heard his sister Lettice talk as Nan sometimes talked. WithLettice he had pooh-poohed her exalted ideas and thought them womanish;in Nan, he was inclined to call them beautiful. Of course, he said tohimself, her ideas did not affect him; men could not guide their livesby a woman's standard; nevertheless, her notions were pretty, althoughpuritanical; and he had no desire to see them changed. He would not haveNan less conscientious for the world.

An appeal to Sydney's self-love had always been a direct appeal to hisheart. It was sometimes said of him that he cared for others chiefly inproportion as they conferred benefits and advantages upon himself; buthe was certainly capable of warm affection when it had been called intoexistence. He began to display a very real and strong affection for Nan.She had found the way to his heart—though she little suspectedit—through his very weaknesses: she had conquered the man she loved bymeans of his selfishness. The worldly advantages she conferred took hisnature by storm. It was not a high-minded way of contracting anengagement for life; but, as a fragrant flower may easily grow upon avery unpleasant dunghill, so the sweet flower of a true, pure love beganto flourish on the heap of refuse with which the good in Sydney's naturehad been overlaid.

Sydney was treated with considerable generosity by Nan's guardian andtrustees. Her fortune was of course to remain largely at her owndisposal; but an ambitious man like Sydney Campion was certain to profitby it in some degree. Sir John Pynsent had always known that he was notlikely to possess the management of it for long, and the next best thingwas that it should be utilized for a member of the Conservative party,one of his own special connection, whose future career he should be ableto watch over and promote. Campion must clearly understand that he owedhis position and prospects to the Pynsents. He was apt to be somewhatoff-hand and independent, but he would improve with a little judiciouscoaching. A man cannot be independent who owes his seat to theOligarchy, his introduction in Parliament to individual favor, and hisprivate fortune to the daughter of a house which had always been devotedto the interests of a particular party. This was Campion's position, andSir John felt that his brother-in-law would soon fall into line.

Sydney was made the proprietor of the London house in which they were tolive—the house at Vanebury was let for the present; but the whole ofthe domestic charges were to be borne by his wife. His professionalincome would be at his own disposal; and by special arrangement the sumof twenty thousand pounds was set apart as a fund to be drawn upon fromtime to time, by their joint consent, for the advancement of his purelypolitical interests, in such a manner as might be deemed most expedient.

This was a better arrangement than Sydney had allowed himself toanticipate, and he was naturally elated by his success. He was sograteful to Nan for the good things she had brought him that he studiedher tastes and consulted her inclinations in a way quite new to him. Nodoubt there was selfishness even in the repression of self which thiscompliance with her habits imposed upon him; but the daily repressionwas a gain to him.

And Nan recompensed his considerate behavior by giving him that incenseof love and esteem and intellectual deference which is desired by everyman; and by convincing him that his ambitions—as she knew them—had inher the most complete sympathy, and the most valuable aid. This she didfor him, and satisfied all the wishes of his heart.

They had a delightful honeymoon in the Tyrol, and returned to town latein October. The house in Thurloe Square, where they were to reside, hadbeen newly decorated and furnished for them, and was pronounced bycritics to be a marvel of luxury and beauty. Sydney, though he did notpretend to be well acquainted with æsthetic fashions, recognized thatthe rooms had an attractive appearance, and set off Nan's beauty to thebest advantage. He fell easily and naturally into the position which hisgood fortune had marked out for him, and thought, in spite of certainbitter drops, in spite of a touch of gall in the honey, and a suspectedthorn on the rose, in spite of a cloud no bigger than a man's hand in anotherwise clear sky, that Fate had on the whole been very kind to him.

Nan's first appearance as a bride was at her brother's house. LadyPynsent's whole soul was wrapped up in the art and mystery ofentertaining, and she hailed this opportunity of welcoming the Campionsinto her "set" with unfeigned joy. Her gifts as a hostess had been herchief recommendation in Sir John's eyes when he married her; he wouldnever have ventured to espouse a woman who could not play her part inthe drawing-room as well as he could play his part in the club.

A few days after the Campions' arrival in town, therefore, the Pynsentsgave a dinner at their own house, to which Lady Pynsent had invited anumber of men, Sydney Campion amongst the number, whom Sir John desiredto assemble together. The Benedicts came with their wives, and Nan madeher first entry into the charmed circle of matrons, where Sydney hopedthat she would one day lead and rule.

Sir John had an object in gathering these half-dozen congenial spiritsround his table. He always had, or invented, an object for his acts,whatever they might be; a dinner party at home would have bored himgrievously if he could not have invested it with a distinct politicalpurpose. And, indeed, it was this power of throwing fine dust in his owneyes which first made his party regard him as an important socialfactor, worthy of being taken seriously at his own valuation. The spiritof the age was just as strong in him, though in a somewhat differentsense, as it was in Lord Montagu Plumley, one of his guests on thepresent occasion, who had shot up like a meteor from the comparativeobscurity of cadetship in a ducal family to the front rank of the Torypretenders, mainly by ticketing his own valuation on his breast, andkeeping himself perpetually front foremost to the world. The fault wasnot so much Lord Montagu's as that of the age in which he lived. He hadmerit, and he felt his strength, precisely as Sir John felt his strengthas a social pioneer, but in a generation of talented mediocrities he hadno chance of making his merit known by simply doing his duty. At anyrate, he had given up the attempt in despair, and on a memorableevening, of which the history shall one day be written full and fair, hehad expounded to a select group of his intimate friends his great theoryon the saving of the Commonwealth, and his method of obtaining thesceptre of authority, which implied the dispensation of honors to allwho believed in him.

A very good fellow in his way was Montagu Plumley, and Sir John wasanxious that Sydney Campion, now a connection as well as a friend,should be brought within the influence of one whom the baronet hadalways regarded as the Young Man of the future. Sydney had been wont tosneer a little, after his fashion, at the individuals who interpretedthe new ideas, though he accepted the ideas themselves as irrefragable.The nation must be saved by its young men—yes, certainly. As a youngman he saw that plainly enough, but it was not going to be saved by anyyoung man who could be named in his presence. He had said something likethis to Sir John Pynsent, not many days before his marriage, and SirJohn, who had taken Sydney's measure to a nicety, had resolved that hispromising brother-in-law should be converted at the earliest possibleopportunity into a faithful follower and henchman of Lord MontaguPlumley.

Another old friend of the reader was amongst the guests who sat overtheir wine round Sir John's hospitable board. This was the Honorable TomWilloughby, whom his host had initiated at the Oligarchy into the art offishing for men in the troubled waters of Liberalism. Tom Willoughbywas, and always would be, a light weight in the political arena, but hewas very useful when put to work that he could do. He was the spoiledchild of Sir John Pynsent, and was fast earning a character as thechartered libertine of the House of Commons, where his unfailing goodhumor made him friends on both sides. Sir John told him one day that hewas cut out to be an envoy extraordinary from the Conservative to theLiberal ranks, whereupon the Honorable Tom had answered that he did notmind discharging the function for his party to-day if he could see hisway to doing the same thing for his country hereafter. Whereat Sir Johnlaughed, and told him that if he wanted a mission of that kind he mustbow down to the rising sun; and it was then that he asked his friend tocome and dine with Lord Montagu.

Gradually, after the ladies had gone, the conversation shifted round topolitics, and Sir John began to draw his guests out. People had beentalking a good deal during the last few days about the resignation ofMr. Bright, which, coming in the same session with that of Mr. Forster,had made something of a sensation.

"How long will you give them now, Lord Montagu?" said the baronet. "Twoof their strongest men are gone—one over Ireland and the other overEgypt. If the country could vote at this moment, I verily believe thatwe should get a majority. It almost makes one wish for annualParliaments."

"I have more than once thought, Sir John, that the Tories would have hada much longer aggregate of power in the past fifty years if there hadbeen a general election every year. When we come into office we makethings perfectly pleasant all round for the first twelve month. Whenthey come in, it rarely takes them a year to set their friends atloggerheads. As it is, they will stick in to the last moment—certainlyuntil they have passed a Franchise Act."

"I suppose so. We must not go to the country on the Franchise."

"Rather not."

"And it will be too late to rely on Egypt."

"Heaven only knows what they are yet capable of in Egypt. But we shallhave something stronger than that to go upon—as you know very well."

"Ireland," said Campion.

"Not exactly Ireland, though the seed may spring up on Irish soil. Themain thing to do, the thing that every patriotic man ought to work for,is to break down the present One Old Man system of government in thiscountry. The bane of Great Britain is that we are such hero-worshippersby nature that we can only believe in one man at a time. We get hold ofa Palmerston or a Gladstone, and set him on a pedestal, and think thateverybody else is a pygmy. It may be that our idol is a tolerably goodone—that is, not mischievously active. In that case he cannot do muchharm. But when, as in the case of Gladstone, you have a national idolwho is actively mischievous, it is impossible to exaggerate the evilwhich may be done. Therefore the object which we should all pursue inthe first instance is to throw off the old man of the sea, and notmerely to get the better of him in parliament, but to cover him with somuch discredit that he cannot wheedle another majority from the country.It does not signify whether we do this through Irish or Egyptianaffairs, so long as we do it. Mr. Campion has shown us how seats are tobe won. We want fifty or sixty men at least to do the same thing for usat the next election."

"There is no doubt," said Campion, "that with the present electorate wemight safely go to the poll at once. Liberalism, minus Bright, Forster,and Goschen, and plus Alexandria and Phoenix Park, is no longer what itwas in 1880. I had the most distinct evidence of that at Vanebury."

"There was a considerable turnover of votes, I suppose?"

"Unquestionably, and amongst all classes."

"Yes, that is encouraging, so far. But in view of the new franchise, itdoes not go nearly far enough. The idol must be overthrown."

"Who is to do it?" Sydney asked.

"That is hardly for me to say. But it will be done."

"The idol is doing it very fairly," said Willoughby, "on his ownaccount, especially in London. Wherever I go his popularity is decidedlyon the wane amongst his old supporters."

"Let that go on for a year or two," said Lord Montagu, "and then, whenthe inevitable compact is made with Parnell, the great party which hashad its own way in England for so many years, at any rate up to 1874,will crumble to pieces."

The talk was commonplace as beseemed the occasion; but Sir John's objectin bringing his men together was practically gained. Before the eveningwas over, Lord Montagu was favorably impressed by Campion's ability andshrewdness, whilst Sydney was more disposed from that time to regardPlumley as one of the most likely aspirants for the leadership of hisparty.

In the drawing-room, Nan had made herself as popular as her husband wasmaking himself in the dining-room. She was greatly improved by hermarriage, many of the matrons thought; she was more dignified and farless abrupt than she used to be. She had always been considered pretty,and her manners were gaining the finish that they had once perhapslacked; in fact, she had found out that Sydney set a high value onsocial distinction and prestige; and, resolving to please him in this asin everything else, she had set herself of late to soften down anygirlish harshness or brusquerie, such as Lady Pynsent used sometimes tocomplain of in her, and to develop the gracious softness of manner whichSydney liked to see.

"She will be quite the grande dame, by and by," said one lady,watching her that night. "She has some very stately airs already, andyet she is absolutely without affectation. Mr. Campion is a very luckyman."

Nan was asked to play; but, although she acknowledged that she stillkept up her practising, she had not brought her violin with her. She washalf afraid, moreover, that Sydney did not like her to perform. Shefancied that he had an objection to any sort of display of eitherlearning or accomplishment on a woman's part; she had gathered thisimpression from the way in which he spoke of his sister Lettice. And shedid not want to expose herself to the same sort of criticism.

One of the younger ladies at Lady Pynsent's that night was a Mrs.Westray, wife of the eminently respectable member for Bloomsbury, who,as a city merchant of great wealth and influence, was one of the invitedguests. Mrs. Westray was by way of being a literary lady, having printeda volume of her "Travels." Unfortunately she had only traveled inFrance, over well-worn tracks, and her book appeared just after those oftwo other ladies, with whom the critics had dealt very kindly indeed; sothat the last comer had not been treated quite so well as she deserved.Nevertheless she keenly enjoyed her reputation as a woman of letters;and having found on inquiry that Sydney Campion was the brother of thelady whose novel had gained such a brilliant success in the spring, sheasked her husband to bring him to her.

"Oh, why does Miss Campion live out of England?" Mrs. Westray asked him,after gushing a little about his sister's "exquisite romance". "Surelyshe does not mean to do so always?"

"No," said Sydney. "I hope not. She was rather seriously ill lastChristmas, and we thought it best for her to live in Italy until shequite recovered. I trust that we shall have her back again before theend of the year." He was as yet unacquainted with the history of hissister's movements.

"I am so glad to hear it. I want very much to make her acquaintance."

"We hope that my sister will come to stay with us for a time," saidSydney, "and in that case you will be sure to see her."

"That will be so very nice," said the lady; "I am quite certain I shalllike her immensely."

Sydney felt a little doubtful whether Lettice would like Mrs. Westray;and he also doubted whether his wife and his sister would be found tohave much in common. But he was more or less consciously building on thehope that Dalton's suit would prosper, and that Lettice would settledown quietly as the mistress of Angleford Manor, and so be weaned fromthe somewhat equivocal situation of a successful author. It did not somuch as enter his mind, by the way, that there was anything equivocal inMrs. Westray's authorship. Her book had failed, and her husband was verywealthy, so that she could not be suspected of having earned money byher pen. But Lettice had cheques for her romances!

The dinner was very successful, and the Pynsents were charmed with theresult. "It is a most suitable union," said Sir John, alluding to Nan'smarriage to Sydney Campion, and hoping to crush his wife a little,seeing that she had objected to it: "it does great credit to mydiscernment in bringing them together. I always knew that Campion wouldget on. Lord Montagu was very much pleased with him."

"Nan looked lovely," said Lady Pynsent, ignoring her husband's innuendo."She tells me that Sydney is very particular about her dress, and sheseems perfectly happy."

Meanwhile, as Sydney and his wife were driving home, Nan nestled up tohim and said coaxingly,

"Now tell me, dear, just what you were thinking of to-night."

"I was thinking that my wife was the most beautiful woman in the room."

"Oh, I did not mean anything of that kind. When you were talking atdinner-time, and after we had gone up stairs, what was really theuppermost thought in your mind?"

"Well," said Sydney laughing, "you deserve all my candor, Nan. I wasthinking, if you must know, that I could meet any one of those men indebate, or in council, and hold my own against him. There's vanity foryou! Now it is your turn."

"Mine?" she said. "Why, it was just the same as your own. That you wereas wise and great as any of them——"

"Ah, I didn't say that."

"—And that when you are a Minister of State, and I threw open mydrawing-room, we will challenge comparison with any other house inLondon. Do you like the idea?"

He put his arm round her and kissed her very fondly. She had assimilatedhis ambitions to a remarkable degree, and he was as surprised as he wasdelighted to find her almost as eager for his success as he himselfcould be. The two were by no means destitute of that community ofinterests and pursuits which has been said to constitute the best hopeof wedded bliss. But Nan's hopes were less material than Sydney's. Itwas as yet a doubtful matter whether he would draw her down from herhigh standard, or whether she would succeed in raising him to hers. Atpresent, satisfied with themselves and with each other, they were athoroughly happy couple.

CHAPTER XXXII.

AT MRS. CHIGWIN'S COTTAGE.

Birchmead in the summer and autumn is a very different place from theBirchmead which Alan Walcott saw when he came down to visit his aunt inthe early days of February. Then the year had not begun to move; at mostthere was a crocus or a snowdrop in the sheltered corners of Mrs.Chigwin's garden; and, if it had not been for a wealth of holly roundthe borders of the village green, the whole place would have beendestitute of color.

But, in the summer, all is color and brightness. The blue sky, theemerald lawns, the dull red earth, the many-hued masses of foliage, fromthe dark copper beech to the light greys of the limes and poplars,mingle their broad effects upon their outspread canvas of Nature, and inthe foreground a thousand flowers glow warmly from the well-kept gardensor the fertile meadow-side. Nowhere do the old-fashioned flowers of thefield and garden seem to flourish more luxuriantly than at Birchmead, orcome to fuller bloom, or linger for a longer season. Here, as elsewherein the south of England, June and July are the richest months forprofusion and color; but the two months that follow July may be made,with very little trouble, as gay and varied in their garden-show, if notso fragrant and exquisite. The glory of the roses and lilies hasdeparted, but in their place is much to compensate all simple andunsophisticated lovers of their mother-earth.

In the second week of October, Mrs. Chigwin was at work in her garden,with her dress tucked up, a basket in her left hand, and a large pair ofscissors in her right. Every flower that had begun to fade, everywithered leaf and overgrown shoot fell before those fatal shears, andwas caught in the all-devouring basket; and from time to time she bore afresh load of snippets to their last resting-place. Her heart was in herwork, and she would not rest until she had completed her round. From theclematis on the cottage wall and the jessamine over the porch she passedto a clump of variegated hollyhocks, and from them to the hedge of sweetpeas, to the fuchsias almost as high as the peas, the purple and whitephlox, the yellow evening primrose, and the many-colored asters.Stooping here and there, she carefully trimmed the rank-growinggeraniums and the clusters of chrysanthemums, cut off the stragglingbranches of the mignonette and removed every passing bloom of harebell,heartsease, and heliotrope.

The euthanasia of the fading blossoms filled her shallow skephalf-a-dozen times over, and, to anyone ignorant (to his shame) of theart which our first ancestor surely learned from his mother, and loved,it might have seemed that Mrs. Chigwin used her scissors with a toounsparing hand. But the happy old soul knew what she was about. Theevening was closing in, and she had cut both the flowers whose beautyhad passed away and those which would have been wrinkled and flabbybefore the morning, knowing full well that only so can you reckon on theperfection of beauty from day to day.

"There, now," she said, when her last basketful was disposed of, "I havedone. And if old Squire Jermyn, who first laid out this garden, was tocome to life again to-morrow, there would be nothing in Martha Chigwin'slittle plot to make his hair stand on end."

She threw her eyes comprehensively round the ring of cottages whichencircled the village green, with a sniff of defiant challenge, asthough she would dare any of her neighbors to make the same boast; andthen she came and sat down on the garden-seat, and said to her oldfriend and companion,

"What do you think about it, Elizabeth?"

"You are right, Martha; right as you always are," said Mrs. Bundlecombe,in a feeble voice. "And I was thinking as you went round, cutting offthe flowers that have had their day, that if you had come to me and cutme off with the rest of them, there would have been one less poor oldwithered thing in the world. Here have I been a wretched cripple on yourhands all the summer, and surely if the Lord had had any need for me Hewould not have broken my stalk and left me to shrivel up in thesunshine."

"Now, Bessy," said Mrs. Chigwin, severely, "do you want to put out thelight of peace that we have been enjoying for days past? Fie, for shame!and in a garden, too. Where's your gratitude—or, leastways, where'syour patience?"

"There, there, Martha, you know I did not mean it. But I sit herethinking and thinking, till I could write whole volumes on the vanity ofhuman wishes. Cut me off, indeed, just at this moment, when I am waitingto see my dear boy once more before I die!"

Mrs. Bundlecombe was silent again, and the other did not disturb her,knowing by experience what the effort to speak would be likely to endin.

Things had not gone well at Birchmead in the last six months. The newsof Alan's arrest on the charge of wife-murder—that was the exaggeratedshape in which it first reached the village—was a terrible blow to poorAunt Bessy. She was struck down by paralysis, and had to keep to her bedfor many weeks, and even now she had only the partial use of her limbs.Mrs. Chigwin, buckling to her new task with heroic cheerfulness, hadnursed and comforted her and lightened the burden of her life so far asthat was possible. As soon as the cripple could be dressed and movedabout, she had bought for her a light basket-chair, into which she usedto lift her bodily. Whenever the weather was fine enough she would wheelher into the garden; and she won the first apology for a laugh from Mrs.Bundlecombe when, having drawn her on the grass and settled hercomfortably, she said,

"Now, Bessy, I have repotted you and put you in the sun on the same dayas my balsams, and I shall expect you to be ready for planting out assoon as they are."

But that was too sanguine a hope, for Mrs. Bundlecombe was still in herchair, and there was not much chance of her ever being able to walkagain. As it had been impossible for her to go and see her nephew,either before his trial or since, Mrs. Chigwin had written a letter forher, entreating Alan to come to Birchmead as soon as he was free; andthe writer assured him on her own account that there was not a betterplace in England for quiet rest and consolation. They heard from theprison authorities that the letter had been received, and that it wouldbe given to the prisoner; and now Aunt Bessy was counting the days untilhis time had expired.

There had been other changes at Birchmead in the course of the year.Mrs. Harrington no longer occupied the adjoining cottage, but lay atpeace in the churchyard at Thorley. Her grand-daughter had written onceto the old ladies from London, according to her promise; after whichthey had heard of her no more, although they sent her word of hergrandmother's death, to the address which she had given them.

The sun was sinking low in the sky, and it was time for Mrs. Bundlecombeto be taken indoors. So Martha Chigwin wheeled her into the house,rapidly undressed her, and lifted her into bed. Then there was a chapterto be read aloud, and joint prayers to be repeated, and supper to beprepared; and Mrs. Chigwin had just made the two cups of gruel whichrepresented the last duty of her busy day's routine, when she heard anoise of wheels on the gravel outside.

It was not a cart but a cab, and it stopped at the door. Cabs were notvery familiar in Birchmead, and the appearance of this one at Mrs.Chigwin's cottage brought curious eyes to almost every window lookingout upon the green. There was not much to reward curiosity—only a lady,dressed in a long fur-lined cloak, with a quiet little bonnet, and atraveling-bag in her hand, who knocked at Mrs. Chigwin's door, and,after a short confabulation, dismissed the cabman and went in. At anyrate it was something for Birchmead to know that it had a visitor whohad come in a Dorminster cab. That was an incident which for these goodsouls distinguished the day from the one which went before and the onewhich came after it.

It was Lettice Campion who thus stirred the languid pulse of Birchmead.She had found her way like a ministering angel to the bedside of Alan'saunt, within three or four days of her arrival in England.

Mrs. Chigwin felt the utmost confidence in her visitor, both from whatshe had heard of her before and from what she saw of her as soon as sheentered the cottage. Lettice could not have been kinder to her motherthan she was to the poor crippled woman who had no claim upon herservice. She told Mrs. Chigwin that so long as she was at Birchmead sheshould be Mrs. Bundlecombe's nurse, and she evidently meant to keep herword. Aunt Bessy was comforted beyond measure by her appearance, andstill more by the few words which Lettice whispered to her, in responseto the forlorn appeal of the old woman's eyes—so unutterably eloquentof the thoughts that were throbbing in the hearts of both—

"I shall wait for him when he comes out!"

"God bless you!" said Aunt Bessy.

"The world has been cruel to him. He has only us two; we must try tocomfort him," whispered Lettice.

"I am past it, dearie. He has no one but you. You are enough for him."

And she went on in the slow and painful way which had become habitual toher.

"I have been tortured in my heart, thinking of his coming out upon theweary world, all alone, broken down may be, with none to take him by thehand, and me lying here upon my back, unable to help him. Oh, it ishard! And sometimes in a dream I see his mother, Lucy, my own littlesister that died so many years ago, floating over the walls of hisprison, and signing to me to fetch him out. But now she will rest in hergrave, and I myself could die to-night and be happy, because you willnot forsake him. My dear, he loves you like his own soul!"

Lettice did not reply, but she kissed the cheek of Alan's aunt, and badeher try to sleep.

It was growing dark. Through the window she could trace the outlines ofthe garden below. She was tempted by the balmy night, and went out.

"He loves you like his own soul!" Was not that how she loved him, andwas she not here in England to tell him so?

The question startled her, as though some one else had put it to her,and was waiting for an answer. That, surely, was not her object; andyet, if not, what was? From the hour when she read Sydney's letter atFlorence she seemed to have had a new motive power within her. She hadacted hitherto from instinct, or from mere feeling; she could scarcelyrecall a single argument which she had held with herself during the pastten days. She might have been walking in a dream, so little did she seemto have used her reason or her will. Yet much had happened since sheleft Italy.

On Thursday she had arrived in London with Mrs. Hartley.

On Saturday she went out by herself, and managed to see the governor ofthe gaol where Alan was lodged. From him she learned, to her dismay,that "Number 79" had had a severe and almost fatal illness. He was stillvery weak, though out of danger, and it was thought that with thecareful attention which he was receiving in the infirmary he wouldprobably be able to leave on the 29th of October.

Captain Haynes told her that his prisoner appeared to have no relatives"except the wife, who was not likely to give herself much trouble abouthim, and an aunt in the country who was paralyzed." So, Lettice arrangedto bring a carriage to the prison gates on the morning of the 29th, andto fetch him away.

Having learned Mrs. Bundlecombe's address, thanks to the letter whichhad been written to the governor by Mrs. Chigwin, she came to Birchmeadon Monday—lingering an hour or two at Angleford in order that she mightsee her native place again, and recall the image of the father whom shehad loved and lost.

Now, at length, her heart was in a measure contented and at rest. Nowshe could think, and reason with herself if need be. What did she meanto do? What had she done already? How had she committed herself? She wasonly too painfully aware that she had taken a step which there was noretracing. Had she not virtually broken with Mrs. Hartley, with theDaltons, with Sydney and his wife? They would doubtless think so,whether she did or not. She had no illusions in the matter. Not one ofthem would forgive her—not even Mrs. Hartley—for her treatment ofBrooke Dalton, for her independent action since she left Italy, and forher association with Alan Walcott.

As for that—it was true that she had not yet gone too far. She had notcoupled her name with Alan's in any public manner, or in any way at all,except that she had used her own name when calling on Captain Haynes. Hewould not talk, and, therefore, it was not too late to act with greatersecrecy and caution. She need not let anyone know that she had taken aninterest in him, that she had been to his prison, and had promised tobring him away when he was released. Beyond that point of bringing himaway she had not yet advanced, even in her own mind. What was to preventher from sending a carriage, as though it had been provided by AuntBessy, and letting him find his way to Birchmead, or wherever he wishedto go, like any other discharged prisoner. Then she would not shock herfriends—she would not outrage the feelings of poor Sydney, who thoughtso much of the world's opinion and of the name they held in common.

That was a strong argument with her, for, to some extent, shesympathized with her brother's ambitions, although she did not greatlyesteem them. She would do all that she could to avoid hurting him. Howmuch could she do? Was it possible for her now, when she was calm andcollected, to form a strong resolution and draw a clear line beyondwhich she would not let her pity for Alan Walcott carry her? What shethought right, that she would do—no more, but certainly no less. Thenwhat was right?

There was the difficulty. Within the limits of a good conscience, shehad been guided almost entirely by her feelings, and they had led her sostraight that she had never been prompted to ask herself such questionsas What is right? or What is the proper thing to do? She had done goodby intuition and nature; and now it was out of her power to realize anyother or stronger obligation than that of acting as nature bade her. Onething only was plain to her at the moment—that she must be kind to thisman who had been persecuted, betrayed, and unjustly punished, and who,but for her, would be absolutely alone in the world. Could she be kindwithout going to meet him at the prison gates?

She was trying to persuade herself that she could; and so deeply was sheabsorbed by the struggle which was going on in her mind that she did notnotice the feeble wailing sound which ever and anon came towards her onthe silent night air. But, at last, a louder cry than before disturbedher quiet reverie, and startled her into attention.

It seemed to be close at hand—a cry like that of a little child; andshe stood up and peered into the shadow behind her. She could seenothing, but the wailing came again, and Lettice groped her way acrossthe flower border, and stood by the low garden wall.

There was just enough light to enable her to distinguish the form of awoman, crouching on the rank grass in what used to be Mrs. Harrington'sgarden, and vainly attempting to soothe the baby which she held in herarms.

It was too dark to see the woman's features, or to judge if she were inmuch distress, but Lettice could not be satisfied to leave her where shewas.

"Who are you?" she asked; and, at the sound of her voice the littlechild was hushed, as though it knew that a friend was near. But themother did not answer.

"What do you want? Why are you sitting there? Have you no home?"

A very weak "No" reached her straining ears.

"Can you walk? Come here, if you can."

The figure did not move.

"Then I must get over the wall and come to you."

She was beginning to do as she had said, when the other slowly rose toher feet, and drew unwillingly a step nearer.

"Come," said Lettice, kindly, but firmly. She felt that this was a womanover whom it would not be hard to exercise authority.

Gradually the mother approached, with her baby in her arms, until shewas within half-a-dozen yards of the wall. Then she leaned against thetrunk of an old apple-tree, and would not come any further.

"Are you ill?" said Lettice, gently.

Again the half-heard "No," but this time accompanied by a sob.

"Then why are you out at this time, and with your poor little baby, too?Have you walked far to-day?"

"From Thorley."

"Do you live at Thorley?"

"Not now."

"Where do you come from?"

"London."

"Let me see your baby. Is it hungry, or cold? Why do you keep so faraway from me? and why are you crying? Oh, Milly, Milly! Is it you? Dearchild, come to me!"

Then the girl came from amongst the branches of the tree, and totteredto the wall, and laid her child in the arms stretched out to receive it.

"Why did you not come to the door, Milly, instead of waiting out here?You might have been sure of a welcome!"

She laid her hand on the head which was bowed down upon the wall, andwhich shook with the poor girl's sobs. Her bonnet had fallen off, andhung on her back; and Lettice noticed that the long hair of which thegirl used to be so proud was gone.

"I did not come to the village till it was dark," Milly said, as soon asshe could speak. "Then I should have knocked, but I saw you looking outat the window—and I was ashamed!"

"Ashamed?" said Lettice, in a low voice. There was one thing shethought, of which Milly could be ashamed. She looked from the weepingmother to the baby's face, and back again to Milly. "My poor girl," shesaid, with a sudden rush of tender feeling for the woman who had perhapsbeen tempted beyond her strength—so Lettice thought—"my poor child,you don't think I should be unkind to you!"

"No, no! you were always so kind to me, miss. And I—I—was sowicked—so ungrateful—so deceitful——"

And with that she broke down utterly. Lettice's arms were round herneck, and the young mother, feeling herself in the presence of acomforter at last, let loose her pent-up misery and sobbed aloud.

"Where is—he? your husband?" said Lettice, remembering that she hadheard of Milly's marriage from Mrs. Bundlecombe some time ago, andconjecturing that something had gone wrong, but not yet guessing thewhole truth.

Milly sobbed on for a minute or two without replying. Then she said,somewhat indistinctly,

"He's gone away. Left me."

"Left you? But—for a time, you mean? To look for work, perhaps?"

"No, no; he has left me altogether. I shall never see him again—never!"said the girl, with sudden passion. "Oh, don't ask me any more, MissLettice, I can't bear it!"

"No, no," said Lettice, pitifully, "I will ask you no questions, Milly.You shall tell me all about it or nothing, just as you like. We must notkeep the baby out in the night air any longer. Come round to the door,and Mrs. Chigwin will let you in. I will tell her that you want anight's lodging, and then we will arrange what you are to do to-morrow."

Milly did not move, however, from her position by the wall. She hadceased to sob, and was twisting her handkerchief nervously between herfingers.

"Do you think Mrs. Chigwin would let me in," she said at last, in a verylow voice, "if she knew?"

Lettice waited; she saw there was more to come.

"Oh, Miss Lettice," said the girl, with a subdued agony in her tonewhich went to Lettice's heart; "it wasn't all my fault ... I believed inhim so ... I thought he would never deceive me nor behave unkindly tome. But I was deceived: I never, was his wife, though I thought—Ithought I was!"

"My dear," said Lettice, gently, "then you were not to blame. Mrs.Chigwin would only be sorry for you if she knew. But we will not tellher everything at once; you must just come in, if only for baby's sake,and get some food and rest. Come with me now."

And Milly yielded, feeling a certain comfort and relief in having so fartold the truth to her former mistress.

Mrs. Chigwin's surprise, when she saw Lettice coming back with the babyin her arms, may well be imagined. But she behaved very kindly: she atonce consented to take in Milly for the night and make her comfortable;and, after one keen look at the girl's changed and downcast face, sheasked no questions.

For Milly was wonderfully changed—there was no doubt of that. Herpretty fair hair was cropped close to her head; her eyes were sunken,and the lids were red with tears; the bloom had faded from her cheeks,and the roundness of youth had passed from face and form alike.Ill-health and sorrow had gone far to rob her of her fresh young beauty;and the privations which she confessed to having experienced during thelast few days had hollowed her eyes, sharpened her features, and bowedher slender form. Her dress was travel-stained and shabby; her bootswere down at heel and her thin hands were glove-less. Lettice noticedthat she still wore a wedding-ring. But the neat trim look that had oncebeen so characteristic was entirely lost. She was bedraggled and brokendown; and Lettice thought with a thrill of horror of what might havehappened if Mrs. Chigwin had left Birchmead, or refused to take thewayfarer in. For a woman in Milly's state there would probably haveremained only two ways open—the river or the streets.

"I've never had five in my cottage before," said Mrs. Chigwin,cheerfully; "but where there's room for two there's room forhalf-a-dozen; at least, when they're women and children."

"You must have wondered what had become of me all this time," saidLettice.

"Nay, ma'am; you were in the garden, and that was enough for me. I knewyou couldn't be in a better place, whether you were sorrowing orrejoicing. Nought but good comes to one in a garden."

They set food before Milly, and let her rest and recover herself. Thechild won their hearts at once. It was clean, and healthy, and good tolook at; and if Lettice had known that it was her own little niece shecould not have taken to it more kindly. Perhaps, indeed, she would nothave taken to it at all.

Lettice's visit had greatly excited Mrs. Bundlecombe, who had for sometime past been in that precarious state in which any excitement, howeverslight, is dangerous. She was completely happy, because she had jumpedto the conclusion that Lettice would henceforth do for Alan all that sheherself would have done if she had been able, but which it was nowimpossible for her to do. And then it was as though the feeble vitalitywhich remained to her had begun to ebb away from the moment when herneed for keeping it had disappeared.

In the early morning, Lettice was roused from her sleep by therestlessness of her companion, and she sat up and looked at her.

"Dearie," said the old woman, in a whisper, "my time is come."

"No, no!" said Lettice, standing by her side. "Let me raise you a littleon the pillow; you will feel better presently."

"Yes—better—in heaven! You will take care of my Alan?"

"Oh yes, dear!"

"And love him?"

"And love him."

"Thank God for that. It will be the saving of him. Call Martha, mydear!"

Lettice went and roused Mrs. Chigwin, who came and kissed her friend.Then, with a last effort, Aunt Bessy raised her head, and whispered,

"'Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!'"

The watchers scarcely heard the words; but when she sank back upon herpillow, and smiled as though she had found the peace which passesunderstandings they knew that she had gone.

Lettice stayed on at Birchmead until she had seen Alan's aunt carried tothe churchyard, and laid under the shadow of the great yew trees.

Aunt Bessy's death changed her plans. It was no longer necessary forAlan to undertake so long a journey, and in his weak condition it mightbe better that he should not attempt it. But what was to be done? Shehad promised Aunt Bessy to "take care of him." Haw could she do it? Howdo it, at least, without outraging the feelings of her brother and herfriends? She loved Sydney, although she had long ago ceased to begreatly in sympathy with him, and she had looked forward to the day whenshe could make friends with his wife and—by and by—interest herself intheir children. She knew that Sydney would be against her in this. Oughtshe to consider him? Should his opinion weigh with her or not?

She was still pondering this question on the day after the funeral, whensomething happened which went far towards removing her hesitation. Shewas sitting in Mrs. Chigwin's garden, which was warm and dry in theafternoon sun. Mrs. Chigwin was indoors, vigorously "straightening" thehouse. Milly was sewing a frock for her child, and the child itself wastumbling about on a soft rug at her feet.

During the past few days, little had been said respecting Milly'sfuture. Mrs. Bundlecombe's death had thrown her history into thebackground, and she had not seemed eager to obtrude it on any of herfriends. Lettice's assurance that she might safely stay where she was atpresent seemed to satisfy her. She had lost her briskness—heroccasional pertness—of manner; she was quiet and subdued, attachingherself with dog-like fidelity to Lettice's steps, and showing that nosatisfaction was so great as that of being allowed to wait on her. Buther submissiveness had something in it which pained Lettice, while ittouched the deepest fibres of pity in her heart.

She was vaguely wondering what it was that pained her—why there shouldbe that touch of something almost like subserviency in Milly's manner,as if to make up for some past injury—when her eyes were arrested by alocket, which, tied by a black ribbon round Milly's neck, had escapedfrom the bosom of her dress, and now hung exposed to view.

It contained a portrait of Sydney's face, evidently cut from aphotograph by the girl herself.

A flood of light entered Lettice's mind; but she took her discovery withoutward calmness. No thought of accusing or upbraiding Milly everoccurred to her. Why should it? she would have said. It was not Millywho had been to blame, if the girl's own story were true. It was Sydneywho had been guilty of the blackest treachery, the basest of all crimes.She thought for a moment of his wife, with pity; she looked with a newinterest and tenderness at the innocent child. She had nocertainty—that was true; but she had very little doubt as to the factsof the case. And, at any rate, she allowed her suspicion to decide herown course of action. Why need she care any longer what Sydney desiredfor her? His standard was not hers. She was not bound to think of hisverdict—now. He had put himself out of court. She was not sure that sheshould even love him again, for the whole of her pure and generousnature rose-up in passionate repudiation of the man who could baselypurchase his own pleasure at the expense of a woman's soul, and she knewthat he had thenceforth lost all power over her. No opinion of his onany matter of moral bearing could ever sway her again. The supreme scornof his conduct which she felt impelled her to choose her own line ofaction, to make—or mar—for herself her own career.

It was one of those moments in which the action of others has anunexpectedly vivifying result. We mortals may die, but our deed livesafter us, and is immortal, and bears fruit to all time, sometimes eviland sometimes good. If the deed has been evil in the beginning, thefruit is often such as we who did it would give our lives, if we had thepower, to destroy.

Thus Sydney's action had far-off issues which he could not foresee. Itruled the whole course of his sister's afterlife.

There was a light shawl on Milly's thin shoulders. Lettice took one endof it and drew it gently over the telltale locket. Then, unmindful ofMilly's start, and the feverish eagerness with which her trembling handthrust the likeness out of sight, she spoke in a very gentle tone: "Youwill take cold if you are not more careful of yourself. Have youthought, Milly, what you are to do now? You want to earn a living foryourself and the child, do you not?"

Milly looked at her with frightened, hopeless eyes. Had Miss Letticeseen the locket, and did she mean to cast her off for ever? Shestammered out some unintelligible words, but the fear that was uppermostin her mind made her incapable of a more definite reply.

"You must do something for yourself. You do not expect to hear from yourchild's father again, I suppose?" said Lettice.

"He said—he said—he would send me money—if I wanted it," said Milly,putting up one hand to shade her burning face; "but I would rather not!"

"No, you are quite right. You had better take nothing more fromhim—unless it is for the child. But I am thinking of yourself. I amgoing back to London the day after to-morrow, and perhaps I may take asmall house again, as I did before. Will you come with me, Milly?"

This offer was too much for the girl's equanimity. She burst into tearsand sobbed vehemently, with her head upon her hands, for two or threeminutes.

"I couldn't," she said at last. "Oh, you're very good, Miss Lettice—andit isn't that I wouldn't work my fingers to the bone for you—but Icouldn't come."

"Why not?"

"I deceived you before. I—I—should be deceiving you again. If youknew—all, you would not ask me."

"I think I should, Milly. Perhaps I know more of your story than youhave told me. But—at present, at any rate—I do not want to know more.I am not going to question you about the past. Because you cannot undowhat is past, dear, however much you try, but you can live as if ithad never happened; or, better still, you can live a nobler life thanyou had strength to live before. Sorrow makes us stronger, Milly, if wetake it in the right way. You have your little one to live for; and youmust be brave, and strong, and good, for her sake. Will you not try?Will it not be easier now to look forward than to look back? I used toteach you out of an old Book that speaks of 'forgetting the things thatare behind.' You must forget the things that lie behind you, Milly, andpress forward to the better life that lies before you now."

The girl listened with an awed look, upon her face.

"I am afraid," she murmured.

"Forget your fear, dear, with the other things that you have to forget,and gather up your strength to make your little girl's life a good andhappy one. In that way, good will come out of evil—as it so often does.Will you try?"

"Yes," said Milly, "I'll try—if you will help me—and—forgive me."

"You will come with me, then," Lettice rejoined, in a more cheerfultone. "You can bring your child with you, and you shall have moneyenough to clothe her and yourself; but you know, Milly, you must beready to work and not to be idle. Then I shall be able to help you."

Milly was glad enough to be persuaded. She had learned a sad and bitterlesson, but she was the wiser for it.

"I shall be able to work better for you than I did at Maple Cottage,"she said, with touching humility. "You see I know more than I did, and Ishall have more heart in my work. And—" with sudden vehemence—"I wouldwork for you, Miss Lettice, to my life's end."

So it was arranged that they were to go up to London together. Mrs.Chigwin moaned a little about her prospect of loneliness. "But there,"she said, "I am not going to make the worst of it. And nobody that has agarden is ever really lonely, unless she has lost her self-respect, ortaken to loving herself better than her fellow-creatures. By which," sheadded, "I do not mean snails and sparrows, but honest and sensibleflowers."

BOOK VI.

SUCCESS.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

AT THE PRISON GATE.

Months had passed since Lettice had written a page of her story. Thearrival of the Daltons at Florence had interrupted her at a criticalpoint. She had not yet acquired the mechanic art of stopping and goingon again as at the turn of a handle, in obedience to a law of demand andsupply; and she would probably have been unable to gather up her threadsand continue the old woof, even if she had made the effort. But she hadnot made the effort, and now that she was back in London again it seemedless possible than ever that she should sit down and make it.

This was a serious matter, for the book was to have been done to order.She had undertaken to furnish the whole of the manuscript by the middleof November, and now the time had come when she was obliged to admitthat this was quite impracticable. She had hoped to put such aconstraint upon herself at Birchmead as would have enabled her to fulfilher promise in the spirit, and to ask a fortnight's grace for thecompletion of the manuscript. But circ*mstances had prevented her fromwriting a single line, and she gave up the idea as hopeless.

So when she came up to London, three days before the end of October, shecalled upon the publisher with whom she had made her agreement, andconfessed her inability to keep her word. Mr. MacAlpine was polite, butat the same time evidently vexed. If Miss Campion had been ill he wasvery sorry to hear it, but he liked to be able to rely on theengagements which he made.

"Pray don't let it trouble you," he said, seeing that her face had begunto fall. "When do you think you can be ready? I must have your nextstory, at any rate. Take another three months."

"That is very good of you," said Lettice. "I think I can promise itbefore the end of January."

So it was settled, and Lettice went away contented.

The discovery which she had made in regard to Sydney and EmilyHarrington had destroyed her former scruples as to the displeasure whichSydney might feel if he were to hear what she now contemplated. She hadno wish to punish her brother. She thought he had been cruel, andindifferent to the suffering which he had caused; but she was not movedby anything like a vindictive feeling towards him. She had simply lostthe scruples which had beset her, and there was no longer a desire inher mind to avoid a mere semblance of unconventionality for his sake.

She had chosen three rooms on the ground-floor of a house in a long anddreary terrace, the windows of which looked across an intervening wasteto the walls of Alan's prison; and here she watched and waited.

The time hung heavy on her hands. She could do nothing, read nothing,think of nothing—except of the unhappy man within those walls, who hadbeen brought to death's door, and who must have known a living death forthe past six months. To her, merely looking at the walls and thinking oftheir victim, every minute seemed an hour, and every hour a day of blankdespair. What must the minutes and hours have seemed to him, buriedalive in that hideous pile of bricks, and in the yet more hideous pileof false accusations and unmerited disgrace?

She had found out the date of the trial, and procured the papers inwhich it was reported. The whole wretched story was before her now. Shesaw how the web had been weaved round him; she understood the painswhich had been taken to keep her own name from being mentioned, and shenoted with burning indignation the persistency with which Sydney hadlabored, apparently, to secure a conviction.

She was on the point of seeking out Mr. Larmer, in order to learn fromhim the assurance of innocence which Alan must have given to hissolicitor; but she refrained. It would look as though she wantedevidence of what she believed so absolutely without any evidence; andbesides, was it not one of the pleasures which she had promised herself,to hear from Alan's own lips all that he cared for her to hear?

She stood by her window in the evening, and saw the lights spring up oneby one about the frowning gates of the prison. She was quite alone,Milly having gone out with her baby to buy her some clothes. Lettice wasmiserable and depressed, in spite of her good intentions; and as shestood, half leaning against the shutter in unconscious weariness ofbody, yet intent with all her mind upon the one subject that engrossedher, she heard the distant stroke of a tolling bell.

Dong!—dong!—dong! it sounded, with long intervals between the notes.Straight across the vacant ground, from the shrouded walls of Alan'sdungeon, and into the contracting fibres of her own tortured heart; itsmote with sudden terror, turning her blood to ice and her cheeks tolivid whiteness.

Great heaven, it was a death-knell. Could it be Alan who was dead!

For a moment she felt as if she must needs rush into the street andbreak open those prison gates, must ascertain at once that Alan wasstill alive. She went out into the hall and stood for a momenthesitating. Should she go? and would they tell her at the gates if Alanwas alive or dead?

The landlady heard her moving, and came out of a little apartment at theback of the house, to see what was going on.

"Were you going out, ma'am?" she asked, curiously.

"I? no; at least," said Lettice, with somewhat difficult utterance, "Iwas only wondering what that bell was, and——"

"Oh, that's a bell from the church close by. Sounds exactly like apassing-bell, don't it, ma'am? And appropriate too. For my son, who isone of the warders, as I think I've mentioned to you, was here thisafternoon, and tells me that one of the prisoners is dead. A gentleman,too: the one that there was so much talk about a little while ago."

Lettice leaned against the passage wall, glad that in the gatheringdarkness her face could not be seen.

"Was his name—Walcott?" she asked.

"Yes, that was it. At least I think so. I know it was Wal—something. Hewas in for assault, I believe, and a nicer, quieter-spoken gentleman, myson says he never saw. But he died this afternoon, I understand, betweenfive and six o'clock—just as his time was nearly out, too, poor man."

Lettice made no answer. She stole back into her sitting-room and shutthe door.

So this was the end. The prisoner was released, indeed; but no mortalvoice had told him he was free, no earthly friend had met him at thedoor.

She fell on her knees, and prayed that the soul which had beenpersecuted might have rest. Then, when the last stroke of the bell haddied away, she sat down in mute despair, and felt that she had lost thebest thing life had to give her.

Outside upon the pavement men and women were passing to and fro. Therewas no forecourt to the house; passers-by walked close to the windows;they could look in if they tried. Lettice had not lighted a candle, andhad not drawn her blinds, but a gas-lamp standing just in front threw afeeble glimmer into the room, which fell upon her where she sat. As theshadows deepened the light grew stronger, and falling direct upon hereyes, roused her at last from the lethargy into which she had sunk.

She got up and walked to the window, intending to close the shutters.Listlessly for a moment she looked out into the street, where thegas-light flickered upon the meeting streams of humanity—old folk andyoung, busy and idle, hopeful and despairing, all bent on their owndesigns, heedless like herself of the jostling world around them.

She had the shutter in her hand, and was turning it upon its hinges,when a face in the crowd suddenly arrested her. She had seen it once,that ghastly painted face, and it had haunted her in her dreams forweeks and months afterwards. It had tyrannized over her in her sickness,and only left her in peace when she began to recover her strength underthe bright Italian skies. And now she saw her again, the wife who hadwrecked her husband's happiness, for whom he had lingered in a cruelprison, who flaunted herself in the streets whilst Alan's brave andgenerous heart was stilled for ever.

Cora turned her face as she passed the window, and looked in. She mightnot in that uncertain light have recognized the woman whose form stoodout from the darkness behind her, but an impulse moved Lettice which shecould not resist. At the moment when the other turned her head shebeckoned to her with her hand, and quickly threw up the sash of thewindow.

"Mon Dieu!" said Cora, coming up close to her, "is it really you? Whatdo you want with me?"

"Come in! I must speak to you."

"I love you not, Lettice Campion, and you love not me. What would you?"

"I have a message for you—come inside."

"A message! Sapristi! Then I must know it. Open your door."

Lettice closed the window and the shutters, and brought her visitorinside.

The woman of the study and the woman of the pavement looked at eachother, standing face to face for some minutes without speaking a word.They were a contrast of civilization, whom nature had not intended tocontrast, and it would have been difficult to find a stronger antagonismbetween two women who under identical training and circ*mstances mighthave been expected to develop similar tastes, and character, andbearing. Both had strong and well-turned figures, above the middleheight, erect and striking, both had noble features, natural grace andvivacity, constitutions which fitted them for keen enjoyment and zest inlife. But from their infancy onward they had been subjected toinfluences as different as it is possible to imagine. To one duty hadbeen the ideal and the guide of existence; the other had been taught toaim at pleasure as the supreme good. One had ripened into aself-sacrificing woman, to whom a spontaneous feeling of duty was moreimperative than the rules and laws in which she had been trained; theother had degenerated into a wretched slave of her instincts, for whomthe pursuit of pleasure had become a hateful yet inevitable servitude.Perhaps, as they stood side by side, the immeasurable distance whichdivided them mind from mind and body from body was apparent to both.Perhaps each thought at that moment of the man whose life they had sodeeply affected—perhaps each realized what Alan Walcott must havethought and felt about the other.

"Why have you brought me here?" said Cora at last in a defiant voice.

"It was a sudden thought. I saw you, and I wanted to speak to you."

"Then you have no message as you pretended? You are very polite,mademoiselle. You are pleased to amuse yourself at my expense?"

"No, I am not amusing myself," said Lettice. There was a ring of sadnessin her tones, which did not escape Cora's attention. She argued weaknessfrom it, and grew more bold.

"Are you not afraid?" she said, menacingly. "Do you not think that Ihave the power to hurt—as I have hurt you before—the power, and, stillmore, the will?"

"I am not afraid."

"Not afraid! You are hatefully quiet and impassive, just like—ah, likeall your race! Are you always so cold and still? Have you no blood inyour veins?"

"If you will sit down," said Lettice steadily, "I will tell yousomething that you ought to know. It is useless trying to frighten mewith your threats. Sit down and rest if you will; I will get you food orcoffee, if you care for either. But there is something that I want tosay."

Cora stared at her scornfully. "Food! Coffee! Do you think I amstarving?" she asked, with a savage little laugh. "I have as much moneyas I want—more than you are ever likely to have, mademoiselle. You arevery naive, mon enfant. You invite me into your room—Lettice Campioninvites Cora Walcott into her room!—where nobody knows us, nobody couldtrace us—and you quietly ask me to eat and drink! Eat and drink in thishouse? It is so likely! How am I to tell, for example, if your coffee isnot poisoned? You would not be very sorry if I were to die! Parbleu, ifyou want to poison me, you should tempt me with brandy or champagne.Have you neither of those to offer me?"

Lettice had drawn back at the first hint of this insinuation, with alook of irrepressible disgust. She answered coldly, "I have neitherbrandy nor champagne to give you."

"Allons, donc! Why do I stay here then?" said Cora jumping up from thechair where she had seated herself. "This is very wearisome. Your ideawas not very clever, Mademoiselle Lettice; you should lay your plansbetter if you want to trick a woman like me."

"Why should I wish to trick you?" said Lettice, with grave, quiet scorn."What object could I have in killing you?"

"Ma foi, what object should you not have? Revenge, of course. Have I notinjured you? have I not taken away your good name already? All who knowyou have heard my story, and many who do not know you; and nearly everyone of them believes it to be true. You robbed me of my husband,mademoiselle, you know it; and you have but too good reason to wish medead, in order that you may take a wife's place at the convict's side."

"You are mad. Listen to me——"

"I will listen to nothing. I will speak now. I will give you a lastwarning. Do you know what this is?"

She took a bottle from her pocket, a bottle of fluted, dark-coloredglass, and held it in her hand.

"Look! This is vitriol, the friend of the injured and the defenceless. Ihave carried it with me ever since I followed my husband to your houseat Brook Green, and saw you making signals to him at midnight. I cameonce after that, and knocked at your door, intending then to avenge mywrongs; but you had gone away, and I was brutally treated by yourpolice. But if I could not punish you I could punish him, for hebelonged to me and not to you, and I had a right to make him suffer. Ihave made him suffer a little, it seems to me. Wait—I have more to say.Shall I make him suffer more? I have punished you through him; shall Ipunish him through you? For he would not like you to be maimed anddisfigured through life: his sensitive soul would writhe, would it not?to know that you were suffering pain. Do you know what this magic wateris? It stings and bites and eats away the flesh—it will blind you sothat you can never see him again; and it will mar your white face sothat he will never want to look at you. This is what I carry about foryou."

Lettice watched the hand that held the bottle; but in truth she thoughtvery little of the threat. Death had done for her already what thiswoman was talking about. Alan was past the love or vengeance of eitherof them, and all her pleasure in life was gone for ever.

"I thought I should find you here," Cora went on, "waiting at theprison for your lover! But I am waiting for him, too. I am his wifestill. I have the right to wait for him, and you have not. And if youare there when he comes out, I shall stay my hand no longer. I warn you;so be prepared. But perhaps"—and she lifted the bottle, while her eyesflamed with dangerous light, and her voice sank to a sharpwhisper—"perhaps it would be better to settle the question now!"

"The question," said Lettice, with almost unnatural calm of manner, "issettled for us. Alan has left his prison. Your husband is dead."

The woman gazed at her in stupefaction. Her hand fell to her side, andthe light died out of her bold black eyes.

"Alan dead!' What is it you say? How do you know?"

"He had a fever in the jail to which you sent him. He has been atdeath's door for many weeks. Not an hour ago a warder came here and saidthat he was dead. Are you satisfied with your work?"

"My work?" said Cora, drawing back. "I have not killed him!"

"Yes," said Lettice, a surge of bitter anger rising in her heart, "yes,you have killed him, as surely as you tried to kill him with your pistolat Aix-les-Bains, and with his own dagger in Surrey Street. You are amurderess, and you know it well. But for you, Alan Walcott would stillbe living an honorable, happy life. You have stabbed him to the heart,and he is dead. That is the message I have to give you—to tell you thatyou have killed him, and that he is gone to a land where your unnaturalhate can no longer follow him!"

Lettice stood over the cowering woman, strong and unpitying in her sternindignation, lifted out of all thought of herself by the intensity ofher woe. Cora shrank away from her, slipping the bottle into her pocket,and even covertly making the sign of the cross as Lettice's last wordsfell upon her ear—words that sounded to her untutored imagination likea curse. But she could not be subdued for long. She stood silent for afew moments when Lettice ceased to speak, but finally a forced laughissued from the lips that had grown pale beneath her paint.

"Tiens!" she said. "You will do the mourning for us both, it seems.Well, as I never loved him, you cannot expect me to cry at his death.And I shall get his money, I suppose; the money that he grudged me inhis lifetime: it will be mine now, and I can spend it as I choose. Ithank you for your information, mademoiselle, and I pardon you theinsults which you have heaped upon my head to-night. If I have myregrets, I do not exhibit them in your fashion. Good-night,mademoiselle: il me faut absolument de l'eau de vie—I can wait for itno longer. Bon soir!"

She turned and left the house as rapidly as she had come. Lettice sankdown upon a couch, and hid her face in the cushion. She could not shed atear, but she was trembling from head to foot, and felt sick and faint.

As Cora sauntered along the pavement, turning her head restlessly fromside to side, her attention was caught by a young woman carrying achild, who went in at Lettice's door. Mrs. Walcott stopped short, andput her finger to her forehead with a bewildered air. "Now where have Iseen that face?" she muttered to herself.

After a moment's reflection, she burst into a short, harsh laugh, andsnapped her fingers at the blind of Lettice's room. "I know now," shesaid. "Oh yes, I know where I have seen that face before. This willjustify me in the eyes of the world as nothing else has done. Bon soir,Madame Lettice. Oh, I have a new weapon against you now."

And then she went upon her way, leaving behind her the echo of herwicked laugh upon the still night air.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

A BRAVE PURPOSE.

If Lettice had not seen Cora when she did, she would probably have goneto the prison that evening, to ask whether she could not arrange forAlan's funeral, as she could not arrange for his release. Her spirit wascrushed by the blow which had fallen on her, but she could not give wayso long as his body was there to receive the last token of her love.When the Frenchwoman left her it was too late to see Captain Haynes,even if she had been physically able to make the attempt.

It never occurred to her to think that any mistake could have been madein the information she had received from her landlady. The strugglewhich had been going on in her mind, the consciousness that she hadbroken with all her old friends, the exaltation which had possessed hersince she resolved to give to Alan all that was possible for her togive, or seemed to be worth her giving, the death of his aunt and thethought of his loneliness, had combined to make her nervouslyapprehensive. As soon as she had settled down under the shadow of theprison walls, the idea took hold of her with unaccountable force thatthe life of Alan was hanging by a thread, and the news of his death cameto her only as the full confirmation of her fears.

But, as it happened, there was another man in the prison named Walters,who had been convicted of an assault upon his wife some time previously,and had been ill for many months of an internal complaint which wascertain, sooner or later, to end fatally.

A sleepless night brought Lettice no ray of hope, and it was with aheavy and despairing heart that she went to the governor's residencenext morning, and sent up to him the note which she had written beforeleaving her room.

Captain Haynes remembered her former visit, and being disengaged at themoment, he came down at once.

"My dear lady," he said, bustling into the room, "what is the meaning ofthis letter? What makes you talk of burying your friend? He has been inthis tomb of stone long enough to purge him of all his offenses, and Iam sure you don't want to bury him alive again!"

Lettice started to her feet, gazed at the speaker with straining eyes,and pressed her hands upon her tumultuous heart.

"Is—he—alive?" she gasped, in scarcely audible words.

"Of course he is alive! I told you when you were here before that he wasout of danger. All he wants now is careful nursing and cheerful company;and I must say that you don't quite look as if you could give himeither."

"Alive—alive! Thank God!"

A great wave of tenderness swept through her heart, and gushed from hereyes in tears that were eloquent of happiness.

"I was told that he was dead!" She looked at the governor with a smilewhich disarmed his bluff tongue.

"I am on the borderland of a romance," he thought, "and a romance ofwhich the ending will be pleasanter than the beginning, unless I am muchmistaken. This is not the wife; it is the woman he was writing hisverses to before he took the fever. The doctor says she has written thebest novel of the year. Novels and poetry—umph! not much in my line."

Then aloud, "you are under a mistake. A man named Walters diedyesterday; perhaps that is how you have been misled. Some rumor of hisdeath must have got abroad. Mr. Walcott is getting over his illness verynicely; but he will need a good rest, good food, and as muchcheerfulness as you can give him. I told him, just now, that you hadarranged to meet him to-morrow, and I fancy it roused him more thananything Dr. Savill has done for him. I must wish you good-morning,madam!—but let me impress upon you again, before you go, that he is tobe kept perfectly quiet, free from anxiety, and as cheerful as you canmanage to make him."

Captain Haynes was rather ashamed of the laxity into which Miss Campionhad drawn him. He was not accustomed to display so much sympathy withhis prisoners, whatever he may have felt in his own mind. But, to besure, the case was quite exceptional. He did not have prisoners likeAlan or visitors like Lettice every day. So he had no difficulty infinding excuses for himself.

Lettice walked on air as she came out of the precincts of the jail,which had now lost all its terrors. In less than twenty-four hours shewas to come again, and transport her hero—whom the dense and cruelworld had branded as a criminal—from slavery to freedom, from misery topeace and joy. The world had cast him out; well, then, let the worldstand aside, that she might give this man what was his due.

What would she say to him? Ah, she dare not think of that beforehand!

What would she do for him? For one thing, she would give him back hisself-respect. He had been the object of scorn and the victim of lyingscandals. He should find that the woman he loved intended fromhenceforth to take those paltry burdens on herself, and to know no otherpraise or merit than that which came to her from him.

He had borne troubles and suffered injuries which before now had drivenmen to suicide, or madness, or self-abandonment. In order to save himfrom any of these things she meant to give herself into his hands,without terms or conditions, in order that the wrong-doing of the worldmight be righted by her act, were it ever so little.

Who could call that a sacrifice which made her heart so light, her stepso elastic, her eyes so bright with hope and satisfaction? It was nosacrifice, but a triumph and reward of the highest kind that she waspreparing for herself. How should she not be happy?

There was no time to be lost if she was to provide all that wasnecessary for the well-being and comfort of her patient before to-morrowmorning. Everything had to be done at the last moment. She had been solong in coming to a definite and final resolution to treat thisfriendless discharged prisoner as a hero and a king, that it was almosttoo late to make arrangements. Why had she not done yesterday somethingof what she had left to be done to-day? She scarcely realized to herselfthat her mind was only just made up. That facile belief in the report ofAlan's death was only the outcome of her distress and perplexity—of thefailure of her courage on the threshold of decision and action.

With a cold shudder she thought of the dust which she had unwittinglythrown in Cora's eyes. She had told her that her husband was dead, andthe tale had been readily believed, for the very opposite reason to thatwhich had prevailed with herself. She had been convinced by herfears—Cora by her hopes and greed. And now she could not undeceive thewoman, for she did not know where to find her. Would she if she could?Perhaps it was the the best thing which could have happened; for itwould be terrible if Alan were to step out of his prison back into thehell on earth which that woman had created for him.

Well, now, at any rate, she must devote herself to the task which shehad undertaken. She felt as a sister might feel who had been suddenlycommissioned to provide a home within twenty-four hours for an invalidedtraveler; and she set about the work with enthusiasm.

She began by taking Milly in some measure into her confidence, andgiving her a number of directions as to what she was to do in the courseof the day. Then she hired a cab, and went to a house-agent whose nameshe remembered. That seemed the quickest way of getting what shewanted—a small furnished house, cheerful and yet retired, which shecould take at any rate for a month, and for longer if she needed it. Theagent by good chance had the very thing she asked for. He turned overthe leaves of his register, and presently came upon a desirable bijouresidence, plainly but adequately furnished, containing three receptionrooms and five bedrooms, conservatory, with large and well-stockedgarden, lawn and shrubbery, coach-house and stable. Vacant for threemonths; very moderate terms to a suitable tenant. That sounded well.The "very moderate terms" came to something more than Lettice wanted togive; but she had a hundred pounds in her pocket, and a spirit whichdisdained to grudge in such a service.

So, having journeyed to Chiswick, and found Bute Lodge to be, if notprecisely a jewel amongst lodges, at any rate clean and comfortable, shecame back to the agent with an offer to take it from month to month, andwith a roll of notes ready to clinch the bargain. Money is the bestreference, as she found when she paid a month's rent on the spot, andpromised that all her payments should be in advance. But, as the agenthad asked her for a reference of another kind, Lettice, who had expectedthis demand, and was prepared for it, gave the name of James Graham. Sheought not to have made use of him without asking him beforehand. Shemight have referred to the owner of Maple Cottage, where she had livedwhen last in London, or even to her publisher. But she wanted to go andsee her old friend Clara; and, woman-like, did a more important thing toserve as a pretext for a less important.

Clara Graham was delighted to see her again, and the two women had along and confidential talk.

"I, at any rate," said Clara, "have never doubted his innocence, and Iwas sure that you would not."

"Yet you never told me what troubles had fallen upon him!"

"My dear, I thought you must have heard about it all. But the fact wasthat James asked me not to mention the trial. Remember, you were notwell at the time; and it was a difficult case. I could not quite assumethat your interest would be strong enough to justify me in risking theloss of your health—perhaps of your life. Really, it is a hard questionto deal with—like one of those cases of conscience (didn't they callthem?) which men used to argue for the sake of having something to do. Istood up for poor Mr. Walcott with my husband; but you know it isuseless to argue against him."

"He believes with the rest of them?"

"Everybody believes alike. I never heard of one who thought that he didnot do it."

"Only yourself!"

"Yes, and that was, perhaps, for your sake," said Clara, affectionately.

"And I suppose that I believe in him for his own sake."

"That is natural; but will people think that it is logical?"

"No, they won't," said Lettice, "at all events, not at first. But,gradually perhaps, they will. I am perfectly convinced that Alan did notstab his wife—because I feel it with a force that amounts toconviction. You see, I know his character, his past history, thecharacter and history of his wife, the circ*mstances in which they wereplaced at the time. I am sure he is innocent, and I am going to act upto it. Alan will live down this horrible accusation and punishment—hewill not give way, but will keep his self-respect, and will doinfinitely better work for all the torture he has gone through. And ourhope must be this—that when the world sees him stronger than ever,stronger in every way, and doing stronger work in his vocation, it willcome to believe in him, one by one, beginning with us, until hisvindication is brought about, not by legal proof, which is impossible,but by the same feeling and conviction which to-day only draw two weakwomen to the side of an unhappy and discredited man."

"Are you calling yourself a weak woman? You have the strength of amartyr, and in days when they used to burn women you would have chosento be a martyr."

"I am not so sure. It is one thing to do what one likes, but quiteanother thing to burn, which no one likes."

"Well, you are very brave, and you will succeed as you deserve. But notat first."

"No, not at first. The hardest task will be with Alan, who has been indespair all these months, and at death's door with fever. He will comeout weak, helpless, hopeless; there will be constant danger of arelapse; and, even if he can be made to forget his despair, it will bevery difficult to restore him to cheerfulness." Her eyes filled withpitying tears as she spoke.

"Only one thing can do that!" Clara stroked her friend's bright brownhair, and kissed her on the cheek. "With you for his doctor he will soonbe well."

"Only two things can do it—a joy greater than his sorrow, and aself-respect greater than his self-abasem*nt."

Lettice stood up; and the far reaching look that Clara knew so well cameinto the true and tender grey eyes, strong with all the rapt purpose ofa devoted woman. Her resolutions were forming and strengthening as shewent on. She had been guided by instinct and feeling, but they wereguiding her aright.

There was one thing more in which Clara was a help to her. She took herto an old woman, the mother of her own parlor-maid, exceptionally cleanand respectable, whom Lettice engaged to go at once to Bute Lodge,taking a younger daughter with her, and make everything ready for themorrow.

"I shall come and see you soon," said Clara, as they wished each othergood-bye.

"Do! And if you can convert your husband——"

"If not, it will not be for want of trying."

It was evening before Lettice was at her lodging again. She had done allthat she could think of—made every preparation and taken everyprecaution—and now there was nothing left but to wait until theappointed hour should strike, and Alan should be a free man again.

One concession she made to Mrs. Graham's sense of propriety. There wasan old lady who had once been Clara's governess—a gentle, mild-tongued,unobservant person, who was greatly in want of a home. Mrs. Alison waseasily induced to promise the support of her presence to Lettice duringthe days or weeks which Lettice hoped to spend at Bute Lodge. She was awoman of unimpeachable decorum and respectability, and her presence inthe house would, in Clara's opinion, prove a bulwark against alldangers; but, although evil tongues might be silenced by the fact of herpresence, the old lady was singularly useless in the capacity ofchaperon. She was infirm, a little deaf, and very shy; but her presencein the house was supposed to be a sop to Cerberus, in the person of Mrs.Grundy, and Clara was less afraid for her friend than she had beenbefore Mrs. Alison was installed at Bute Lodge.

CHAPTER XXXV.

FROM PRISON TO PARADISE.

Punctually at ten o'clock on the 29th of October a brougham drove up tothe gates of the prison in which Alan Walcott had spent his six monthsof retreat from the world; and almost immediately Alan made hisappearance, leaning on the arm of a warder.

Lettice hurried to meet him, displacing the warder with a few words ofthanks, and repressing with an effort the painful throbbing of her heartand throat. The sight of his shrunken form and hollow eyes, as he lookedat her with pathetic and childlike trust, for a moment took away all herstrength; but when his hand was laid upon her arm, and she accommodatedher steps to his slow and unsteady movements, he found in her no traceof the weakness she had overcome.

It was clear that he had not yet made a good recovery from his fever.Lettice's last little qualm of doubt as to the use or need for what shehad done disappeared as she saw this wreck of the man whom sheloved—whom she believed to be innocent of offense and persecuted by anevil fate. What might have become of him if he had been left to crawlout of his prison into the cold and censorious world, without a friend,a hope, or an interest in life? What lowest depth of despair might henot have touched if in such a plight as this he should be found andtortured anew by his old enemy, whose cruelty was evidently not assuagedby the sufferings she had heaped upon him? Who now would say that he hadno need of succor, that her service was unasked, unwarranted, unwomanly,that the duty of a pure and delicate soul was to leave him either to hisown wife or to the tender mercies of strangers?

The carriage was piled with cushions and shawls, the day was bright andwarm, Lettice was full of light gossip and cheerfulness, and Alan hadreason to think that he had never had a more delightful drive.

"Where are you taking me?" he said, with a smile of restful gratitude,which clearly implied, "I do not care where it is, so long as I am takenby you!"

"You are going to a convalescent home, where you will be the onlypatient. If you obey the rules, you may get well in a month, and thefirst rule is that you are not to ask questions, or to think aboutunpleasant things."

"Are you my nurse?"

"That is the first breach of rules! They are very strict at this home, Ican tell you!"

She spoke in a playful mood, but it left him with the impression that hewas really being taken to a "home" of some kind, where he was to benursed until he was well. He had no objection to make. He would havegone anywhere with equal pleasure, if he could be sure that she would bethere to look after him. His one thought in prison, when he lay in thegrip of fever, was that he must surely die before his sentence had runout. That was his hope and belief from day to day; and only when heheard that Lettice had come and made inquiries about him, and promisedto fetch him as soon as he was released, did any real desire for lifereturn to him. Now, in her presence, he was so completely happy that heforgot all his former sufferings and despair.

Weak as he was, he would have found words to tell her of hisgratitude—and of much more than gratitude; but this because of, not inspite of, weakness—if she had not carefully checked him whenever hetried to speak. Fortunately, it was not at all hard to check him. He wasinfirm in mind as in body. Apart from the illness, which sapped hisenergies and paralyzed his power of thought, he had never thrown off thecloud of callous and despairing indifference which fell upon him afterthe fatal scene in Surrey Street. Add to this that the surrender of hisindependence to Lettice was in itself a pleasure to him, and we need notwonder that her self-imposed task seemed to her fairly easy ofaccomplishment.

At Bute Lodge they found everything very nice and comfortable. Mrs.Jermy and Mrs. Beadon (as Milly was to be called), who had come earlierin the morning with a cabful of yesterday's purchases, had carried outLettice's instructions to the letter. The best room in the house lookedout upon a delightful garden landscape—two borders, backed bywell-grown box and bay-trees, holly, Irish yews, and clambering roses,with a lessening crowd of herbaceous plants in front, dwindling down toan edge of brilliant annuals on either side; and between these a longand level lawn, broken near the house by a lofty deodara, and ending ina bowling-green, and a thickly-planted bank of laurels, beyond which laya far-off vista of drooping fruit-trees. The garden was reached througha small conservatory built outside a French window at one end of theroom, and a low verandah ran along the remainder of the garden front.

Inside, all was as Lettice had planned it. A square writing table infront of the window was covered with a dozen of the books which had mademost noise during the past season, with the November magazines, and theweekly papers which Alan had been wont to read. Milly had cut them allover night, and here they lay, with an easy-chair beside them, ready totempt the student when he felt inclined and able to read. That was notjust yet; but Alan saw the pile, and darted at his guardian angelanother look of gratitude from his lustrous, melancholy eyes.

"Why, here," he said, looking round the room and out upon the garden, "aman must get well only too soon! I shall steadily refuse to mend."

"You will not be able to help yourself," said Lettice. "Now you aregoing to be left alone——"

"Not alone!"

"For half an-hour at the very least. All this floor belongs to you, andyou are to have nothing to do with stairs. When you want anything youare to ring this bell, and Milly, whom you saw when we came in, willattend on you. Here, on this sideboard, are wine, and biscuits, andjelly, and grapes. Sit down and let me give you a glass of wine. We willhave some lunch at one, tea at four, and dinner at seven—but you are tobe eating grapes and jelly in between. The doctor will come and see youevery morning."

"What doctor?"

"Why, the doctor of the Establishment, to be sure!"

"Oh, this is an Establishment?"

"Yes."

"It is more rational in its plan than some I have heard of, since ittakes in your nurse and your nurse's maid. Will this precious doctordine with us?"

"This precious! You are to have great faith in your doctor; but I amsorry to say he will not be able to dine with us. He has otheroccupations, you see; and for company I am afraid you will have to becontent with such as your nurse may be disposed to give you!"

Before he could say anything else, she had left the room.

He was alone—alone and happy.

Straight from prison to paradise. That was what the morning's work meantfor him, and he could not think with dry eyes of the peri who hadbrought him there.

Oh, the bitterness of that dungeon torture, when his heart had beenbranded with shame and seared with humiliation; when he had sworn thatlife had no more hope or savor for him, and the coming out from his cellhad seemed, by anticipation, worse than the going in!

This was the coming out, and he was already radiant with happiness,oblivious of suffering, hopeful of the future. It was enough, he wouldnot probe it, he would not peer into the dark corners of his prospect;he would simply realize that his soul had been lost, that it had beenfound by Lettice, and that it was hers by right of trover, as well as byabsolute surrender.

The mid-day sun shone in at his window and tempted him to the verandahoutside. Here he found one of those chairs, delightful to invalids andlazy men, which are constructed of a few crossed pieces of wood and acouple of yards of sacking, giving nearly all the luxury of a hammockwithout its disturbing element of insecurity. And by its side,wonderful, to relate, there was a box of cigarettes and some matches.Since they were there, he might as well smoke one. His last smoke wasseven or eight months ago—quite long enough to give a special relish tothis particular roll of Turkish tobacco.

As he lay back in his hammock chair, and sent one ring chasing anotherto the roof of the verandah, he heard a step on the gravel beneath him.Lettice, with a basket in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other,was collecting flowers and leaves for her vases. Unwilling to leave himtoo much alone, until she saw how he would bear his solitude, she hadcome out into the garden by a door at the other end of the house, andpresently, seeing him in the verandah, approached with a smile.

"Do I look as if I were making myself at home?" he said.

"Quite."

"As soon as I began to smoke, all kinds of things came crowding into mymind."

"Not unpleasant things, I hope?" She said this quickly, being indeedmost afraid lest he should be tempted to dwell on the disagreeable past.

"No, almost all pleasant. And there are things I want to say toyou—that I must say to you, very soon. Do you think I can take forgranted all you have done, and all you are doing for me? Let me comedown and join you!"

"No!" she said, with a great deal of firmness in her gesture and tone."You must not do anything of the kind until the doctor has seen you; andbesides, we can speak very well here."

The verandah was only a few feet above the ground, so that Lettice'shead was almost on a level with his own.

"There is no difficulty about speaking," she went on, "but I want you tolet me have the first word, instead of the last. This is something Iwanted to say to you, but I did not know how to manage it before. It isreally very important that you should not fatigue or excite yourself bytalking, and the doctor will tell you so when he comes. Now if you thinkthat you have anything at all to thank me for, you will promise not tospeak to me on any personal matters, not even your own intentions forthe future, for one clear month from to-day! Don't say it is impossible,because, you see, it is as much as my place (as nurse) is worth tolisten to you! If you will promise, I can stay; and if you will notpromise, I must go away."

"That is very hard!"

"But it is very necessary. You promise?"

"Have I any choice? I promise."

"Thank you!" She said this very earnestly, and looked him in the eyeswith a smile which was worth a fa*ggot of promises.

"But you don't expect me to be deaf and dumb all the time?" said Alan.

"No, of course not! I have been told that you ought to be kept ascheerful as possible, and I mean to do what I can to make you so. Do youlike to be read to!"

"Yes, very much."

"Then I will read to you as long as you please, and write your letters,and—if there were any game——"

"Ah, now, if by good luck you knew chess?"

"I do know chess. I played my father nearly every evening at Angleford."

"What a charming discovery! And that reminds me of something. Is thereany reason why I should not write to Mr. Larmer? He has some belongingsof mine, for one thing, which I should like him to send me, including aset of chess-men."

"No reason at all. But you ought not to write or talk of business, ifyou can help it, until you are quite strong."

"Well, then, I won't. I will ask him to send what I want in a cab; andthen, when I am declared capable of managing my own affairs, I will gointo town and see him. But the fact is, that I really feel as well asever I did in my life!"

"You may feel it, but it is not the case."

And later in the day, Alan was obliged to confess that he had boastedtoo soon, for there was a slight return of fever, and the doctor whomLettice had called in was more emphatic than she had been as to thenecessity for complete rest of mind and body.

So for the next week he was treated quite as an invalid, to his greatdisgust. Then he fairly turned the corner, and things began to changefor the better again. Lettice read to him, talked, played chess, foundout his tastes in music and in art (tastes in some respects a littleprimitive, but singularly fine and true, in spite of their want oftraining), and played his favorite airs for him on the piano—some ofMendelssohn's plaintive Lieder, the quainter and statelier measures ofCorelli and Scarlatti, snatches of Schumann and Grieg, and several olderand simpler melodies, for most of which he had to ask by humming a fewbars which had impressed themselves on his memory.

As the month wore itself out, the success of Lettice's experiment was ina fair way of being justified. She had charmed the evil spirit ofdespair from Alan's breast, and had won him back to manly resistance andcourageous effort. With returning bodily strength came a greaterrobustness of mind, and a resolution—borrowed, perhaps, in the firstinstance, from his companion—to be stronger than his persecutors, andrise superior to his troubles.

In the conversations which grew out of their daily readings, Lettice wascareful to draw him as much as possible into literary discussions andcriticisms, and Alan found himself dwelling to an appreciative listeneron certain of his own ideas on poetic and dramatic methods. There is buta step from methods to instances; and when Lettice came into his roomone morning—she never showed herself before mid-day—she saw withdelight on the paper before him an unmistakable stream of versesmeandering down the middle of the sheet.

He had set to work! Then he was saved—saved from himself, and from theghouls that harbor in a desolate and outraged mind.

If, beyond this, you ask me how she had gained her end, and done thegood thing on which she had set her heart, I cannot tell you, any morethan I could make plain the ways in which nature works to bring all hergreat and marvelous mysteries to pass. Lettice's achievement, like herresolution, argued both heart and intellect. Alan would not have yieldedto anyone else, and he yielded to her because he loved her with thefeelings and the understanding together. She had mastered his affectionsand his intelligence at the same time: she left him to hunger and thirstup to the moment of his abject abasem*nt, and then she came unasked,unhoped, from her towering height to his lowest deep, and gavehim—herself!

"Do you remember," he said to her once, when he had got her to talk ofher successful story, "that bit of Browning which you quote near theend? Did you ever think that I could be infatuated enough to apply thewords to myself, and take comfort from them in my trouble?"

She blushed and trembled as he looked at her for an answer.

"I meant you to do it!".

"And I knew you meant it!" he said, not without a dangerous touch oftriumph in his voice. "If I were a little bolder than I am, I wouldcarry you to another page of the poet whom we love, and ask if you everremembered the words of Constance—words that you did not quote——"

Ten times more deeply she blushed at this, knowing almost by instinctthe lines of which he thought. Had he not asked her to read "In aBalcony" to him the night before, and had she not found it impossible tokeep her voice from trembling when she read Constance's passionateavowal of her love?

And in truth, that was the gift which Lettice offered to him—a gift ofherself without stint or grudging, a gift complete, open-handed, to bemeasured by his acceptance, not limited by her reservation, Alan knewit; knew that absolute generosity was the essence of her gift, and thatthis woman, so far above him in courage, and self-command, and purity,scorned to close her fingers on a single coin of the wealth which sheheld out to him. And he, like Norbert, answered reverently: "I take youand thank God."

For just because he knew it, and was penetrated to the core by hermunificence, he took the draught of love as from a sacred chalice, whicha meaner nature would have grasped as a festal goblet. He might havegrasped it thus, and the sacramental wine would have been a Circe'spotion, and Lettice would have given her gift in vain. But nature doesnot so miscalculate her highest moods. "Spirits are not finely touchedbut to fine issues." Lettice's giving was an act of faith, and her faithwas justified.

This was the true source of Alan's self-respect, and from self-respectthere came a strength greater and more enduring than he had ever knownbefore. Redeemed from the material baseness of his past when he changedthe prison cell for Lettice's ennobling presence, he was now saved fromthe mental and moral feebleness to which he might have sunk by theordeal through which his soul had passed.

Lettice felt that her work was accomplished, and she was supremelyhappy. When Clara Graham kept her promise, and came to see herfriend—though she had not been able to bring her husband with her—shewas struck by the blithe gaiety of Lettice's looks and words.

"There is no need to tell me that you are satisfied!" she said, kissingthe tender cheeks, and gazing with wistful earnestness into the eyesthat so frankly and bravely met her own.

"Satisfied?" Lettice answered, with something like a sigh. "I neverdreamed that satisfaction could be so complete."

When Alan came in, and Clara, who had expected to see a face lined andmarred with sorrow, found that he too had caught the radiance ofunblemished happiness, she felt that Lettice had not spent her strengthin vain. And she went home and renewed her efforts to make her husbandsee things as she saw them, and to give Alan Walcott his countenance inthe literary world.

But that was a task of no slight difficulty. James Graham had alwaysbelieved Walcott guilty of a barbarous attack on his wife; he thoughtthat he had been lightly punished, and would not admit that he was to bereceived when he came out of prison as though he had never been sentthere. When Clara told him of Lettice's audacity he was terriblyshocked—as indeed were all who heard the story—and his resentmentagainst Alan increased. The news that they were happy together did notproduce the good effect upon his temper which Clara thought it mighthave done.

It was Lettice herself who tackled Mrs. Hartley. She wrote her a longand candid letter, very apologetic as regarded her conduct in Italy, butquite the opposite when she spoke of what she had done since she cameback to London. The answer was short, but much to the point.

"I thought you would write to me," Mrs. Hartley said, in her note. "Ishould hardly have forgiven you if you had not. There is some of yourletter which I cannot understand, and some which I do not quite agreewith. But come and explain it to me. I am an old woman, and have no timeto be angry with those I love. Come on Thursday afternoon—alone—and wewill have a good talk."

So Lettice went, and made her peace with her old friend, and wasadmitted to her favor again. But Alan was on probation still. The lastthing which he would have expected, or indeed desired, was that heshould be received and treated by his former acquaintance as thoughnothing had happened since he was a welcome guest in their houses.Especially as he and Lettice had not yet settled the question which alltheir friends were asking: "How would it end?"

CHAPTER XXXVI.

MISTRESS AND MAID.

Poor Milly Harrington had faithfully kept her promise of amendment. Shewas as loyal and serviceable to her mistress as any one could be, andevidently did her utmost to show her gratitude to Lettice, studying hertastes, and, as far possible, anticipating her wishes. But it was plainthat she was not happy. When not making an effort to be cheerful as partof her daily duty, she would sit brooding over the past and tremblingfor the future; and, though she tried to conceal her hopeless moods,they had not altogether escaped notice.

Lettice was troubled by Milly's unhappiness. She had taken deep pity onthe girl, and wanted, for more reasons than one, to save her from theworst consequences of her mistakes. To see her, in common parlance,"going to the bad"—ruined in body and in soul—would have been toLettice, for Sydney's sake, a burden almost heavier than she could bear.For this reason had she brought the girl up to London and taken her intoher own service again; and from day to day she watched her with kindlyinterest and concern.

Milly's good looks could scarcely be said to have come back to her, forshe was still thin and haggard, with the weary look of one to whom lifehas brought crushing sorrow and sickness of heart. But her eyes werepretty, and her face, in spite of its worn expression, was interestingand attractive. Lettice was hardly surprised, although a littlestartled, to find her talking one day in a somewhat confidential mannerto a man of highly respectable appearance who was walking across theCommon by her side as she came home one day from a shopping expedition.It was, perhaps, natural that Milly should have acquaintances. ButLettice felt a sudden pang of anxiety on the girl's account. She did notknow whether she had been seen, and whether it was her duty to speak toher maid about it; but her hesitation was ended by Milly herself, whocame to her room that night, and asked to speak with her.

"Well, Milly?"

"I saw you to-day, Miss Lettice, when I was out," said Milly, coloringwith the effort of speech.

"Did you? Yes? You were with a friend—I suppose?"

"I wanted to tell you about him," said Milly, nervously. "It's not afriend of mine, it was a messenger—a messenger from him."

Lettice sat speechless.

"He does not know what has become of me; and he set this man—hisclerk—to find out. He wants to send me some money—not to see me again.He was afraid that I might be—in want."

"And what have you done, Milly?"

"I said I would not take a penny. And I asked the clerk—Mr. Johnson,they call him—not to say that he had seen me. I didn't tell him where Ilived."

"Did he say that he would not tell his master?"

"Yes, he promised. I think he will keep his word. He seemed—kind—sorryfor me, or something."

"You were quite right, Milly. And I would not speak to the man again ifI were you. He may not be so kind and friendly as he seems. I am gladyou have told me."

"I couldn't rest till I had spoken. I was afraid you might think harm ofme," said the girl, flushing scarlet again, and twisting the corner ofher apron.

"I will not think harm of you if you always tell me about youracquaintances as you have done to-day," said Lettice with a smile."Don't be afraid, Milly. And—if you will trust to me—you need not beanxious about the future, or about the child. I would rather that youdid not take money from anyone but myself for your needs and hers. Ihave plenty for you both."

Milly could not speak for tears. She went away sobbing, and Lettice wasleft to think over this new turn of affairs. Was Sydney's consciencetroubling him, she wondered, after all?

This was early in November, soon after she came to Bute Lodge, and asthe time went on, she could not but notice that the signs of trouble inMilly's face increased rather than diminished. Lettice had a suspicionalso that she had not managed to get rid of the man with whom she hadbeen walking on the Common. She was sure that she saw him in theneighborhood more than once, and although he never, to her knowledge,spoke to Milly or came to the house, she saw that Milly sometimes lookedunusually agitated and distressed. It was gradually borne in uponLettice's mind that she had better learn a little more of the girl'sstory, for her own sake; and coming upon her one day with the signs oftrouble plainly written on her face, Lettice could not forbear to speak.

Milly was sitting in a little dressing-room, with some needlework in herhand. The baby was sleeping in a cradle at her side. She sprang up whenLettice entered; but Lettice made her sit down again, and then sat downas well.

"What is it, Milly? Is there anything wrong that I don't know of? Come,don't give way. I want to help you, but how can I do that unless youtell me everything?"

"There is nothing to tell except what you know," said Milly, making aneffort to command herself. "But, sometimes, when I think of it all, Ican't help giving way. I did not mean you to see it though, miss."

"I have never asked you any questions, Milly, about all that happenedafter you left me, and I do not want to know more than you wish to tellme. But don't you think I might do something to place matters on abetter footing, if I knew your circ*mstances a little better?"

"Oh, I could never—never tell you all!" said Milly hiding her face.

"Don't tell me all then. You have called yourself Mrs. Beadon so far.You have heard nothing of Mr. Beadon lately except what you told me theother day?"

"Only what Mr. Johnson said." Milly averted her head and looked at herchild. "The name," she went on in a low voice, "the name—is not—notBeadon."

"Never mind the name. Perhaps it is as well that you should not tell me.When did you see him last?"

"In May."

"Never since May?"

"Not once." Milly hung her head and played with the ring on her finger."He does not want to see me again!" she broke out almost bitterly.

"Perhaps it is better for you both that he should not. But I will notask any more," said Lettice. "I can understand that it must be verypainful, either to tell me your story or to conceal it."

"I hate to conceal it from you!" Milly said passionately. "Oh, I wish Ihad never seen him, and never listened to him! Yet it was my fault—Ihave nobody to blame but myself. I have never forgiven myself fordeceiving you so!"

"Ah, if that were the worst, there would not be much to grieve about!"

"I almost think it is the worst. Miss Lettice, may I really tell you mystory—all, at least, that it would be right for you to hear?"

"If you would like to tell me, do! Perhaps I can help you in some waywhen I know more."

"There are some things I should like you to understand," said Milly,hesitatingly, "though not because it will take away the blame fromme—nothing can do that. When I first knew Mr. Beadon (I'll call himso, please), I was very giddy and foolish. I longed to see the world,and thought that all would go well with me then. I don't know where Ipicked up the idea, but I had read stories about beautiful women who hadhad wonderful good fortune, through nothing at all but their looks—andpeople had told me I was beautiful—and I was silly enough to think thatI could do great things, as well as those I had read about. I supposethey must have been very clever and witty—or, perhaps, they had moreluck. I wanted to be free and independent; and I am afraid I was readyto listen to any one who would flatter my vanity, as—as Mr. Beadondid."

"When did he first begin to say these things to you? Was it after youcame to London?"

"Yes—not long after. He was above me in station, and very handsome, andproud; and when he began to speak to me, though I was all the timeafraid of him, and uneasy when I spoke to him, my head was fairlyturned. It shows I was not meant to shine in the world, or I should nothave been so uneasy when I spoke to him. For some time he said nothingout of the way—only kind words and flattery; but when he found what Ihad set my heart on, he was always telling me that I was fit to be agreat lady, and to make a noise in the world. That set me all on-fire,and I could not rest for thinking of what I might do if I could onlyfind my way into society. It makes me mad to remember what a fool I was!

"But I was not quite bad, Miss Lettice. When he said that he would giveme what I wanted—make me a lady, and all the rest of it—I shrank fromdoing what I knew to be wrong; or perhaps I was only afraid. At anyrate, I would not listen to him. Then he declared that he loved me toowell to let me go—and he asked me to be his wife."

"Oh!" said Lettice. It was an involuntary sound, and Milly scarcelyheard it.

"If you knew," she said, "what a proud and dignified gentleman he was,you would laugh at me thinking that he really meant what he said, andbelieving that he would keep his word. But I did believe it, and Iagreed at length to leave you and go away with him."

"Did you think that I should have anything to say against your marriage,Milly?" said Lettice, mournfully.

"I—I thought you might. And Mr. Beadon asked me not to mention it."

"Well!—and so you trusted him. And then, poor girl, your dream sooncame to an end?"

"Not very soon. He kept his word——"

"What?"

"He married me, on the day when I left you. Not in a church, butsomewhere—in Fulham, I think. It looked like a private house, but hesaid it was a registrar's. Oh, Miss Campion, are you ill?"

Lettice was holding her side. She had turned white, and her heart wasthrobbing painfully; but she soon overcame the feeling or at leastconcealed it.

"No. Go on—go on! He married you!"

"And we went on the Continent together. I was very happy for a time, solong as he seemed happy; but I could never shake off that uncomfortablefear in his presence. After a while we came back to London, and then Ihad to live alone, which of course I did not like. He had taken verynice rooms for me at Hampstead, where he used to come now and then; andhe offered to bring some friends to visit me; but I did not want him todo that—I cared for nobody but him!"

"Poor Milly!" said Lettice, softly.

"I had been suspicious and uneasy for some time, especially when he toldme I had better go to Birchmead and stay with my grandmother, as he wastoo busy to come and see me, and the rooms at Hampstead were expensive.So I went to Birchmead and told them that Mr. Beadon was abroad. He wasnot—he was in London—and I went up to see him every now and then; butI wanted to put the best face on everything. It would have been too hardto tell my grandmother that I did not think he cared for me."

She stopped and wiped the tears away from her eyes.

"There was worse than that," she said. "I began to believe that I wasnot his lawful wife, or he would not behave to me as he did. But Idaren't ask, I was so afraid of him. And I felt as if I could not leavehim, even if I was not his wife. That's where the badness of me cameout, you see, Miss Lettice. I would have stayed with him to the end ofmy days, wife or no wife, if he had wanted me. But he tired of me verysoon."

"Did he tell you so, Milly?"

"He wrote to me to go back to the Hampstead rooms, miss. And I thoughtthat everything was going to be right between us. I had something totell him which I thought would please him; and I hoped—I hoped—even ifthings had not been quite right about the marriage—that he would putthem straight before my baby came. For the child's sake I thought maybehe wouldn't give me up. I had been dreadfully afraid; but when he sentfor me to London again, I thought that he loved me still, and that wewere going to have a happy time together.

"So I went to Hampstead; but he was not there. He sent his clerkinstead—the man you saw me walking with the other day. And he told methat Mr.——Beadon did not wish to see me again, that I had beendeceived by the mock marriage, and that he sent me twenty pounds, and Imight have more by writing to his clerk. Not to him! I was never to seehim or speak to him again."

"And what did you do then, Milly?"

"It was very hard for me. I fainted, and when I came to myself Mr.Johnson was gone, and the money was stuffed into my pocket. Perhaps itwas mean of me to keep it, but I hadn't the heart or the spirit to sendit back. I did not know what I should do without it, for I hadn't apenny of my own. I stayed for a little time at the Hampstead lodgings,but the landlady got an idea of the true state of things and abused meshamefully one day for having come into her house; so I was forced togo. I don't know what I should have done if I hadn't met Mr. Johnson inthe street. He was really kind, though he doesn't look as if he wouldbe. He told me of nice cheap lodgings, and of some one who would lookafter me; and he offered me money, but I wouldn't take it."

"How long did your money last?"

"It was all gone before baby came. I lived on the dresses and presentsthat Mr. Beadon had given me. I heard nothing from Birchmead—I did notknow that my grandmother was dead, and I used to think sometimes that Iwould go to her; but I did not dare. I knew that it would break herheart to see me as I was."

"Poor girl!" said Lettice again, below her breath.

"You must despise me!" cried Milly, bursting into tears. "And you woulddespise me still more—if I told you—everything."

"No, Milly, it is not for me to despise you. I am very, very sorry foryou. You have suffered a great deal, for what was not all your fault."

"Yes, I have suffered, Miss Lettice—more than I can tell you. I had aterrible time when my baby was born. I had a fever too, and lost myhair; and when I recovered I had nothing left. I did not know what todo. I thought of throwing myself into the river; and I think I shouldhave done it when I came to Birchmead and found that grandmother wasdead, if it had not been for you. You found me in the garden that night,just as I had made up my mind. There's a place across the meadows whereone could easily get into a deep pool under the river-bank, and nevercome out again. That was where I meant to go."

"No wonder you have looked so ill and worn," said Lettice,compassionately. "What you must have endured before you brought yourselfto that! Well, it is all over now, and you must live for the future. Putthe past behind you; forget it—think of it only with sorrow for yourmistakes, and a determination to use them so that your child shall bebetter guarded than you have been. You and your baby have your own livesto live—good and useful lives they may be yet. No one would blame youif they knew your story, and there is no reason why you should beafraid. I will always be your friend, Milly, if you will work andstrive—it is the only way in which you can regain and keep yourself-respect."

Milly bent her head and kissed Lettice's hand with another outburst oftears. But they were tears of gratitude, and Lettice did not try tocheck them now.

Whilst they were still sitting thus, side by side, the servant knockedat the door with a message for her mistress; and her voice brokestrangely through the sympathetic silence that had been for some timemaintained between mistress and maid.

"Mr. Campion wishes to see you, ma'am."

Lettice felt the face which still rested on her hand flush with suddenheat; but when Milly raised it it was as white as snow. The baby in itscradle stirred and began to wake.

"I will come at once, Mrs. Jermy," said Lettice.

"Milly, you had better finish your work here, and let me give baby toMrs. Jermy for a few minutes. She will be quite good if I take herdownstairs."

She did not look at Milly as she spoke; or, if she did, she paid no heedto the mute pain and deprecation in the mother's eyes. Folding the babyin the white shawl that had covered it, she took it in her arms, andwith slow, almost reluctant steps, went down to meet her brother.

Sydney had come upon what he felt to be a painful errand.

Although the session had begun, and the House of Commons was alreadyhard at work on a vain attempt to thresh out the question ofParliamentary Procedure, he was not yet able to devote himself to theurgent affairs of the nation, or to seek an opening for that eloquentand fiery speech which he had elaborated in the intervals of his autumnrest. Before he could set his mind to these things there was an equallyurgent question of domestic procedure which it was necessary for him toarrange—a question for which he had been more or less prepared eversince he heard of the flight of Lettice from Florence, but which hadassumed the gravest possible importance within the last few hours.

A terrible and incredible thing had come to the knowledge of SydneyCampion. That morning he had looked in at his chambers in the Temple,and he had found there, amongst other letters, one written about threeweeks before by Cora Walcott, which had made his blood run cold.

This letter had exasperated Sydney beyond endurance. He did not knowLettice's address; but, thinking it possible that Mrs. Graham might haveit, he went the same afternoon to Edwardes Square. Clara, being at home,was able, though in some trepidation, to tell him what he wanted; andthus it was that he found himself at Bute Lodge.

Lettice came into the room where he had been waiting, intrepid, and yetboding something which could not be entirely pleasant for him, and mightbe very much the reverse. She did not want to quarrel with Sydney—shehad made many efforts in the past to please him, without much effect,and had been pained by the increasing interval which separated them fromeach other. But she believed that to earn his good word would imply theforsaking of nearly all that she valued, and the bowing down to imageswhich she could not respect; and therefore she was content that his goodword should be a thing beyond her reach.

She carried the baby on her left arm, and held out her right to Sydney.He barely touched her fingers.

"You are back again," she said. "I hope you had a pleasant time, andthat your wife is well."

"She is pretty well, thank you. We should have gone on to Florence ifyou had remained there, as we expected. You have taken your fate in yourhands, Lettice, and cut yourself adrift from those who care for you!"

"Not willingly, Sydney. You might believe that at every step I have donewhat seemed to be my duty."

"How can one believe that? I only wish I could. Read this letter!"

She looked at him first, and her eyes flashed at his expression ofunbelief. She drew herself up as she took Cora's letter in her hands,and read it through with a curl of contempt upon her lips. Then shedropped the paper, and, clasping Milly's child to her breast, lookedlong and steadily at her brother.

"Why did you give me that to read?" she said quietly.

"There could be only one reason," he replied; "to ask you if it istrue?"

"You ask me? You expect an answer?"

"I don't see why you should object to say 'yes' or 'no' to a chargewhich, if true, must destroy all brotherly and sisterly feeling betweenus."

"But you are my brother! Ask me your own questions, and I will answer.I will not answer that woman's!"

She stood in front of him, by far the more proud and dignified of thetwo, and waited for him to begin.

"Did you bring that man with you here from the prison?"

"I brought Mr. Walcott here."

"And is he here now?"

"Yes."

"What more is there to be said? Wretched woman, it is well for you thatyour parents are beyond the reach of this disgrace!"

Whether he meant it or not, he pointed, as he spoke, to the infant inher arms.

Lettice heard a step outside. She went to the door, and spoke in a lowvoice to Mrs. Jenny. Then she came back again, and said,

"What do you mean, Sydney, by 'this disgrace'?"

"Can you say one word to palliate what you have already admitted? Canyou deny the facts which speak for themselves? Great Heaven! that such ashameful thing should fall upon us! The name of Campion has indeed beendragged through the mire of calumny, but never until now has so dark astain been cast upon it!"

Theatrical in his words, Sydney was even more theatrical in his action.He stood on the hearth-rug, raised his hands in horror, and bowed hishead in grief and self-pity.

"You pointed at the child just now," said Lettice, steadily; "what doyou mean by that?"

"Do not ask me what I mean. Is not its very existence an indelibledisgrace?"

"Perhaps it is," she said, kissing the little face which was blinkingand smiling at her. "But to whom?"

"To whom!" Sydney cried, with more of real indignation and anger in hisvoice. "To its miserable mother—to its unscrupulous and villainousfather!"

Lettice's keen ears caught the sound of light and hesitating footstepsin the passage outside. She opened the door quickly, and drew in theunfortunate Milly.

Sydney started back, and leaned for support upon the mantelpiece behindhim. His face turned white to the very lips.

"Milly," said the remorseless Lettice, "tell Mr. Campion who is thefather of this child!"

The poor mother who had been looking at her mistress in mute appeal,turned her timid eyes on Sydney's face, then sank upon the floor in anagony of unrestrained weeping.

Except for that sound of passionate weeping, there was complete silencein the room for two or three minutes, whilst Sydney's better and worseself strove together for the mastery.

"Milly!" he ejacul*ted at last, in a hoarse undertone, "I did not know!Good God, I did not know."

Then, to his sister—"Leave us alone."

So Lettice went out, but before she went she saw him stride across thefloor to Milly and bend above her as if to raise and perhaps to comforther. He did not ask to see his sister again. In a short ten minutes, shesaw him walking hastily across the Common to the station, and shenoticed that his head was bent, and that the spring, the confidence ofhis usual gait and manner had deserted him. Milly locked herself withher baby in her room, and sobbed until she was quieted by sheerexhaustion.

But there was on her face next day a look of peace and quietude whichLettice had never seen before. She said not a word about her interview,and Lettice never knew what had passed between her brother and the womanwhom he had wronged. But she thought sometimes, in after years, that theextreme of self-abasem*nt in man or woman may prove, to natures notradically bad or hopelessly weak, a turning-point from which to datetheir best and most persistent efforts.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

"COURAGE!"

The reawakening of Alan's mind to old tastes and old pursuits, thoughfitful in the first instance, soon developed into a steady appetite forwork. Much of his former freshness and elasticity returned; ideas andforms of expression recurred to him without trouble. He had seized on adramatic theme suggested in one of the books which Lettice had beenreading, and a few days later admitted to her that he was at work on apoetic drama. She clapped her hands in almost childlike glee at thenews, and Alan, without much need for pressing, read to her a wholescene which had passed from the phase of thought into written words.

Lettice had already occupied her mornings in writing the story which shehad promised to Mr. MacAlpine. Fortunately for her, she now found littledifficulty in taking up the threads of the romance which she had begunat Florence. The change of feeling and circ*mstance which had takenplace in her own heart she transferred, with due reservation andappropriate coloring, to the characters in her story, which thus becameas real to her in the London fog as it had been under the flecklessTuscan sky.

So long as Alan was out of health and listless, it was not easy for herto apply herself to this regular morning work. But now that he was fastrecovering his spirit and energy, and was busy with work of his own, shecould settle down to her writing with a quiet mind.

Alan had not accepted the hospitality of Lettice without concern orprotest, and, of course, he had no idea of letting her be at the expenseof finding food and house-rent for him.

"Why do you not bring me the weekly bills?" he said, with masculinebluntness, after he had been at Chiswick for nearly three weeks.

She looked at him with a pained expression, and did not answer.

"You don't think that I can live on you in this cool way much longer?You are vexed with me! Do not be vexed—do not think that I value whatyou have done for me according to a wretched standard of money. If I payeverything, instead of you, I shall be far more grateful, and more trulyin your debt."

"But think of my feelings, too!" she said. "I have had my own way sofar, because you could not help it. If you are going to be unkind andtyrannical as soon as you get well, I shall find it in my heart to bealmost sorry. Do not let money considerations come in! You promised thatyou would not say anything of the kind before the end of the month."

"I promised something; but I don't think I am breaking my promise inspirit. Look here; I have not been in retreat for six months without acertain benefit in the way of economy. Here's a cheque for a hundredpounds. I want you to get it cashed, and to use it."

"I have plenty of money," Lettice said, patting impatiently with herfoot on the floor. "I cannot take this; and until the month is out Iwill not talk about any kind of business whatsoever. There, sir!"

Alan did not want to annoy her, and let the subject drop for the time.

"You shall have your way in all things, except that one," he said; "butI will not mention it again until you give me leave."

The truth is that Lettice did not know what was to happen at the end ofthe month, or whenever her tenancy of Bute Lodge might be concluded. Howwas she to leave Alan, or to turn him out of doors, when the object ofher receiving him should have been accomplished? Was it already fullyaccomplished? He had been saved from despair, and from the danger of aphysical relapse; was he now independent of anything she could do forhim? It gave her a pang to think of that possibility, but she would haveto think of it and to act upon it very soon. She could not put off theevil day much beyond the end of November; before Christmas they mustcome to an understanding—nay, she must come to an understanding withher own heart; for did not everything depend on her firmness andresolution?

Not everything! Though she did not know it, Alan was thinking for herjust what she could not think for herself. He could not fail to see thatLettice had staked her reputation to do as she had done for him. As hisperception grew more keen, he saw with increasing clearness. A man justrecovering from serious illness will accept sacrifices from his friendswith little or no demur, which in full health he would not willinglypermit. Alan could not have saved Lettice from the consequences of herown act, even if he had realized its significance from the first—whichhe did not. But now he knew that she was giving more as a woman than he,as a man, had ever thought of taking from her; and he also, with asomewhat heavy heart, perceived that a change in their relations to oneanother was drawing near.

Lettice was sitting in her little study one morning, turning over in hermind the question which so deeply agitated her, and trying to think thatshe was prepared for the only solution which appeared to be possible oracceptable. Alan and she were to go their separate ways: that was, shetold herself, the one thing fixed and unalterable. They might meet againas friends, and give each other help and sympathy; but it was theirirrevocable doom that they should live apart and alone. That which herheart had sanctioned hitherto, it would sanction no longer; the causeand the justification were gone, and so were the courage and theconfidence.

Lettice had appropriated to her own use as a study a little room on theground floor, opening upon the garden. In warm weather it was aparticularly charming place, for the long windows then always stoodopen, and pleasant scents and sounds from the flower-beds and leafytrees stole in to cheer her solitude. In winter, it was a little moredifficult to keep the rooms warm and cosy; but Lettice was one of thewomen who have the knack of making any place where they abide lookhome-like and inviting, and in this case her skill had not been spent invain, even upon a room for the furniture of which she was not altogetherresponsible. Heavy tapestry curtains excluded the draught; a soft ruglay before the old-fashioned high brass fender, and a bright fire burnedin the grate. Lettice's writing-table and library chair half filled theroom; but there was also a small table heaped high with books andpapers, a large padded leather easy-chair, and a bookcase. The wallswere distempered in a soft reddish hue, and such part of the floor aswas not covered with a bordered tapestry carpet of divers tints had beenstained dark brown. One of Lettice's favorite possessions, a largeautotype of the Sistine Madonna, hung on the wall fronting herwriting-table, so that she could see it in the pauses of her work.

It was at the door of this room that Alan knocked one stormy Decemberday. The month which Lettice had fixed as the period of silence aboutbusiness affairs had passed by; but Alan was so very far from strongwhen November ended that she had managed, by persuasion and insistence,to defer any new and definite arrangement for at least anotherfortnight. But he had gained much physical and mental strength duringthose two weeks, and he had felt more and more convinced from day to daythat between himself and Lettice there must now be a completeunderstanding. He knew that she had taken the house until the end ofDecember; after that date she would be homeless, like himself. What werethey both to do? It was the question which he had come to put.

Lettice received him with a touch of surprise, almost of embarrassmentin her manner. She had never made him free of her study, for she felt itbetter that each should have a separate domain for separate work and aseparate life. She had no wish to break down more barriers thancirc*mstances demanded; and the fact that she had utterly outraged thelaws of conventionality in the eyes of the world did not absolve herfrom the delicate reticence which she had always maintained in herpersonal relations with Alan. He saw the doubt in her face, and hastenedto apologize for his intrusion. "But I could not work this morning," hesaid, "and I wanted to speak to you. Milly told me you were here,and——"

"Oh, I am very glad to see you. Come and sit down."

"You are not too busy for a little talk?"

"Not at all."

She wheeled the leather-covered chair a little nearer to the fire, andmade him sit down on it. He cast his eye round the cheery room, notingthe books and papers that she was using, the evidences of steady workand thought. The firelight leaped and glanced on the ruddy walls, andthe coals crackled in the grate; a dash of rain against the window, ablast of wind in the distance, emphasized the contrast between thewarmth and light and restfulness within the house, the coldness and thestorm without.

Alan held his hands to the blaze, and listened for a moment to the windbefore he spoke.

"One does not feel inclined," he said, "to turn out on such a day asthis."

"Happily, you have no need to turn out," Lettice answered, taking hiswords in their most literal sense.

"Not to day, perhaps; but very soon. Lettice, the time has come when wemust decide on our next step. I cannot stay here any longer—on ourpresent terms, at least. But I have not come to say good-bye. Is thereany reason why I should say good-bye—save for a time?"

He had risen from his chair as he spoke, and was standing before her.Lettice shaded her eyes with her hands. Ah, if she could only give wayto the temptation which she felt vaguely aware that he was going toraise! If she could only be weak in spite of her resolution to bestrong, if she could only take to herself at once the one consolationand partnership which would satisfy her soul, how instantly would herdepression pass away! How easily with one word could she change thewhole current and complexion of life for the man who was bending overher! He was still only half-redeemed from ruin; he might fall a prey todespair again, if she shrank in the supreme moment from the sacrificedemanded of her.

Alan did not know how her heart was pleading for him. Something, indeed,he divined, as he saw her trembling and shaken by the strife within. Hisheart bounded with sudden impulse from every quickened vein, and hislips drew closer to her hidden face.

"Lettice!"

There was infinite force and tenderness in the whispered word, and itpierced her to the quick. She dropped her hands, and looked up.

But one responsive word or glance, and he would have taken her in hisarms. He understood her face, her eyes, too well to do it. She gave himno consent; if he kissed her, if he pressed her to his breast, he feltthat he should dominate her body only, not her soul. And he was not ofthat coarse fibre which could be satisfied so. If Lettice did not giveherself to him willingly, she must not give herself at all.

"Lettice!" he said again, and there was less passion but more entreatyin his tone than before he met that warning glance, "will you not let mespeak?"

"Is there anything for us to say," she asked, very gently, "exceptgood-bye?"

"Would you turn me away into the cold from the warmth and brightness ofyour home, Lettice? Don't be angry with me for saying so. I have hadvery little joy or comfort in my life of late, and it is to you that Iowe all that I know of consolation. You have rescued me from a very hellof despair and darkness, and brought me into paradise. Now do you bid mego? Lettice, it would be cruel. Tell me to stay with you ... and to thelast hour of my life I will stay."

He was standing beside her, with one hand on the wooden arm of hercircular chair. She put her hand over his fingers almost caressingly,and looked up at him again, with tears in her sweet eyes.

"Have I not done what I wanted to do?" she said. "I found you weak,friendless, ill; you have got back your strength, and you know that youhave at least one friend who will be faithful to you. My task is done;you must go away now and fight the world—for my sake."

"For your sake? You care what I do, then: Lettice, you care for me? Tellme that you love me—tell me, at last!"

She was silent for a moment, and he felt that the hand which rested onhis own fluttered as if it would take itself away. Was she offended?Would she withdraw the mute caress of that soft pressure? Breathlesslyhe waited. If she took her hand away, he thought that he should almostcease to hope.

But the hand settled once more into its place. It even tightened itspressure upon his fingers as she replied—

"I love you with all my heart," she said; "and it is just because I loveyou that I want you to go away."

With a quick turn of his wrist he seized the hand that had hitherto lainon his, and carried it to his lips. They looked into each other's eyeswith the long silent look which is more expressive even than a kiss.Soul draws very near to soul when the eyes of man and woman meet astheirs met then. The lips did not meet, but Alan's face was very closeto hers. When the pause had lasted so long that Lettice's eyelidsdrooped, and the spell of the look was broken, he spoke again.

"Why should I go away? Why should the phantom of a dead past divide us?We belong to one another, you and I. Think of what life might mean tous, side by side, hand in hand, working, striving together, you thestronger, giving me some of your strength, I ready to give you the loveyou need—the love you have craved for—the love that you have won!Lettice, Lettice, neither God nor man can divide us now!"

"Hush! you are talking wildly," she answered, in a very gentle tone."Listen to me, Alan. There is one point in which you are wrong. Youspeak of a dead past. But the past is not dead, it lives for you stillin the person of—your wife."

"And you think that she should stand in our way? After all that she hasdone? Can any law, human or divine, bind me to her now? Surely her ownacts have set me free. Lettice, my darling, do not be blinded byconventional views of right and wrong. I know that if we had loved eachother and she had been a woman of blameless life, I should not bejustified in asking you to sacrifice for me all that the world holdsdear; but think of the life she has led—the shame she has brought uponme and upon herself. Good God! is anyone in the world narrow-mindedenough and base enough to think that I can still be bound to her?"

"No, Alan; but your course is clear. You must set yourself free."

"Seek my remedy in the courts? Have all the miserable story bandiedabout from lip to lip, be branded as a wretched dupe of a wicked womanon whom he had already tried to revenge himself? That is what the worldwould say. And your name would be brought forward, my dearest; it wouldbe hopeless to keep it in the background now. Your very goodness andsweetness would be made the basis of an accusation.... I could not bearit, I could not see you pilloried, even if I could bear the shame of itmyself."

He sank on his knees beside her, and let his head sink almost to hershoulder. She felt that he trembled, she saw that his lips were pale,and that the dew stood on his forehead. His physical strength had notyet returned in full measure, and the contest with Lettice was trying itto the utmost.

Lettice had turned pale too, but she spoke even more firmly than before.

"Alan," she said, "is this brave?"

"Brave? no!" he answered her. "I might be brave for myself, but how canI be brave for you? You will suffer more than you have any conceptionof, when you are held up to the scorn—the loathing—of the world. Foryou know she will not keep to the truth—she will spit her venom uponyou—she will blacken your character in ways that you do not dream——"

"I think I have fathomed the depths," said Lettice, with a faint, wansmile. "I saw her myself when you were in prison, and she has written tomy brother Sydney. Oh, yes," as he lifted his face and looked at her,"she stormed, she threatened, she has accused ... what does it matter tome what she says, or what the world says, either? Alan, it is too lateto care so much for name and fame. I crossed the line which marks theboundary between convention and true liberty many weeks ago. The bestthing for me now, as well as for you, is to face our accusers gallantly,and have the matter exposed to the light of day."

"I have brought this upon you!" he groaned.

"No, I have brought it on myself. Dear Alan, it is the hardest thing inthe world to be brave for those we love—we are much too apt to feardanger or pain for them. Just because it is so hard, I ask you to dothis thing. Give me courage—don't sap my confidence with doubts andfears. Let us be brave together, and for one another, and then we shallwin the battle and be at peace."

"It will be so hard for you."

"Not harder than it has been for you these many years. My poor dear myheart has bled so many times to think how you have suffered! I am proudto have a share in your suffering now. I am not ashamed to tell you thatI love you, for it is my love that is to make you strong and brave, sothat we may conquer the world together, despise its scorn, and meet itssneers with smiles! We will not run away from it, like cowards! I comeof a fighting race on my mother's side, the very suggestion of flightmakes my blood boil, Alan! No, we will die fighting, if need be, but wewill not run away."

"Yes, yes, my brave darling, you are right. We will stand or falltogether. It was not for myself that I hesitated."

"I know—I know. So you see, dear, that we must part."

"For a time only."

"You will see Mr. Larmer to-morrow?"

"I will."

They were silent for a while. Her arm was round his neck, and his headwas resting against her wearily. It was Lettice who first rousedherself.

"This must not be," she said, drawing back her arm.

"Alan, let us be friends still—and nothing else. Let us have nothing toreproach ourselves with by and by."

He sighed as he lifted his head from its resting place.

"I will go to Larmer to-day," he said. "There is nothing to be gained bywaiting. But—have you thought of all that that woman may do to us?Lettice, I tremble almost for your life."

"I do not think she would attempt that."

"She threatened you?"

"With vitriol. She said that she would blind me so that I could not seeyou—scar me so that you would not care to look upon my face. Ought I tohave told you? Alan, do not look so pale! It was a mere foolish threat."

"I am not so sure of that. She is capable of it—or of any otherfiendish act. If she injured you, Lettice——"

"Don't think of that. You say you will go to Mr. Larmer this afternoon."

"Yes. And then I will look out for lodgings. And you—what will you do?Stay here?"

She shook her head. "I shall go into lodgings too. I have plenty ofwork, and you—you will come to see me sometimes."

"As often as you will let me. Oh, Lettice, it is a hard piece of workthat you have given me to do!"

She took his hand in hers and pressed it softly. "I shall be grateful toyou for doing it," she said. There was a long silence. Alan stood by thefire-place, his head resting upon his hand. Finally he spoke in a lowuncertain tone—

"There is one point I must mention. I think there may be a difficulty ingetting the divorce. I believe she claims that I condoned her—herfaults. I may find insuperable obstacles in my way."

Lettice drew a quick breath, and rose suddenly to her feet.

"We have nothing to do with that just now, Alan. You must try."

And then they said no more.

But when the afternoon came and Alan was ready to depart—for when oncehe had made up his mind that he must go, he thought it better not tolinger—he drew Lettice inside her little study again, and looked herfull in the face.

"Lettice, before I go, will you kiss me once?"

She did not hesitate. She lifted her face, calmly and seriously, andkissed him on the mouth.

But she was not prepared for the grip in which he seized her, and thepassionate pressure of her lips which he returned. "Lettice, my dearest,my own love," he said, holding her close to him as he spoke, "suppose Ifail! If the law will not set me free, what will you do?"

She was silent for a minute or two, and he saw that her face grew pale.

"Oh," she said at last, in a sighing voice, broken at last by adespairing sob, "if man's law is so hard, Alan, surely then we may trustourselves to God's!"

"Promise me," he said, "that you will never give me up—that, whateverhappens, you will one day be mine!"

"Whatever happens," she answered, "I am yours, Alan, in life ordeath—in time and for eternity."

And with this assurance he was fain to be content.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

SYDNEY PAYS HIS DEBTS.

The fight which Sydney Campion had had to wage with his creditors wasbitter enough up to the time of his marriage. Then there had been a lullfor a few months, during which it was confidently said and believed thathe was about to touch a large sum of money, and that all who had puttheir trust in him would be rewarded.

Month after month went by, and there was no realization of the prospect.Sydney touched no money but what he earned. He might, no doubt, havetouched some of his wife's money, even for the payment of his old debts,if he had told her the distress that he was in. But it had neveroccurred to him to be thus sincere with Nan. He had thought to figurebefore her as one who was not dependent on her fortune, who could verycomfortably play with his hundreds, though not able, like herself, to begenerous with thousands. He would, in fact, have been ashamed to own hisrotten financial condition, either to Nan or to any of his social orpolitical friends; and he fancied that he was concealing this conditionin a very ingenious manner when he made a liberal outlay in connectionwith their quiet marriage, the honeymoon abroad, and the subsequentarrangements of their household in London.

This was all the more unfortunate because Nan, just of age, with herfortune in her own hands, would have given him anything without demur orquestion, if she had for a moment suspected that he needed it. Hisconcealment was so effectual that it never entered her unsophisticatedmind that this barrister in good practice, this rising politician, whoseemed to have his feet on the ladder of success, could be crushed andburdened with debt. Sydney, however, was by no means blind. He knew wellenough that he could have had the few thousands necessary to clear himif he had asked his wife for a cheque; but he did not trust her lovesufficiently to believe that she would think as well of him from thatday forward as she had done before, and he was not large-minded enoughto conceive himself as ever shaking off the sense of obligation whichher gift in such a form would impose upon him.

He had therefore drifted, in the matter of his debts, from expedient toexpedient, in the hope that by good fortune and good management he mightavoid the rocks that beset his course, and reach smooth water by his ownexertion. But, as ill luck would have it, he had given a bill for sixhundred pounds, due on the 23rd of November, to a certain Mr. Copley, aman who had been especially disgusted by Sydney's failure to obtainready money at the time of his marriage, and who for this and otherreasons had worked himself up into a malicious frame of mind. But on the23rd of November, Sydney and his wife had run over to Paris for a fewdays with Sir John and Lady Pynsent, and then Nan had been so seriouslyindisposed that Sydney could not leave her without seeming unkindness;so that they did not reach London again until the 26th. This delayopened a chapter of incidents which ended as Sydney had not foreseen.

He had not forgotten the date of the bill, and knew that it wasimportant to provide for it; but he did not anticipate that the last dayof grace would have expired before he could communicate with the man whoheld his signature.

Early on the morning of the 27th, he set out for Mr. Copley's office;and it so happened that at the same moment Mr. Copley set out also forSydney's private house.

"Master in?" said Mr. Copley, who was a man of few words.

"No, sir."

"Lady in?"

"My mistress does not receive any one so early."

"Take that up—answer important—bearer waiting."

The footman condescended so far as this, and gave Mr. Copley's letterinto the charge of Mrs. Campion's maid.

In less than ten minutes Nan sent for the unwelcome visitor. She wasvery pale when she received him, and she looked so young and fair thatMr. Copley was a little taken aback. He knew that Sydney had married anheiress, and it was from her, therefore, that he had determined, ifpossible, to get the money; but he half repented his resolve when he sawMrs. Campion's face. "Too young to know anything about business," hesaid to himself.

But Nan was more business-like than he expected. She had for some timeinsisted on knowing a good deal about her own money matters, and she waswell aware of her powers.

"Where is this paper—this acceptance you mention in your letter?" shebegan.

Mr. Copley silently took it from his notebook, and laid it on the table.

"Why did you bring this here? or, rather, why did you send it in to me?Mr. Campion is not difficult to find when he is wanted. This is, ofcourse, his business." There was a little indignation in her tone.

"Beg your pardon, madam. You will observe the date of the acceptance. Ipresented it yesterday."

"At the bank?"

"Yes."

Nan bit her lip. She knew what this signified, and she would have givena thousand pounds to undo what had happened.

She went to a drawer in her writing-table and quietly took out acheque-book. "We were delayed in returning to England by my illness,"she said, as indifferently as she could. "Mr. Campion has gone out forthe purpose of seeing to this." Her heart smote her for making astatement which she could not vouch for, but as Mr. Copley only bowedand looked uninterested, she went on rapidly, "As you have the paperwith you it will save time—it will be satisfactory, I suppose—if Igive you a cheque for it?"

"Amply satisfactory."

She sat down before the table and took the pen in her hand, hesitating amoment as to whether she ought to ask for further details. Her tears andher curiosity were alike aroused, and Mr. Copley divined the question,which she hardly knew how to put into words. He produced a sheet ofnotepaper, containing a few memoranda, and passed it across the table.

"That was to refresh my memory if necessary; but happily it isn't. Mr.Campion may like to see it however. He will find it is all correct. Iknew I was right in asking to see you, ma'am."

Nan did not look at the memoranda. She was satisfied that she had thedetails before her for her own or Sydney's consideration if necessary.She signed her cheque and took possession of the dishonored bill; andthen Mr. Copley departed.

When he was gone, she caught up the sheet of paper and hastily glancedat it.

"1880—studs, pin, money advanced £50. 1881—ring, money advanced £100;bracelet, necklace, pendant, money advanced £150——" and so on. Furtherdown the page, Nan's eye was caught by the words: "Diamond and sapphirering."

"Ah!" she said, catching her breath as if she were in pain, and layingthe paper down on the table, "that was mine!"

The ring was on her finger as she spoke. It had been her engagementring. She looked at it for a minute or two, then slowly, took it off andput it into the drawer.

Next, with an absent look upon her face, she took up a small taper, andlighted it; and, holding Mr. Copley's paper by one corner, she raised itto the flame and converted it into ashes. One line escaped. A fragmentof the paper was scorched but not consumed, and as she took it up tomake her work more thorough, the words and a date caught her attentiononce again.

"Bracelet, necklace, pendant, bought after we knew each other," shemurmured with a curious smile. "Those were not for me. I wonder——"

But she did not go on. It was the first time that a shadow from Sydney'spast had crossed her life; and she dared not investigate it too closely.She put the bill and her cheque-book out of sight, and sat down to thinkover the present position of affairs.

Sydney came home just before lunch-time, and, hearing that she was inher own little sitting-room (she would not have it called a boudoir),went up to her. He looked vexed and anxious, as Nan was quick to notice,but he came up to her side and kissed her affectionately.

"Better, Nan?" She had not been very well when he left her: indeed, thedelicacy of her health had lately been more marked, and had severaltimes given him cause for uneasiness.

"Yes, thank you. But you don't look well, Sydney."

She hoped that he would tell her what was wrong. To her disappointment,he smiled, and answered lightly.

"I'm all right, Nan. I have a good deal to do just now, and am rathertired—that is all."

"Tired—and anxious?" she said, looking at him with more keenness thanhe had thought her soft eyes capable of expressing.

"Anxious! no, I have not much to be anxious about, have I?"

He spoke with a laugh; but, to her fancy, there was somethinghalf-alarmed and half-defiant in the pose of his lifted head, the glanceof his handsome bright eyes. Her heart sank a little: it seemed to herthat it would have been nobler in her husband to tell her the wholetruth, and it had never occurred to her before to think of him asignoble in any way.

"I suppose you do not want to tell me for fear of troubling me," shesaid, with a tremor in her voice; "but I think I know what you areanxious about, Sydney."

He gave a little start as he turned towards her.

"Some man has been here whilst you were out, and he sent up this letterwith a request that it should be opened. Look!" she said, giving him thebill, "you can tear it up now. I was sure you had gone out to see aboutit, but I thought it better that I should settle it at once. Ihope"—with a little girlish nervousness—"you don't mind?"

He had sat down on a chair when she showed him Mr. Copley's letter, withthe look of a man determined to bear a blow, but he sprang up again atthe sight of his dishonored acceptance.

"And you have paid it, Nan?" he cried.

"Yes, I paid it. Oh, Sydney, it was a little thing to do! If only youhad told me months ago!"

Her eyes brimmed over with tears at last. She had been smarting under asense of terrible humiliation ever since Mr. Copley's visit, buthitherto she had not wept. Now, when her husband took her in his armsand looked into her eyes, the pain at her heart was somewhat assuaged,although the tears fell swiftly down her pale cheeks.

"Nan, I never dreamed that I should find your kindness so bitter to me,"Sydney said.

He was profoundly moved by her gentleness and by her generosity alike.But inasmuch as it requires more generosity of nature to accept a giftnobly than to make it, he felt himself shamed in her eyes, and his wifewas in her turn pained by the consciousness of his shame.

"Why should you be afraid to trust me?" she said. "All that concerns youconcerns me as well; and I am only setting myself free from trouble andanxiety if I do anything for you. Don't you understand? And as far as mymoney is concerned, you know very well that if it had not been for Johnand those tiresome lawyers, you should have had it all and spent it, ifyou chose, without the slightest reference to me. What grieves me,dearest, is that you should have been suffering without taking me intoyour confidence."

"I ought to have done so," said Sydney, rather reluctantly, "but I feltas if I could not tell you all these paltry, sordid details. You mighthave thought——"

Then he paused, and the color rose darkly in his face.

"I should have thought nothing but what was honorable to you," said Nan,throwing back her graceful head with a gesture of natural pride andindignation.

"And now you think the worse of me?"

"No, no!" she cried, stealing one arm round his neck, "I think nothingbad of you—nothing! Only you will trust me, now, Sydney? You will nothide things from me again?"

"No, my darling, nothing that you ought to know," he said. There was atouch of new but restrained emotion in his voice. It struck him foralmost the first time how much of his life he had hidden from her frankand innocent eyes.

Presently, when he had kissed her tears away, she begged him to tell herwhat he still actually owed, and, after some little demur, he consented.The amount of the debt, which lay heavily on his conscience, wascomparatively a trivial thing to her. But when he had told her all, shelooked at him with eyes which, although very loving, were full of wonderand dismay.

"Poor Sydney!" she said caressingly. "My poor boy! As if you could giveyour mind properly to anything with this heavy burden on it! To-morrowwe can get the money, and pay off all these people. Then you will beable to work without any disturbance."

"Thanks to you, Nan," said her husband, with bowed head. She could notunderstand why he did not look more relieved. She never suspected thathis mind was burdened with another debt, that money could not pay.

She had not asked him for any explanation of the items in the paper thatshe had read. The momentary wonder that had flitted across her mindpassed as quickly as it came. The gifts that were not for her had beenintended perhaps for his sister Lettice, perhaps for the wedding presentof a friend. She did not like to ask. But a slightly uncomfortablesensation remained in her mind, and she never again wore the ring forwhich, as it now turned out, she herself had had to pay.

Sydney's position was certainly a painful one just then. But he was atany rate relieved of the burden of his debts, and he hoped, with somecompunction of heart, that no other secret of his life would ever cometo his wife's ears. It was about this time that he received the letterfrom Cora Walcott and had the interview with Lettice, of which mentionhas been made; and Nan fancied that it was anxiety about his sister thatcaused him to show signs of moodiness and depression. He had told hernothing more of Lettice's doings than he was obliged to tell, but otherfriends were not so reticent, and Lady Pynsent had enlightened Nan'smind very speedily with respect to the upshot of "the Walcott affair."Nan made some reference to it shortly afterwards in conversation withher husband, and was struck by the look of pain which crossed his faceas he replied,

"Don't talk about it, Nan, my dear."

"He must be much fonder of his sister than I thought," Nan said toherself. She made one more effort to speak.

"Could I do nothing, Sydney? Suppose I went to her, and told her howgrieved you were——"

"You, Nan! For heaven's sake, don't let me hear of your crossing thethreshold of that house!" cried Sydney, with vehemence, which Nan verynaturally misunderstood.

It was, on the whole, a relief to her to find that he did not want herto take any active steps in any direction. She was not very strong, andwas glad to be left a good deal at peace. Sydney was out for a greatpart of the day, and Nan took life easily. Lady Pynsent came to sit withher sometimes, or drove in the Park with her, and other friends soughther out: she had tender hopes for the future which filled her mind withsweet content, and she would have been happy but for that slight jarbetween Sydney and herself. That consciousness of a want of trust whichnever ceased to give her pain. Sydney himself was the most attentive ofhusbands when he was at home: he brought her flowers and fruit, he readaloud to her, he hung over her as she lay on the sofa, and surroundedher with a hundred little marks of his affection—such as she would havethought delicious while her confidence in him was still unshaken. Shestill found pleasure in them; but her eyes were keener than they hadbeen, and she knew that beneath all the manifestations of his real andstrong attachment to her there ran a vein of apology and misgiving—astate of things inexpressibly unsatisfactory to a woman who knows how tolove and how to trust.

Sydney, only half-conscious that something was wrong, had no idea how tomend matters, and was, therefore, in a fair way to make them worse.Frankness would have appeared brutal to him, and he did not see howsubtly poisonous was the effect of his habits of concealment upon hiswife's mind. Gifted with the instinct of discernment, which in sensitivewomen is almost like a sort of second-sight, she knew, without knowinghow she knew, that he had trouble which he did not confide to her,secrets which his tongue would never tell. He could deceive her as totheir existence so long as the period of illusion lasted; but as soon asher eyes were opened her sight became very keen indeed. And he,believing himself always successful in throwing dust in her eyes,fancied that her wistful look, her occasional unresponsiveness to hiscaresses, proceeded from physical causes only, and would with them alsopass away.

Thus December left them, and the dark foggy days of January flew apace.It was close upon February before Nan recovered from a severe cold whichhad assailed her about Christmas time, and left her very weak. For aweek or two she was confined entirely to her room, and when she camedownstairs she was forced for a time to keep to the warm atmosphere ofone sitting-room. But one day, when February was close at hand, and thefogs had begun to clear away, she felt so much stronger that sheresolved to make a new departure and show Sydney that she was reallybetter. Instead of going into the drawing-room, therefore, she came downanother flight of stairs, and resolved to establish herself in Sydney'sstudy, ready to greet him on his return.

But Sydney was late, and she was rather weaker than she knew. She hadher tea, and ordered lights to be brought in, and the curtains drawn,but still he did not come. Then she found that the lights hurt her eyes,and she had them extinguished—all but one small silver lamp which stoodon a centre-table, and gave a very subdued light. Her maid came and puta soft fur rug over her, and at her orders moved a screen of carvedwoodwork, brought from an Arab building in Algeria, between her and thefire before she left the room. Thus comfortably installed, the warmthand the dimness of the light speedily made Nan sleepy. She forgot tolisten for the sound of her husband's latchkey; she fell fast asleep,and must have remained so for the greater part of an hour.

The fire went down, and its flickering flame no longer illuminated theroom. The soft light of the lamp did not extend very far, and thescreen, which was tall and dark, threw the sofa on which Nan lay intodeep shadow. The rug completely covered the lower part of her dress, andas the sofa stood between the wall and the fire-place on that side ofthe room furthest removed from the door, any one entering might easilybelieve that the room was empty. Indeed, unless Nan stirred in hersleep, there was nothing at all to show that she was lying on the couch.

Thus, when Sydney entered his study about a quarter to seven, with acompanion whom he had found waiting for him on the door-step, it wouldhave been impossible for him to conjecture the presence of his wife. Hedid not light another lamp. The first words of his visitor had startledhim into forgetting that the room was dark—perhaps, as the interviewwent on, he was glad of the obscurity into which his face was thrown.And the sounds of the low-toned conversation did not startle Nan fromher slumber all at once. She had heard several sentences before sherealized where she was and what she was listening to, and then verynatural feelings kept her silent and motionless.

"No, I've not come for money," were the first words she heard. "Quite adifferent errand, Mr. Campion. It is some weeks since I left you now,and I left you because I had a competency bequeathed to me by an uncle."

"Pleased to hear it, I am sure, Johnson," was Sydney's response. "As youmentioned the name of another person, I thought that you had perhaps hada letter from her——"

"I have seen her, certainly, several times of late. And I am the bearerof a message from her. She has always regretted that she took a certainsum of money from you when she first found out how you had deceived her;and she wishes you to understand that she wants nothing more from you.The fact is, sir, I have long been very sorry for her misfortunes, andnow that I am independent, I have asked her to marry me and go with meto America."

There was a little silence. "I am quite willing to provide for thechild," said Sydney, "and——"

"No," said the man, almost sternly; "hear me out first, Mr. Campion. Sheowes her misery to you, and, no doubt, you have always thought thatmoney could make atonement. But that's not my view, nor hers. We wouldrather not give you the satisfaction of making what you callrestitution. Milly's child—your child, too—will be mine now; I shalladopt it for my own when I marry her. You will have nothing to do witheither of them. And I have brought you back the twenty pounds which yougave her when you cruelly deserted her because you wanted to marry arich woman. In that parcel you will find a locket and one or two otherthings that you gave her. I have told her, and Miss Campion, who hasbeen the best of friends to us both, has told her that she musthenceforth put the memory of you behind her, and live for those whom sheloves best."

"Certainly; it is better that she should," said Sydney.

"That is all I have to say," Johnson remarked, "except that I shall domy best to help her to forget the past. But if ever you can forgetyour own cruelty and black treachery and villainy towards her——"

"That will do. I will not listen to insult from you or any man."

"You should rather be grateful to me for not exposing you to the world,"said Johnson, drily, as he moved towards the door. "If it knew all thatI know, what would your career be worth, Mr. Campion? As it is, no oneknows the truth but ourselves and your sister, and all I want to remindyou of is, that if we forget it, and if you forget it, I believe thereis a God somewhere or other who never forgets."

"I am much obliged to you for the reminder," said Sydney, scornfully.But he could not get back the usual clearness of his voice.

Johnson went out without another word, and a minute later the front doorwas heard to close after him. Sydney stood perfectly still until thatsound was heard. Then he moved slowly towards the table, where anenvelope and a sealed packet were lying side by side. He looked at themfor a minute or two, and flung himself into an arm-chair beside thetable with an involuntary groan of pain. He was drawing the packettowards him, when a movement behind the screen caused him to springdesperately to his feet.

It was Nan, who had risen from the sofa and stood before him, her facewhite as the gown she wore, her eyes wide with a new despair, herfingers clutching at the collar of her dress as if the swelling throatcraved the relief of freedom from all bands. Sydney's heart contractedwith a sharp throb of pain, anger, fear—he scarcely knew which wasuppermost. It flashed across his mind that he had lost everything inlife which he cared for most—that Nan would despise him, that she woulddenounce him as a sorry traitor to his friends, that the story—asufficiently black one, as he knew—would be published to the world.Disgrace and failure had always been the things that he had chieflyfeared, and they lay straight before him now.

"I heard," Nan said, with white lips and choking utterance. "I wasasleep when you came, but I think I heard it all. Is it true? There wassome one—some one—that you left—for me?—some one who ought to havebeen your wife?"

"I swear I never loved anyone but you," he broke out, roughly andabruptly, able neither to repel nor to plead guilty to the charge shemade, but miserably conscious that his one false step might cost him allthat he held most dear. To Nan, the very vagueness and—as she deemedit—the irrelevance of his answer constituted an acknowledgment ofguilt.

"Sydney," she murmured, catching at the table for support, and speakingso brokenly that he had difficulty in distinguishing the words,"Sydney—I cannot pay this debt!"

And then she fell at his feet in a swoon, which at first he mistook fordeath.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

"SO SHALL YE ALSO REAP."

For some time Nan's life hung in the balance. It seemed as though astraw either way would suffice to turn the scales. Dead silence reignedin the house in Thurloe Square: the street outside was ankle-deep instraw: doctors and nurses took possession of Nan's pretty rooms, whereall her graceful devices and gentle handicrafts were set aside, andtheir places filled with a grim array of medicaments. The servants, wholoved their mistress, went about with melancholy faces and muffledvoices; and the master of the house, hitherto so confident andself-reliant, presented to the world a stony front of silent desolation,for which nobody would have given Sydney Campion credit.

"Over-exertion or mental shock must have brought it on," said thedoctor, when questioned by Lady Pynsent as to the cause of Mrs.Campion's illness.

"She can't have had a mental shock," said Lady Pynsent, decidedly. "Shemust have over-excited herself. Do you know how she did it, Sydney?"

"She fainted at my feet almost as soon as I saw her," said Sydney. "Idon't know what she had been doing all the afternoon."

Nobody else seemed to know, either. The maid bore witness that hermistress had insisted on going downstairs, and it was generally supposedthat this expedition had been too much for her strength. Only Sydneyknew better, and he would not confide his knowledge to Lady Pynsent,although he spoke with more freedom to the doctor.

"Yes, she had bad news which distressed her. She fainted upon hearingit."

"That did the mischief. She was not in a condition to bear excitement,"said the doctor, rather sharply; but he was sorry for his words, when henoted the distressed look on Sydney's face. He was the more sorry forhim when it was discovered that he could not be admitted to thesick-room, for his appearance sent Nan's pulse up to fever-height atonce, although she did not openly confess her agitation. The only thingthat Sydney could do was to retire, baffled and disconsolate, to hisstudy, where he passed the night in a state of indescribable anxiety andexcitement.

When the fever abated, Nan fell into such prostration of strength thatit was difficult to believe she would ever rise from her bed again.Weaker than a baby, she could move neither hand nor foot: she had to befed like an infant, at intervals of a few minutes, lest the flame oflife, which had sunk so low, should suddenly go out altogether. It wasat this point of her illness that she fainted when Sydney once persuadedthe doctor to let him enter her room, and the nurses had greatdifficulty in bringing her back to consciousness. After which, there wasno more talk of visits from her husband, and Sydney had to resignhimself to obtaining news of her from the doctor and the nurses, who, hefancied, looked at him askance, as blaming him in their hearts for hiswife's illness.

"I can't make Nan out," said Lady Pynsent to him one day. "She is sodepressed—she cries if one looks at her almost—and yet the very thingthat I expected her to be unhappy about does not affect her in theleast."

"What do you mean?" said Sydney.

"Why, her disappointment about her baby, of course. I said somethingabout it, and she just whispered, 'I'm very glad.' I suppose it issimply that she feels so weak, otherwise I should have thought itunnatural in Nan, who was always so fond of children."

Sydney made no answer. He was beginning to find this state of thingsintolerable. After all, he asked himself, what had he done that his wifeshould be almost killed by the shock of finding out that he hadbehaved—as other men behaved? But that sort of reasoning would not do.His behavior to Milly had been, as he knew, singularly heartless; and hehad happened to marry a girl whose greatest charm to him had been hertenderness of heart, her innocent candor, and that purity of mind whichcomes of hatred—not ignorance—of sin. A worldlier woman would not havebeen so shocked; but he had never desired less crystalline transparencyof mind—less exquisite whiteness of soul, for Nan. No; that was theworst of it: the very qualities that he admired and respected in herbore witness against him now.

He remembered the last hours of his father's life—how they had beenembittered by his selfish anger, for which he had never been able tomake amends. Was his wife also to die without giving him a word offorgiveness, or hearing him ask her pardon? If she died, he knew that hewould have slain her as surely as if he had struck her to the groundwith his strong right hand. For almost the first time in his life Sydneyfound himself utterly unnerved by his anxiety. His love for Nan was thetruest and strongest emotion that he had ever felt. And that his lovefor her should be sullied in her eyes by comparison with the transientinfluence which Milly had exercised over him was an intolerable outrageon his best and holiest affections and on hers. "What must she think ofme?" he said to himself; and he was fain to confess that she could notthink much worse of him than he deserved. It was a bitter harvest thathe was reaping from seed that he himself had sown.

He was almost incapable of work during those terrible days when he didnot know whether Nan would live or die. He got through as much as wasabsolutely imperative; but he dreaded being away from the house, lestthat "change," of which the nurses spoke, should come during hisabsence; and he managed to stay at home for many hours of the day.

But at last the corner was turned: a little return of strength wasreported, and by and by the doctor assured him that, although hispatient still required very great care, the immediate danger was past,and there was at least a fair hope of her ultimate recovery. But hemight not see her—yet.

So much was gained; but Sydney's spirits did not rise at once. He wasconscious of some relief from the agony of suspense, but black care andanxiety sat behind him still. He was freer to come and go, however, thanhe had been for some time, and the first use he made of his liberty wasto go to the very person whom he had once vowed never to see again—hissister Lettice.

She had written to him since his interview with her at Bute Lodge. Shehad told him of Alan's departure, and—to some extent—of its cause: shehad given him the address of the lodgings to which she was now going(for a continued residence at Bute Lodge was beyond her means), and shesent him her sisterly love—and that was all. She had not condescendedto any justification of her own conduct, nor had she alluded to theaccusations that he had made, nor to his own discomfiture. But there hadbeen enough quiet warmth in the letter to make him conscious that hemight count on her forgiveness and affection if he desired it. And hedid desire it. In the long hours of those sleepless nights and wearydays in which he had waited for better news of Nan, it was astonishingto find how clearly the years of his boyhood had come back to him—thosequiet, peaceful years in which he had known nothing of the darker sidesof life, when the serene atmosphere of the rectory and the village hadbeen dear to his heart, and Lettice had been his cherished companion andtrusty comrade in work or play. It was like going back into anotherworld—a purer and a truer world than the one in which he lived now.

And in these hours of retrospect, he came to clearer and truerconclusions respecting Lettice's character and course of action than hehad been able to do before he was himself smitten by the hand of Fate.Lettice was interpreted to him by Nan. There were women in the world,it seemed, who had consciences, and pure hearts, and generous emotions:it was not for him to deny it now. And he had been very hard on Letticein days gone by. He turned to her now with a stirring of affection whichhe had not known for years.

But when he entered Lettice's room, and she came to meet him, gravely,and with a certain inquiry in her look, he suddenly felt that he had noreason to give for his appearance there.

"Sydney!" she had exclaimed in surprise. Then, after the first longglance, and with a quick change of tone: "Sydney, are you ill?"

For he was haggard and worn, as she had never seen him, with dark linesunder his eyes, and an air of prostration and fatigue.

"No, I'm very well. It's Nan—my wife," he said, avoiding her alarmedgaze.

"I am sorry—very sorry. Is she——"

"She has been on the brink of death. There is some hope now. I don'tknow why I came here unless it was to tell you so," said Sydney, with anodd abruptness which seemed to be assumed in order to mask someunusually strong feeling. "I suppose you know that the man Johnson cameto see me——"

"Yes: they have gone," said Lettice, quickly. "They were marriedyesterday, and sailed this morning."

"Ah! Well, she was in the room when he—made his communication to me.I did not know it—Johnson never knew it at all. She had beenasleep—but she woke and heard what he said. She fainted—and she hasbeen ill ever since." He added a few words concerning the technicalitiesof his wife's case.

"Oh, Sydney!—my poor Sydney! I am so sorry," said Lettice, her eyesfull of tears. For she saw, by his changed manner, something of what histrouble had been, and she instantly forgot all causes of complaintagainst him. He was sitting sideways on a chair, with his head on hishand; and when she put her arms round his neck and kissed him, he didnot repulse her—indeed, he kissed her in return, and seemed comfortedby her caress.

"I can't even see her," he went on. "She faints if I go into the room.How long do you think it will last, Lettice? Will she ever get over it,do you think?"

"If she loves you, I think she will, Sydney. But you must give her time.No doubt it was a great shock to her," said Lettice.

He looked at her assentingly, and then stared out of the window as ifabsorbed in thought. The result of his reflections seemed to be summedup in a short sentence which, certainly, Lettice had never expected tohear from Sydney's lips:—

"I can't think how I came to be such a damned fool. I beg your pardon,Lettice; but it's true."

"Can I be of any use to you—or to her?"

"Thank you, I don't think so—just yet. I don't know—"heavily—"whether she will want you some day to tell her all you know."

"Oh, no, Sydney!"

"You must do just what you think best about it. I shall put no barriersin the way. Perhaps she had better know everything now."

Then he roused himself a little and looked at her kindly.

"How are you getting on?" he said. "Writing as usual?"

"Yes, I am busy, and doing very well."

"You look thin and fa*gged."

"Oh, Sydney, if you could but see yourself!"

He smiled at this, and then rose to go.

"But you will stay and have tea with me? Do, Sydney—if only," andLettice's voice grew low and deep, "if only in token that there is peacebetween us."

So he stayed; and, although they spoke no more of the matters that weredearest to their hearts, Lettice's bitterness of feeling towards herbrother disappeared, and Sydney felt vaguely comforted in his trouble byher sympathy.

She did not tell him of the strange marriage-scene which she hadwitnessed the day before—when Milly, almost hysterical fromover-wrought feeling, had vowed to be a true and faithful wife to theman who had pitied and succored her in the time of her sorest need: ofJohnson's stolid demeanor, covering a totally unexpected fund ofgood-feeling and romance; or of his extraordinary desire, which Letticehad seen carried out, that the baby should be present at its mother'swedding, and should receive—poor little mite—a fatherly kiss from himas soon as he had kissed the forlorn and trembling bride. For Milly,although she professed to like and respect Michael Johnson, shranksomewhat from the prospect of life in another country, and was nervousand excitable to a degree which rather alarmed her mistress. Letticeconfessed on reflection, however, that Johnson knew exactly how tomanage poor little Milly; and that he had called smiles to her face inthe very midst of a last flood of tears; and that she had no fear forthe girl's ultimate happiness. Johnson had behaved in a verystraightforward, manly and considerate way; and in new surroundings, ina new country, with a kind husband and good prospects, Milly was likelyto lead a very happy and comfortable life. Lettice was glad to think so;and was more sorry to see the baby go than to part from Milly. Indeed,she had offered to adopt it; but Johnson was so indignant, and Milly sotearful, at the idea, that she had been forced to relinquish her desire.All this, however, she withheld from Sydney; as also her expedition tothe station to see the little party start for Liverpool, and Milly'sgrief at parting with the forbearing mistress whom she had oncedeceived, and who had been, after all, her truest friend.

Nan began, very slowly, but surely, to amend; and Sydney, going back tohis usual pursuits, seemed busier than ever.

But, in spite of himself, he was haunted night and day by the fear ofwhat would happen next; of what Nan meant to do when she grew strong.Would she ever forgive him? And if she did not forgive him, what wouldshe do? Tell the whole story to Sir John, and insist on returning to herbrother's house? That would be an extreme thing, and Sir John—who was aman of the world—would probably pooh pooh her virtuous indignation; butNan had a way of carrying out her resolves whether Sir John pooh-poohedthem or not. And supposing that Nan separated herself from him, Sydneycould not but see that a very serious imputation would be thrown on hischaracter, even if the true story were not known in all its details.That mock marriage—which he had not at first supposed that Milly hadtaken seriously—had a very ugly sound. And he had made too many enemiesfor the thing to be allowed to drop if once it came to the light.

His career was simply at the mercy of two women—the Johnsons were not,he thought, likely to break silence—and if either of them should proveto be indiscreet or vindictive, he was a ruined man. He had injured andinsulted his sister: he had shocked and horrified his wife. What Nanthough of him he could not tell. He had always believed that women weretoo small-minded to forget an injury, to forgive an insult, or to keepsilence regarding their husbands' transgressions. If Nan once enlistedSir John's sympathies on her side, he knew that, although he mightultimately recover from the blow inflicted by his brother-in-law'soffense and anger, his chance of success in life would be diminished.And for what a cause? He writhed as he thought of the passing,contemptuous fancy, for the indulgence of which he might have tosacrifice so much and had already sacrificed part of what was dearest inlife to him. Yes, he told himself, he was at Nan's mercy, and he had nothitherto found women very ready to hold their hands when weapons hadbeen put into them, and all the instincts of outraged vanity made themstrike.

Sydney Campion prided himself on a wide experience of men and women, anda large acquaintance with human nature. But he did not yet know Nan.

The story which had been so suddenly unfolded to her had struck her tothe earth with the force of a blow, for more than one reason, butchiefly because she had trusted Sydney so completely. She was not soignorant of the ways of men as to believe that their lives were alwaysfree from stain; indeed she knew more than most girls of the weaknessand wickedness of mankind, partly because she was well acquainted withmany Vanebury working-people, who were her tenants, partly because LadyPynsent was a woman of the world and did not choose that Nan should goabout with her eyes closed, and partly because she read widely and hadnever been restricted in the choice of books. She was not a mereignorant child, shrinking from knowledge as if it were contamination,and blindly believing in the goodness and innocence of all men. But thistheoretical acquaintance with the world had not saved her from the errorinto which women are apt to fall—the error of setting up her lover on apedestal and believing that he was not as other men. She was punishedfor her mistake, she told herself bitterly, by finding that he was evenworse, not better, than other men, whose weaknesses she had contemned.

For there had been a strain of meanness and cruelty in Sydney's behaviorto the girl whom he had ruined which cut his wife to the heart. She hadbeen taught, and she had tried—with some misgiving—to believe that sheought to be prepared to condone a certain amount of levity, of"wildness," even, in her husband's past; but here she saw deliberatetreachery, cold-blooded selfishness, which startled her from her dreamof happiness. Nan was a little too logical for her own peace of mind.She could not look at an action as an isolated fact in a man's life: itwas an outcome of character. What Sydney had done showed Sydney as hewas. And, oh, what a fall was there! how different from the ideal thatshe had hoped to see realized in him!

It never once occurred to Nan to take either Sir John or Lady Pynsentinto her confidence. Sydney was quite mistaken in thinking that shewould fly to them for consolation. She would have shrunk sensitivelyfrom telling them any story to his discredit. Besides, she shrewdlysuspected that they would not share her disappointment, her sense ofdisillusion; Sir John had more than once laughed in an oddly amused waywhen she dropped a word in praise of Sydney's high-mindedness andgenerous zeal for others. "Campion knows which side his bread'sbuttered," he had once made her angry by saying. She had not theslightest inclination to talk to them of Sydney's past life andcharacter.

Besides, she knew well enough that she had no actual cause of complaintin the eyes of the world. Her husband was not bound to tell her all thathappened to him before he met her; and he had severed all connectionwith that unhappy young woman before he asked her, Anna Pynsent, to behis wife. Nan's grievance was one of those intangible grievances whichbring the lines into so many women's faces and the pathos into theireyes—the grievance of having set up an idol and seen it fall. TheSydney Campion who had deceived and wronged a trusting girl was not theman that she had known and loved. That was all. It was nothing thatcould be told to the outer world, nothing that in itself constituted areason for her leaving him and making him a mark for arrows of scandaland curiosity; but it simply killed outright the love that she hadhitherto borne him, so that her heart lay cold and heavy in her bosom asa stone.

So frozen and hard it seemed to her, that she could not bring herself toacknowledge that certain words spoken to her husband by the stranger hadhad any effect on her at all. In the old days, as she said to herself,they would have hurt her terribly. "You cruelly deserted her becauseyou wanted to marry a rich woman." She, Nan, was the rich woman forwhom Sydney Campion had deserted another. It was cruel to have madeher the cause of Sydney's treachery—the instrument of his fall. Shehad never wished to wrong anyone, nor that anyone should be wronged forher sake. She would not, she thought, have married Sydney if she hadknown this story earlier. Why had he married her?—ah, there came in thesting of the sentence which she had overheard: "You wanted to marry arich woman." Yes, she was rich. Sydney had not even paid her the verypoor compliment of deserting another woman because he loved her best—hehad loved her wealth and committed a base deed to gain it, that was all.

She was unjust to Sydney in this; but it was almost impossible that sheshould not be unjust. The remembrance of his burden of debt came back toher, of the bill that he could not meet, of the list of his liabilitieswhich he had been so loath to give her, and she told herself that he haddesired nothing but her wealth and the position that she could give him.To attain his own ends he had made a stepping-stone of her. He waswelcome to do so. She would make it easy for him to use her money, sothat he need never know the humiliation of applying to her for it. Nowthat she understood what he wanted, she would never again make themistake of supposing that he cared for her. But it was hard on her—hardto think that she had given the love of her youth to a man who valuedher only for her gold; hard to know that the dream of happiness wasover, and that the brightness of her life was gone. It was no wonderthat Nan's recovery was slow, when she lay, day after day, night afternight, the slow tears creeping down her cheeks, thinking such thoughtsas these. The blow seemed to have broken her heart and her will to live.It would have been a relief to her to be told that she must die.

Her weakness was probably responsible for part of the depth and darknessof her despair. She was a puzzle to her sister-in-law, who had been usedto find in Nan a never-failing spring of brightness and gentle mirth.Lady Pynsent began to see signs of something more than a physicalailment. She said one day, more seriously than usual,

"I hope, Nan, you have not quarreled with your husband."

"Oh no, no," said Nan, starting and flushing guilty; "I never quarrelwith Sydney."

"I fancied there was something amiss. Take my advice, Nan, and don'tstand on your dignity with your husband. A man is ready enough toconsole himself with somebody else if his wife isn't nice to him. Iwould make it up if I were you, if there has been anything wrong."

Nan kept silence.

"He is very anxious about you. Don't you think you are well enough tosee him to-day?" For Sydney had not entered Nan's room since thatunlucky time when she fainted at his appearance.

"Oh no, no—not to-day," said Nan. And then, collecting herself, sheadded, "At least—not just yet—a little later in the afternoon, Imean."

"I'll tell him to look in at four," said Lady Pynsent.

So at four Sydney was admitted, and it would have been hard to saywhether husband or wife felt the more embarrassment. Sydney tried hardto behave as though nothing were amiss between them. He kissed her andasked after her well-being; but he did so with an inward tremor and agreat uncertainty as to the reception that he should meet with. But sheallowed him to kiss her; she even kissed him in return and smiled a verylittle, more than once, while he was talking to her; and he, feeling hisheart grow lighter while she smiled, fancied that the shadow of sadnessin her eyes, the lifelessness of her voice and hand, came simply frombodily weakness and from no deeper cause.

After this first visit, he saw her each day for longer intervals, andrealized very quickly that she had no intention of shunning him orpunishing him before the world, as he had feared that she would do. Shewas so quiet, so gentle to him, that, with all a man's obtuseness wherewomen are concerned, he congratulated himself on being let off soeasily, and thought that the matter was to be buried in oblivion. Heeven wondered a little at Nan's savoir-faire, and felt a vague senseof disappointment mingling with his relief. Was he to hear no more aboutit, although she had been struck down and brought almost to death's doorby the discovery of his wretched story?

It seemed to be so, indeed. For some time he was kept in continualsuspense, expecting her to speak to him on the subject; but he waited invain. Then, with great reluctance, he himself made some slight approach,some slight reference to it; a reference so slight that if, as hesometimes fancied, her illness had destroyed her memory of theconversation which she had overheard in the study, he need not betrayhimself. But there was no trace of lack of memory in Nan's face, when hebrought out the words which he hoped would lead to some fullerunderstanding between them. She turned scarlet and then white as snow.Turning her face aside, she said, in a low but very distinct voice,

"I want to hear no more about it, Sydney."

"But, Nan——"

"Please say no more," she interrupted. And something in her tone madehim keep silence. He looked at her for a minute or two, but she wouldnot look at him and so he got up and left her, with a sense of mingledinjury and defeat.

No, she had not forgotten: she was not oblivious; and he doubted whethershe had forgiven him as he thought. The prohibition to speak on thesubject chafed him, although he had previously said to himself that itwas next to impossible for him to mention it to her. And he was puzzled,for he had not followed the workings of Nan's mind in the least, and thewords, concerning his marriage with her and his reasons for it hadslipped past him unheeded, while his thoughts were fixed upon otherthings.

CHAPTER XL.

"WHO WITH REPENTANCE IS NOT SATISFIED—."

Before the summer came, Mrs. Sydney Campion was well enough to drive outin an open carriage, and entertain visitors; but it was painfullyapparent to her friends that her health had received a shock from whichit had not by any means recovered. She grew better up to a certainpoint, and there she seemed to stay. She had lost all interest in life.Day after day, when Sydney came home, he would find her sitting or lyingon a sofa, white and still, with book or work dropped idly in her lap,her dark eyes full of an unspoken sorrow, her mouth drooping in mournfulcurves, her thin cheek laid against a slender hand, where the veinslooked strangely blue through the delicate whiteness of the flesh. Butshe never complained. When her husband brought her flowers and presents,as he still liked to do, she took them gently, and thanked him; but henoticed that she laid them aside and seldom looked at them again. Thespirit seemed to have gone out of her. And in his own heart Sydney ragedand fretted—for why, he said to himself, should she not be like otherwomen?—why, if she had a grudge against him, should she not tell himso? She might reproach him as bitterly as she pleased; the storm wouldspend itself in time and break in sunshine; but this terrible silencewas like a nightmare about them both! He wished that he had the courageto break through it, but he was experiencing the truth of the sayingthat conscience makes cowards of us all, and he dared not break thesilence that she had imposed.

One day, when he had brought her some flowers, she put them away fromher with a slight unusual sign of impatience.

"Don't bring me any more," she said.

Her husband looked at her intently. "You don't care for them?"

"No."

"I thought," he said, a little mortification struggling with naturaldisappointment in his breast, "that I had heard you say you likedthem—or, at any rate, that you liked me to bring them——"

"That was long ago," she answered softly, but coldly. She lay with hereyes closed, her face very pale and weary.

"One would think," he went on, spurred by puzzled anger to put a longunspoken thought into bare words, "that you did not care for menow—that you did not love me any longer?"

She opened her eyes and looked at him steadily. There was somethingalmost like pity in her face.

"I am afraid it is true, Sydney. I am very sorry."

He stood staring at her a little longer, as if he could not believe hisears. The red blood slowly mounted to his forehead. She returned hisgaze with the same look of almost wistful pity, in which there was analoofness, a coldness, that showed him as nothing else had ever done theextent of her estrangement from himself. Somehow he felt as though shehad struck him on the lips. He walked away from her without anotherword, and shut himself into his study, where he sat for some minutes athis writing-table, seeing nothing, thinking of nothing, dumbly consciousthat he was, on the whole, more wretched than he had ever been in thecourse of a fairly prosperous and successful life.

He loved Nan, and Nan did not love him. Well, there was an end of hisdomestic happiness. Fortunately, there was work to be done still,success to be achieved, prizes to win in the world of men. He was notgoing to sit down and despair because he had lost a woman's love. Andso, with set lips and frowning brow he once more set to work, and thistime with redoubled vigor; but he knew all the while that he was a verymiserable man.

Perhaps if he had seen Nan crying over the flowers that she had justrejected, he might have hoped that there was still a chance ofrecovering the place in her heart which he had lost.

But after this short conversation life went on in the old ways. Sydneyappeared to be more than ever engrossed in his work. Nan grew paler andstiller every day. Lady Pynsent became anxious and distressed.

"Sydney, what are you doing? what are you thinking about?" she said tohim one day, when she managed to catch him for five minutes alone."Don't you see how ill Nan is?"

"She looks ill; but she always says there is nothing the matter withher."

"That is a very bad sign. I hope you have made her consult a gooddoctor? There is Burrows—I should take her to him."

"Burrows! Why, he is a specialist!"

"Nan's mother died of decline. Burrows attended her."

Sydney went away with a new fear implanted in his heart.

Dr. Burrows was sent for, and saw his patient; but he did not seem ableto form any definite opinion concerning her. He said a few words toSydney, however, which gave him food for a good deal of reflectionduring the next day or two.

At the end of that time, he came to Nan's sitting-room with a look ofquiet purpose on his face. "May I speak to you for a minute?" he beganformally—he had got into the way of speaking very formally andceremoniously to her now. "Can you listen to me?"

"Certainly. Won't you sit down?"

But he preferred to remain standing at an angle where she could not seehis face without turning her head. "I have been talking to Dr. Burrowsabout you. He tells me, I am sorry to say, that you are still very weak;but he thinks that there is nothing wrong but weakness, though that isbad enough in itself. But he wishes me also to say—you will rememberthat it is he who speaks, not I—that if you could manage to rouseyourself, Nan, if you would made an effort to get stronger, he thinksyou might do it, if you chose."

"Like Mrs. Dombey," said Nan, with a faint, cheerless smile.

"He is afraid," Sydney went on, with the air of one who repeats alesson, "that you are drifting into a state of hopeless invalidism,which you might still avoid. Once in that state you would not die, Nan,as you might like to do: you would live for years in helpless, useless,suffering. Nan, my dear, it is very hard for me to say this to you"—hisvoice quivering—"but I promised Burrows, for your own sake, that Iwould. Such a life, Nan, would be torture to you; and you have stillwithin your power—you can prevent it if you chose."

"It seems to me very cruel to say so," Nan answered, quietly. "What canI do that I have not done? I have taken all the doctors' remedies anddone exactly as they bade me. I am very tired of being ill and weak, Iassure you. It is not my fault that I should like to die."

She began to cry a little as she spoke. Her mouth and chin quivered: thetears ran slowly over her white cheeks. Sydney drew a step nearer.

"No, it isn't your fault," he said, hoarsely, "it is mine. I believe Iam killing you by inches. Do you want to make me feel myself a murderer?Could you not—even for my poor sake—try to get stronger, Nan, tryto take an interest in something—something healthy and reasonable? Thatis what Dr. Burrows says you need; and I can't do this thing for you; I,whom you don't love any longer," he said, with a sudden fury of passionwhich stopped her tears at once, "but who love you with all my heart,as I never loved in all my life before—I swear it before God!"

He stopped short: he had not meant to speak of his love for her, only tourge her to make that effort over her languor and her indifference whichthe great physician said she must make before her health could berestored. Nan lay looking at him, the tears drying on her pale cheeks,her lips parted, her eyes unusually bright; but she did not speak.

"If there was anything I could do to please you," her husband went on ina quieter tone, "I would do it. Would you care, for instance, to liveabroad? Burrows recommends a bracing air. If you would go with me toNorway or Switzerland—at once; and then pass the winter at Davos, orany place you liked; perhaps you would care for that? Is there nothingyou would like to do? You used to say you wanted to see India——"

"But your work!" she broke in suddenly. "You could not go: it isuseless to talk of an impossibility."

"If it would make you better or happier, I would go."

"But the House?——"

"Nothing easier than to accept the Chiltern Hundreds," said Sydney.

"And your profession?" said Nan, raising herself on one arm and lookingkeenly at him.

She saw that he winced at the question, but he scarcely paused before hereplied.

"I have thought it well over. I could go on practising when I came backto England; and in the meantime——I suppose you would have to take meabroad, Nan: I could not well take you," he said with a grim sort ofjocularity, which she could not help seeing was painful to him. "If itdid you good, as Burrows thinks it would, I should be quite prepared togive up everything else."

"Give up everything else," Nan murmured. "For me?"

He drew a long breath. "Well, yes. The fact is I have lost some of myold interest in my work, compared with other things. I have come tothis, Nan—I would let my career go to the winds, if by doing so, Icould give you back strength and happiness. Tell me what I can do: thatis all. I have caused you a great deal of misery, I know: if there isany way in which I can——atone——"

He did not go on, and for a few moments Nan could not speak. There wascolor enough in her cheeks now, and light in her eyes, but she turnedaway from him, and would not let him see her face.

"I want to think over what you have said. Please don't think meungracious or unkind, Sydney. I want to do what is best. We can talkabout it another time, can we not?"

"Any time you like."

And then he left her, and she lay still.

Had she been wrong all the while? Had she of her own free will allowedherself to drift into this state of languor, and weakness, andindifference to everything? What did these doctors know—what did Sydneyhimself know—of the great wave of disgust and shame and scorn that hadpassed over her soul and submerged all that was good and fair? Theycould not understand: she said to herself passionately that no man couldunderstand the recoil of a woman's heart against sensual passion andimpurity. In her eyes Sydney had fallen as much as the woman whom he hadbetrayed, although she knew that the world would not say so; and in hisdegradation she felt herself included. She was dragged down to hislevel—she was dragged through the mire: that was the thought thatscorched her from time to time like a darting flame of fire. For Nan wasvery proud, although she looked so gentle, and she had never before comeinto contact with anything that could stain her whiteness of soul.

She had told Sydney that she loved him no longer, and in the deadness ofemotion which had followed on the first acuteness of her grief for herlost idol, and the physical exhaustion caused by her late illness, shehad thought she spoke the truth. But, after all, what was this yearningover him, in spite of all his errors, but love? what this continualthought of him, this aching sense of loss, even this intense desire thathe should suffer for his sin, but an awakening within her of the deep,blind love that, as a woman has said, sometimes

the ordinary love of common life, with a

For the first time she was conscious of the existence of love that wasbeyond the region of spoken words, or caresses, or the presence of thebeloved: love that intertwined itself with the fibres of her wholebeing, so that if it were smitten her very life was smitten too. Thiswas the explanation of her weariness, her weakness, her distaste foreverything: the best part of herself was gone when her love seemed to bedestroyed. The invisible cords of love which bind a mother to her childare explicable on natural grounds; but not less strong, not lessnatural, though less common, are those which hold a nature like Nan's tothe soul of the man she loves. That Sydney was unworthy of such a love,need not be said; but it is the office of the higher nature to seek outthe unworthy and "to make the low nature better by its throes."

Nan lay still and looked her love in the face, and was startled to findthat it was by no means dead, but stronger than it had been before. "Andhe is my husband," she said to herself; "I am bound to be true to him. Iam ashamed to have faltered. What does it matter if he has erred? I maybe bitterly sorry, but I will not love him one whit the less. I couldnever leave him now."

But a thought followed which was a pain to her. If she loved him inspite of error, what of her own sense of right and wrong? Was she not indanger of paltering with it in order to excuse him? would she not intime be tempted to say that he had not erred, that he had done only asother men do?—and so cloud the fair outlines of truth which hadhitherto been mapped out with ethereal clearness for her by thatconscience which she had always regarded, vaguely but earnestly, as insome sort the voice of God? Would she ever say that she herself had beenan ignorant little fool in her judgment of men and men's temptations,and laugh at herself for her narrowness and the limitation of her view?Would she come to renounce her high ideal, and content herself with whatwas merely expedient and comfortable and "like other people"? In thatday, it seemed to Nan that she will be selling her own soul.

No, the way out of the present difficulty was not easy. She could tellSydney that she loved him, but not that she thought him anything butwrong—wrong from beginning to end in the conduct of his past life. Andwould he be content with a love that condemned him? How easy it would befor her to love and forgive him if only he would give her one littlesign by which to know that he himself was conscious of the blackness ofthat past! Repentance would show at least that there was no twist in hisconscience, no flaw in his ethical constitution; it would set him rightwith the universe, if not with himself. For the moment there was nothingNan so passionately desired as to hear him own himself in the wrong—notfor any personal satisfaction so much as for his own sake; also that shemight then put him upon a higher pedestal than ever, and worship him asa woman is always able to worship the man who has sinned and repented,rather than the man who has never fallen from his high estate; torejoice over him as angels rejoice over the penitent more than over thejust that need no repentance.

Sydney was a good deal startled when his wife said to him a few dayslater, in rather a timid way:

"Your sister has never been here. May I ask her to come and see me?"

"Certainly, if you wish it." He had not come to approve of Lettice'scourse of action, but he did not wish his disapproval to be patent tothe world.

"I do wish it very much."

Sydney glanced at her quickly, but she did not look back at him. Sheonly said:

"I have her address. I will ask her to come to-morrow afternoon."

"Very well."

So Nan wrote her note, and Lettice came.

As it happened, the two had never met. Lettice's preoccupation with herown affairs, Sydney's first resentment, now wearing off, and Nan'ssubsequent illness, had combined to prevent their forming anyacquaintance. But the two women had no sooner clasped hands, and lookedinto each other's eyes, than they loved one another, and the sense ofmental kinship made itself plain between them.

They sat down together on the couch in Nan's private sitting-room andfell into a little aimless talk, which was succeeded by a short,significant silence. Then Nan put out her hand and look Lettice's in herown.

"You know!" she said, in a whisper.

"I know—what?"

"You know all that is wrong between Sydney and myself. You know whatmade me ill."

"Yes."

"And you know too—that I love him—very dearly." The words were brokenby a sob.

"Yes, dear—as he loves you."

"You think so—really?"

"I am quite sure of it. How could you doubt that?"

"I did doubt it for a time. I heard the man say that he married mebecause I was—rich."

"And you believed it?"

"I believed anything—everything. And the rest," said Nan, with a risingcolor in her face, "the rest was true."

"Dear," said Lettice, gently, "there is only one thing to be saidnow—that he would be very glad to undo the past. He is very sorry."

"You think he is?"

"Can you look at him and not see the marks of his sorrow and his painupon his face? He has suffered a great deal; and it would be better forhim now to forget the past, and to feel that you forgave him."

Nan brushed away some falling tears, but did not speak at once.

"Lettice," she said at last, in a broken whisper, "I believe I have beenvery hard and cold all these long months. I thought I did not care—butI do, I do. Only—I wish I could forget—that poor girl—and the littlechild——"

She burst into sudden weeping, so vehement that Lettice put both herarms round the slight, shaken figure, and tried to calm her by caressesand gentle words.

"Is there nothing that I could do? nothing Sydney could do—to makeamends?"

"Nothing," said Lettice gently, but with decision. "They are happy now,and prosperous; good has come out of the evil, and it is better toforget the evil itself. Don't be afraid; I hear from them, and aboutthem, constantly, and if ever they were in need of help, our hands wouldbe the ones stretched out to help them. The good we cannot do to them wecan do to others for their sakes."

And Nan was comforted.

Sydney came home early that evening; anxious, disquieted, somewhat outof heart. He found that Lettice had gone, and that Nan was in hersitting-room. He generally went up to her when he came in, and this timehe did not fail; though his lips paled a little as he went upstairs, forthe thought forced itself upon him that Lettice might have made thingsworse, not better, between himself and his wife.

The daylight was fading as he entered the room. Nan was lying down, butshe was not asleep, for she turned her head towards him as he entered.He noticed the movement. Of late she had always averted her face when hecame near her. He wished that he could see her more plainly, but she waswrapped in shadow, and the room was almost dark.

He asked after her health as usual, and whether Lettice had been andgone. Then silence fell between them, but he felt that Nan was lookingat him intently, and he did not dare to turn away.

"Sydney," she said at last. "Will you come here? Close to me. I want tosay something——"

"Yes, Nan?"

He bent down over her, with something like a new hope in his heart. Whatwas she going to say to him?

"Sydney—will you take me to Switzerland?"

"Certainly." Was that all? "When shall we go?"

"When can you leave London?"

"To-morrow. Any time."

"You really would give up all your engagements, all your prospects, forme?"

"Willingly, Nan."

"I begin to believe," she said, softly, "that you do care for me—alittle."

"Nan! Oh, Nan, have you doubted it?"

Her hand stole gently into his; she drew him down beside her.

"Dear Sydney, come, here. Put your arm right round me—so. Now I canspeak. I want to tell you something—many things. It is Lettice that hasmade me think I ought to say all this. Do you know, I have felt for along, long time as if you had killed me—killed the best part of me, Imean—the soul that loved you, the belief in all that was good and true.That is why I have been so miserable. I did not know how to bear it. Ithought that I did not love you; but I have loved you all the time; andnow—now——"

"Now?" said Sydney. She felt that the arm on which she leaned wastrembling like a leaf.

"Now I could love you better than ever—if I knew one thing—if I daredask——"

"You may ask what you like," he said, in a husky voice.

"It is not such a very great thing," she said, simply; "it is only whatyou yourself think about the past: whether you think with me that it issomething to be sorry about, or something to be justified. I feel as ifI could forget it if I knew that you were sorry; and if you justifiedit—as some men would do—oh, I should never reproach you, Sydney, but Iwould much rather die!"

There was a silence. His head was on the cushion beside her, but hisface was hidden, and she could gather only from his loud, quickbreathing that he was deeply moved. But it was some time before hespoke. "I don't try to justify myself," he said, at last. "I waswrong—I know it well enough—and—well if you must have me say it—Godknows that I am—sorry."

"Ah," she said, "that is all I wanted you to say. Oh Sydney, my darling,can anything now but death come between you and me?"

And she drew his head down upon her bosom and let it rest there, dearerin the silent shame that bowed it before her than in the heyday of itspride.

So they were reconciled, and the past sin and sorrow were slowly blottedout in waters of repentance. Before the world, Sydney Campion is stillthe gay, confident, successful man that he has always been—a man whodoes not make many friends, and who has, or appears to have, anoverweening belief in his own powers. But there is a softer strain inhim as well. Within his heart there is a chamber held sacred from thebusy world in which he moves: and here a woman is enshrined, with alldue observance, with lights burning and flowers blooming, as his patronsaint. It is Nan who presides here, who knows the inmost recesses of histhought, who has gauged the extent of his failures and weakness as wellas his success, who is conscious of the strength of his regrets as wellas the burdensome weight of a dead sin. And in her, therefore, he putsthe trust which we can only put in those who know all sides of us, theworst side even as the best: on her he has even come to lean with thatsense of uttermost dependence, that feeling of repose, which is given tous only in the presence of a love that is more than half divine.

CHAPTER XLI.

A FREE PARDON.

St. James' Hall was packed from end to end one summer afternoon by aneager mob of music lovers—or, at least, of those who counted themselvesas such. The last Philharmonic Concert of the season had been announced;and as one of its items was Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, the crowd was,as usual on such an occasion, a great and enthusiastic one.

Even the dark little gallery near the roof, fronting the orchestra, waswell filled, for there are music lovers (mostly those whose purse islean) who declare that, though the shilling gallery is hot, and close,and dark, there is in all the room no better place for hearing the greatwaves of sound rolled out by the orchestra from the Master's mightyscores. And it was for this reason that Lettice Campion came up thenarrow stairs that afternoon at ten minutes to three, and found, as shemight have expected, that only a few seats against the wall remainedempty. Into the nearest of these she dropped, rather exhausted by herclimb and the haste that she had made; and then she noticed, as her eyesbecame accustomed to the dim light, that some one beside her had halfturned round, and was looking earnestly into her face.

"Alan!"

The color sprang into Lettice's face: the roll of music that she carrieddropped from her lap as she held out her hand. Alan returned hergreeting, and then dived for her music, thus giving her a moment inwhich to recover her self-possession. When he came up again, she wasstill a little flushed, but she was smiling tranquilly.

"I am so glad to see you," she said simply.

"I don't know what impelled me to come this afternoon. I never thoughtthat I should have this happiness." Then in a lower tone, "You don'tmind my being here? You don't want me to go away?"

"No, no, why should I? It does not matter—here."

They had not seen each other at all for weeks, and had met only two orthree times, and then for a few minutes only, since Alan left Bute Lodgein December. They corresponded freely and frankly, but Lettice haddecreed, in spite of some murmurs from Alan, that they should not meet.Scandal had been busy with her name, and, until Alan obtained hisdivorce, it seemed better to her to live a very retired life, seeingalmost nobody, and especially guarding herself against accusations ofany close association with Alan Walcott.

"I had just posted a letter to you before I came out," he said. Theywere at the end of the last row of seats and could talk, before themusic began, without any fear of being overheard. "It is as I expected,Lettice. There are great difficulties in our way."

She looked an interrogation.

"The length of time that has elapsed is an obstacle. We cannot find anyproof of worse things than drunkenness and brawling during the last yearor two. And of the events before that time, when I know that she wasuntrue to me, we scarcely see how to obtain absolute proof. You mustforgive me for mentioning these things to you, but I am obliged."

"Yes, and there is no reason why you should not tell me everything," shesaid, turning her quiet eyes upon him with a look of such perfect trustthat the tumult in Alan's mind was suddenly stilled. "But you knew thatthere would be difficulties. Is there anything else?"

"I hardly know how to tell you. She has done what I half expected her todo—she has brought a counter charge against me—against——"

"Ah, I understand. All the more, reason, Alan, why we should fight itout."

"My love," he said, in the lowest possible tone that could reach herears, "if you knew how it grieves me that you should suffer!"

"But I am suffering with you," she answered tenderly; "and don't youthink that I would rather do that than see you bear your sufferingalone?"

Here the first notes of the orchestra fell upon their ear, and theconversation had to cease. For the next hour or so they had scarcelytime to do more than interchange a word or two, but they sat side byside rapt in a strange content. The music filled their veins withintoxicating delight; it was of a kind that Lettice rejoiced inexceedingly, and that Alan loved without quite knowing why. TheTannhauser Overture, the Walküren-Ritt, two of Schubert's loveliestsongs, and the less exciting but more easily comprehensible productionsof an earlier classical composer, were the chief items of the first partof the concert. Then came an interval, after which the rest of theafternoon would be devoted to the Choral Symphony. But during thisinterval Alan hastened to make the most of his opportunity.

"We shall have a bitter time," he murmured in her ear, feeling,nevertheless, that nothing was bitter which would bring him eventuallyto her side.

She smiled a little. "Leave it alone then," she said, half mockingly."Go your own way and be at peace."

"Lettice! I can never be at peace now without you."

"Is not that very unreasonable of you?" she asked, speaking lightlybecause she felt so deeply. The joy of his presence was almostoppressive. She had longed for it so often, and it had come to her forthese two short hours so unexpectedly, that it nearly overwhelmed her.

"No, dearest, it is most natural. I have nobody to love, to trust, butyou. Tell me that you feel as I do, that you want to be mine—minewholly, and then I shall fight with a better heart, and be as brave asyou have always been."

"Be brave, then," she said with a shadowy smile. "Yes, Alan, if it isany help to you to know it, I shall be glad when we need never part."

"I sometimes wonder," he murmured, "whether that day will ever come!"

"Oh, yes, it will come," she answered gently. "I think that after ourlong days of darkness there is sunshine for us—somewhere—by and by."

And then the music began, and as the two listened to the mightyharmonies, their hands met and clasped each other under cover of thebook which Lettice held, and their hearts seemed to beat in unison asthe joyous choral music pealed out across the hall—

"I feel," said Alan, as they lingered for a moment in the dimness of thegallery when the symphony was over, and the crowd was slowly filing outinto Regent Street and Piccadilly, "I feel as if that hymn of joy werethe prelude to some new and happier life."

And Lettice smiled in answer, but a little sadly, for she saw no happierlife before them but one, which must be reached through tortuous coursesof perplexity and pain.

The dream of joy had culminated in that brief, impulsive, unconscioustransmigration of soul and soul; but with the cessation of the music itdissolved again. The realities of their condition began to crowd uponthem as they left the hall. But the disillusion came gradually. Theystill knew and felt that they were supremely happy; and as they waitedfor the cab, into which Alan insisted on putting her, she looked at himwith a bright and grateful smile.

"I am so glad I saw you. It has been perfect," she said.

He had made her take his arm—more for the sake of closer contact thanfor any necessity of the crowd—and he pressed it as she spoke.

"It is not quite over yet," he said. "Let me take you home."

"Thank you, no. Not to-day, Alan. See, there is an empty hansom."

He did not gainsay her, but helped her carefully into the cab, and, whenshe was seated, leaned forward to clasp her hand and speak a partingword. But it was not yet spoken when, with a sharp cry, Lettice startedand cast herself in front of him, as though to protect him from a dangerwhich he could not see.

In the confused press of men and women, horses and carriages, whichfilled the street at this hour from side to side, she had suddenlycaught sight of a never-forgotten face—a hungry face, full of malice,full of a wicked exultation, keen for revenge.

Cora Walcott, crossing the road, and halting for a moment at the centrallanding-place, was gazing at the people as they poured out of St. James'Hall. As Alan helped Lettice into the hansom and bent forward to speakto her, she recognized him at once.

Without a pause she plunged madly into the labyrinth of moving carriagesand cabs; and it was then that Lettice saw her, less than three yardsaway, and apparently in the act of hurling a missile from her upliftedhand.

It was all the work of an instant. The woman shrieked with impotentrage; the drivers shouted and stormed at her; men and women, seeing herdanger, cried out in their excitement; and, just as she came withinreach of her husband's cab, she was struck by the shaft of a passingbrougham, and fell beneath the horse's hoofs.

It was Lettice's hands that raised the insensible body from the mire. Itwas Alan who lifted her into an empty cab, and took her to the nearesthospital—whence she never emerged again until her last narrow home hadbeen made ready to receive her.

Cora did not regain consciousness before she died. There was nodeath-bed confession, no clearing of her husband's name from thedishonor which she had brought upon it, no reawakening of any kind. Alanwould have to go through the world unabsolved by any justification thatshe was capable of giving. But with Lettice at his side, he was strongenough, brave enough, to hear Society's verdict on his character with asmile, and to confront the world steadily, knowing what a coward thingits censure not unfrequently is; and how conscious courage and puritycan cause it to slink, away abashed.

On a certain evening, early in the session of 1885, some half-dozen menwere gathered together in a quiet angle of the members' smoking-room atthe Oligarchy Club.

During the past day or two there had been unwonted jubilation in everycorner of the Oligarchy, and with reason, as the Oligarchs naturallythought; for Mr. Gladstone's second Administration had suddenly come toan end. It had puzzled many good Conservatives to understand how thatAdministration, burdened by an accumulation of blunders and disasters,was able to endure so long; but at any rate the hour of doom had struckat last, and jubilation was natural enough amongst those who werelikely, or thought they were likely, to profit by the change.

Sir John Pynsent and his friends had been discussing with much animationthe probable distribution of the patronage which the see-saw of partygovernment had now placed in the hands of the Conservative leader. SirJohn, whose opinion on this subject was specially valued by hispolitical associates, had already nominated the Cabinet and filled upmost of the subordinate offices; and he had not omitted to bestow aplace of honor and emolument upon his ambitious relative, SydneyCampion.

The good-natured baronet was due that evening at the house of LordMontagu Plumley, and he hurried away to keep his appointment. When hehad gone the conversation became less general and more unrestrained, andthere were even a few notes of scepticism in regard to some of SirJohn's nominations.

"Plumley is safe enough," said Mr. Charles Milton. "He has worked hardto bring about this result, and it would be impossible for the newPremier to pass him over. But it is quite another matter when you cometo talk about Plumley's friends, or his friends' friends. I for oneshall be very much surprised if Campion gets the solicitorship."

"He's not half a bad sort," said Tom Willoughby, "and his name is beingput forward in the papers as though some people thought he had a verygood chance."

"Ah, yes, we know how that kind of thing is worked. The point most inhis favor is that there are not half-a-dozen men in Parliament goodenough for the post."

"What is the objection to him?"

"I don't say there is any objection. He is not a man who makes manyfriends: and I fancy some of his best cases have been won more by luckthan by judgment. Then he has made one or two decidedly big mistakes. Hewill never be quite forgiven for taking up that prosecution of Walcottfor a purely personal object. I know the late Attorney was much put outwhen he found how he had been utilized in that affair."

"Pynsent seems to think him pretty sure of the offer."

"Just so; and if anyone can help him to it, Pynsent is the man. Thatmarriage was the best thing Campion ever did for himself, in more waysthan one. He wants holding in and keeping straight; and his wife has himwell in hand, as everybody can see."

"They seem a very happy couple."

"He is devoted to her, that is plain enough; and I never thought he hadit in him to care for anybody but himself. I met them last Easter atDalton's place. They seemed to hit off extremely well."

"Oh, she has improved him; there is no doubt about that. She is a verycharming woman. What on earth does Dalton do with himself at Angleford?"

"He has become an orchard man on a grand scale," said Willoughby. "Threeyears ago he planted nearly a hundred acres with the best young stockshe could find, and he says he has every apple in the Pomona wortheating or cooking."

"He has got over that affair with Campion's sister, I suppose?"

"I don't know that he has. Brooke Dalton's one of the finest fellows inexistence: there's a heart in him somewhere, and he does not easilyforget. I came upon him and Campion one day in the garden, and thoughthey knew I was close to them they went on talking about her and herhusband. 'You were always too hard on her, Sydney,' Brooke was saying,'and now you have admitted as much.' 'I don't wish to be hard on her,but I can't bear that man,' Campion said—meaning Walcott, of course.'Well,' Dalton said,' I am perfectly sure that she would not have stuckto him through thick and thin, so bravely and so purely, unless she hadbeen convinced of his innocence. As I believe in her, I am bound tobelieve in him. Don't you think so?' he said, turning to me. 'I hopeevery one who knows her will show her the respect and reverence that shedeserves. Now that they have come back to England, Edith is going tocall on her at once.' Edith is his sister, you know: and she tells mymother that she called immediately."

"How did Campion take it?"

"Very well, indeed. He said, 'You were always a good fellow, Brooke, andI may have been mistaken.' New thing to hear Campion owning up, isn'tit?"

"So the Walcotts have come back?" said Milton, with some excitement. "ByJove, I shall leave my card to-morrow. Of course, he was innocent. Iknew all about it, for I defended him at the Old Bailey.—No wonderCampion is uncomfortable about it."

The idea seemed to divert Milton very much, and he chuckled over it fortwo or three minutes.

"From what my mother says," Willoughby continued, "people seem disposedto take them up. Her books, you know, are awfully popular—and didn'tyou see how well the papers spoke of his last poems? You mark mywords—there will be a run upon the Walcotts by and by."

"Just the way of the world!" said Charles Milton. "Three or four yearsago they would have lynched him. Poor devil! I remember when I was aboutthe only man in London who refused to believe him guilty."

"One thing is plain enough," said Tom Willoughby. "He would have gone tothe dogs long ago if it had not been for her. I have not come acrossmany heroines in my time, though I have heard of plenty from otherpeople; but I am bound to confess that I never heard of one who deservedthe name better than Mrs. Walcott."

The world bestowed its free pardon upon Alan Walcott, and for the sakeof her who had taught him to fight against despair and death he acceptedgraciously a gift which otherwise would have been useless to him.Inspired by her, he had built a new life upon the ruins of his past; andif, henceforth, he lived and labored for the world, it was only with thenew motives and the new energy which she had implanted in him.

The house at Chiswick is now their own. There Alan and Lettice crown thejoys of a peaceful existence by remembering the sorrows of other days;and there, in the years to come, they will teach their children thefaith of human sympathy, the hope of human effort, and the charity ofservice and sacrifice.

THE END.