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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57950 ***</div>


<h1>The Grey Monk</h1>

<h2 class="no-break">by T. W. Speight</h2>

<h5>By The Author Of &ldquo;The Mysteries Of Heron Dyke.&rdquo;</h5>

<h4>RICHARD BENTLEY &amp; SON,<br />
8, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, LONDON, W.<br />
1894</h4>

<hr />

<h2>Contents</h2>

<table summary="" style="">

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap01">Chapter I. Alec&rsquo;s Sentence</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap02">Chapter II. An Old Family and its Home</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap03">Chapter III. Alec&rsquo;s Proposition</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap04">Chapter IV. An Offer and its Acceptance</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap05">Chapter V. At One Fell Blow</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap06">Chapter VI. Alec&rsquo;s Fate</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap07">Chapter VII. Too Late</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap08">Chapter VIII. The Ebony Casket</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap09">Chapter IX. Ethel and Tamsin</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap10">Chapter X. Launce Keymer</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap11">Chapter XI. Hopes and Fears</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap12">Chapter XII. A Recreant Lover</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap13">Chapter XIII. Captain Verinder and his Visitor</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap14">Chapter XIV. The Captain Takes a Little Journey</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap15">Chapter XV. Conspirators Three</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap16">Chapter XVI. How Sir Gilbert received the News</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap17">Chapter XVII. Sir Gilbert and Giovanna</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap18">Chapter XVIII. The False Heir</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap19">Chapter XIX. Luigi Acknowledged</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap20">Chapter XX. Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s Decision</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap21">Chapter XXI. Affairs at St. Oswyth&rsquo;s</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap22">Chapter XXII. Father and Son</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap23">Chapter XXIII. Ethel&rsquo;s Confession</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap24">Chapter XXIV. Tamsin Speaks her Mind</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap25">Chapter XXV. Lady Pell</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap26">Chapter XXVI. Giovanna at Maylings</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap27">Chapter XXVII. &ldquo;Mr. Lewis Clare&rdquo;</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap28">Chapter XXVIII. The Progress of Events</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap29">Chapter XXIX. Arrivals at the Chase</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap30">Chapter XXX. An Unexpected Meeting</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap31">Chapter XXXI. Luigi&rsquo;s Escapade</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap32">Chapter XXXII. Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s Decision</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap33">Chapter XXXIII. Uncle and Nephew</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap34">Chapter XXXIV. A Desperate Resolve</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap35">Chapter XXXV. Matters at the Chase</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap36">Chapter XXXVI. A Deed of Darkness</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap37">Chapter XXXVII. The Defeat of Roguery</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap38">Chapter XXXVIII. Unanswered Questions</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap39">Chapter XXXIX. The Counsel of Experience</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap40">Chapter XL. &ldquo;Love took up the Harp of Life&rdquo;</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap41">Chapter XLI. Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s Strange Experience</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap42">Chapter XLII. Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s Theory</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap43">Chapter XLIII. The Root of the Mystery</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap44">Chapter XLIV. Back at St. Oswyth&rsquo;s</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap45">Chapter XLV. &ldquo;Come Back to Me&rdquo;</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap46">Chapter XLVI. Unknitted Threads</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap47">Chapter XLVII. Husband and Wife</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap48">Chapter XLVIII. Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s Great Surprise</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap49">Chapter XLIX. Payment in Full</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap50">Chapter L. The Veiled Stranger</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap51">Chapter LI. Safe in Port</a></td>
</tr>

</table>

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br />
ALEC&rsquo;S SENTENCE</h2>

<p>
It was a wild and stormy October night. The big moon-faced clock in the
entrance-hall, in its slow and solemn fashion, as of a horologe that felt the
burden of its years, had just announced the hour of eleven.
</p>

<p>
In his study alone, busy among his coins and curios, sat Sir Gilbert Clare of
Withington Chase, Hertfordshire, and Chase Ridings, Yorkshire, a handsome,
well-preserved man, in years somewhere between fifty and sixty. He had a tall,
thin, upright figure, strongly marked features of an aquiline type, a
snow-white moustache, and an expression at once proud and imperious.
</p>

<p>
It would, indeed, have been difficult to find a prouder man than Sir Gilbert.
He was proud of the long line of his ancestors, of the brave men and beautiful
women who, from their faded frames in the picture gallery, seemed to smile
approval on the latest representative of their race. He was proud of the
unsullied name which had come down to him from them, on which no action of his
had ever cast the shadow of a stain. He was proud of the position, which he
accepted as his by right, in his native county; he was proud of his three
sturdy boys, at this hour wrapped in the sleep of innocent childhood. But his
pride was strictly locked up in his own bosom. No syllable ever escaped him
which told of its existence. To the world at large, and even to the members of
his own household, he was a man of a quick and irascible temper, of cold
manners and unsympathetic ways.
</p>

<p>
Proud as Sir Gilbert had just cause for being, there was one point, and one
that could in no wise be ignored, at which his pride was touched severely.
</p>

<p>
His eldest son and heir was a disappointment and a failure. He had fought
against the knowledge as long as it had been possible for him to do so, but
some months had now gone by since the bitter truth had forced itself upon him
in a way he could no longer pretend to ignore. He had caused private inquiries
to be made, the result of which had satisfied him that, from being simply a
good-natured harum-scarum spendthrift, the young man was gradually degenerating
into a betting man and a turf gambler of a type especially obnoxious to the
fastidious baronet. He told himself that he would almost as soon have had his
son become a common pickpocket.
</p>

<p>
It never entered his mind to suspect that the evidence of Alec&rsquo;s
delinquencies which had been laid before him, and to obtain which he had paid a
heavy price, might, to some extent, have been manufactured; that the shadows of
the picture might have been purposely darkened in order that he might be
supplied with that which he presumably looked for. He had accepted it in full
and without question.
</p>

<p>
It had been Alec&rsquo;s misfortune to get mixed up with a fast set while at
college, and he seemed never to have quite broken with them afterwards.
</p>

<p>
At the Chase he and his stepmother had not got on well together&mdash;for the
present Lady Clare was the baronet&rsquo;s second wife&mdash;and when, shortly
after coming of age, he announced his intention of making his home, for a time
at least, with some of his mother&rsquo;s relatives in London, Sir Gilbert had
offered no opposition to the arrangement, for he was wise enough to recognise
that two such opposite dispositions as those of his present wife and his eldest
son could not possibly agree.
</p>

<p>
Then it presently came to his ears that Alec had gone into bachelor quarters of
his own, after which came a long course of extravagances and debts of various
kinds, such as well-to-do fathers have had to put up with from spendthrift sons
for more centuries than history can tell us of.
</p>

<p>
Twice he had paid Alec&rsquo;s debts and started him afresh with a clean slate;
but on the second occasion he had given him plainly to understand that he must
look for no further help in that line, but confine himself strictly to the
fairly liberal allowance which had been settled on him when he came of age.
Despite the determination thus expressed, no very long time had elapsed before
a couple of tradesmen&rsquo;s accounts for considerable sums were received by
the baronet, with a request for an early liquidation of the same&mdash;not,
however, sent by Alec, but by the creditors themselves. Instead of returning
the bills to their senders, as most parents would have done, with a curt
disavowal of all liability, Sir Gilbert chose rather to confiscate his
son&rsquo;s allowance to the amount of the debts in question.
</p>

<p>
From that time, now upwards of half a year ago, there had been no communication
of any kind between father and son. Alec, however, was not left wholly without
means, he having still an income of a hundred and eighty pounds a year,
derivable from funded property left him by his mother.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert had had an agreeable surprise in the course of the day with the
evening of which we are now concerned, and yet it was a surprise not untinged
with sadness.
</p>

<p>
His old friend Mr. Jopling, like himself an ardent numismatist and collector,
had died a few weeks before, much to the baronet&rsquo;s regret. To-day there
had reached him a tiny packet, forwarded by Mr. Jopling&rsquo;s executors,
containing a couple of rare coins bequeathed him by his dead friend. One of
them was a gold stater of Argos, with the head of Hera, the reverse being
Diomedes carrying the palladium; while the other was a scarce fifty-shilling
piece of Cromwell. Sir Gilbert had long envied his friend the possession of
them, and now they were his own; therefore was the feeling with which he
regarded them one of mingled pleasure and pain.
</p>

<p>
He had devoted the evening to a rearrangement of the contents of some of his
cases and cabinets and to deciding upon a resting-place for his newly-acquired
treasures.
</p>

<p>
It had been a labour of love. But, for all that, his thoughts every now and
again would keep reverting from the pleasant task he had set himself to his
eldest son; for this was the latter&rsquo;s birthday, a fact which the father
could not forget, although he would fain have kept it in the background of his
memory. On just such a wild night twenty-four years before, had John Alexander
Clare been born. With what bright hopes, with what glowing expectations he had
been welcomed on the stage of life, Sir Gilbert alone could have told. A groan
broke involuntarily from his lips when he pictured in thought the difference
between then and now. His heart was very bitter against his son.
</p>

<p>
The night was creeping on apace.
</p>

<p>
In the great house everybody was in bed save the baronet, who was addicted to
solitude and late hours. Outside, at recurring intervals, the wind blew in
great stormy gusts, which anon died down to an inarticulate sobbing and
wailing, as it might be of some lost spirit wandering round the old mansion,
seeking ingress but finding none. There were voices in the wide-mouthed
chimney; the rain lashed the windows furiously; by daybreak the trees would be
nearly bare and all the woodways be covered by a sodden carpet of fallen
leaves. Summer was dead indeed.
</p>

<p>
Suddenly, in a lull of the gale, Sir Gilbert was startled into the most vivid
wakefulness by an unmistakable tapping at one of the two long windows which
lighted the room. He listened in rigid silence till the tapping came again.
Then he crossed to the window whence the sound had proceeded, and after having
drawn back the curtains and unbarred and opened the shutters, he demanded in
his sternest tones:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who is there?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is I&mdash;Alec, your son,&rdquo; came the reply in a well-remembered
voice.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert drew a long breath and paused for a space of half-a-dozen seconds.
Then he unhasped and flung wide the window, and John Alexander Clare, the
scapegrace heir, rain-soaked and mud-bedraggled, stepped into the room.
</p>

<p>
His father closed the window after him, while Alec proceeded to relieve himself
of his soft broad-brimmed hat and the long cloak which had enveloped him from
head to foot.
</p>

<p>
Like his father, the heir of Withington Chase was tall and slender and as
upright as a dart. He had the same aquiline, high-bred cast of features, but in
his case there was lacking that expression of hauteur and domineering pride,
which to a certain extent marred those of the elder man.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s eyes in colour were a cold bluish-grey, and, though not
really small, had the appearance of being so owing to their being so deep set
under his heavy brows and to his habit of contracting his lids when addressing
himself to anyone. Alec&rsquo;s hazel eyes, inherited from his mother, were
large, clear, and open as the day. The baronet&rsquo;s lips under his white
moustache were thin and hard-set, and his rare smile was that of a cynic and a
man who loved to find food for his sardonic humour in the faults and follies of
his fellow-creatures. His son&rsquo;s mouth, if betraying a touch of that
weakness which as often as not is the result of an overplus of good-nature, was
yet an eminently pleasant one, while his smile was frankness itself. His cheeks
were a little more sunken than they ought to have been at his age, and there
were dark half-circles under his eyes, which seemed to hint at late hours and
mornings that bring a headache. His hair, which he wore short and parted in the
middle, was in colour a dark reddish-brown, as were also his short pointed
beard and small moustache.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And to what, sir, am I indebted for the honour of a visit at this
untimely hour?&rdquo; inquired Sir Gilbert in his most freezing accents, as his
coldly critical eyes took in his son from head to foot.
</p>

<p>
Alec coloured for a moment and bit his lip, as if to keep down some rising
emotion. Then, in a voice of studied calmness, he said, &ldquo;Perhaps, sir, I
may be permitted to take a seat; for, in point of fact, I am dead tired, and
have much to say to you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The baronet waved his son to a chair, and took another himself some distance
away.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am here to-night, father, to make a confession.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I presumed as much the moment I set eyes on you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid you will term it a very disgraceful confession.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have not much doubt on that point,&rdquo; responded the baronet
grimly. &ldquo;Disgrace and you seem to have gone hand in hand for a long time
past.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Folly, but not disgrace, father. At the worst&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The baronet held up his hand. &ldquo;I am not used to such hair-splitting
distinctions. You may call it by what term you like, to my way of thinking, it
is nothing less than a disgrace when a young man permits himself to contract
debts which he has no reasonable prospect&mdash;nay, which, in many cases, he
has no intention of liquidating. But proceed, sir.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Apparently Alec found it no easy matter to proceed. The story he had to tell
was, without doubt, a sufficiently discreditable one, and such as might well
cause him to hesitate before he could summon up sufficient courage to enter on
its recital. Put into the fewest possible words it came to this: he had lost
heavily over a certain race, and had no means of meeting his liabilities. In
three days&rsquo; time, unless his father would come to his help, he would be
posted as a defaulter, which, for a man in his position, meant outlawry and
social extinction. He got through his confession somehow, speaking in hard, dry
tones, almost as if he were relating an incident which referred to some
stranger and in which he had no personal concern. He was leaning forward with
his elbows on his knees, his fingers interlocked, and his eyes apparently
intent on taking in the pattern of the carpet.
</p>

<p>
A harsh rasping laugh broke from Sir Gilbert.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And are you really such an imbecile as to have come all the way to
Withington, and on such a night as this, indulging yourself with the hope that
I would as much as lift my little finger if by so doing I could avert the
disgrace&mdash;the infamy&mdash;which you have wilfully accumulated on your
worthless head? If you laid any such flattering unction to your soul, you can
dismiss it at once. There is the window, sir; you can depart by the way you
came.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Alec drew himself up, and for the first time looked his father straight in the
face with the old clear, unwavering look, which the latter remembered so well
in him as a boy.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You wrong me somewhat, sir,&rdquo; he said, with a bitter smile.
&ldquo;When I ventured to intrude upon you it was without the slightest
expectation that, for my sake alone, you would move hand or foot to extricate
me from the predicament in which my folly had landed me; but it seemed to me
that you might, perhaps, be moved to do so by a consideration of a very
different kind.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s heavy brows came together.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am certainly unaware of any such consideration as the one you speak
of. But perhaps you will condescend to enlighten me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It has seemed to me, sir, that you might, for the sake of the family
good name, do that which you refused to do to save the reputation of your
eldest son.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
An involuntary &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; escaped the baronet. It was a view of the
question which had not struck him before. For a minute or two he sat in
frowning silence. Then he said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And are yours the lips that dare to put forward a plea for safeguarding
that good name which you have so infamously chosen to imperil? Oh, this seems
to me the vilest hypocrisy!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Alec raised his hands with a deprecatory gesture, but did not attempt to
vindicate himself by a word. Sir Gilbert rose and crossed to the window by
which his son had entered. The shutters had not been replaced, and he stood
gazing out into the night for what to Alec seemed a long time. The gale had
temporarily abated, torn and jagged masses of cloud were hurrying across the
sky as if hastening to some rendezvous, revealing translucent depths of moonlit
space between their severed fringes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What is the sum of your liability in connection with this last most
discreditable affair?&rdquo; demanded Sir Gilbert, after a time, without
turning his head.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Six hundred pounds.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Again there was a space of silence.
</p>

<p>
Then the baronet said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If I consent to take this liability on my shoulders, it will not be for
your sake&mdash;that I hope I have already made sufficiently clear&mdash;but to
save the name of one of the oldest and most honoured families in the kingdom
from being dragged through the mire. But not even for that will I do this thing
without exacting certain terms from you in return.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have but to name your terms, sir, to secure for them an immediate
acceptance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He rose and crossed to the chimney-piece, and taking up a small ornament,
examined it for a moment or two. Then, replacing it, he turned and confronted
Sir Gilbert, who had now returned to his seat.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Father,&rdquo; said Alec, and it was the first time he had uttered the
word since his arrival, &ldquo;although it may seem a hard thing for you to
credit, I assure you most solemnly that I shall derive infinitely more pleasure
from the fact that the honour of the Clares will suffer no stain through my
folly, than from the knowledge that my debt has been paid, and that I shall no
longer have to fear being posted as a defaulter.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then, after a momentary pause, he resumed:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Without wishing in the least to try to extenuate my criminal folly in
your eyes, which I am quite aware would be a useless effort, I may yet be
allowed to remark that when I entered upon the transaction which has landed me
in my present quagmire, I had every possible assurance a man can have in a
matter into which the element of chance at all enters, that, instead of being a
loser to the extent of six hundred pounds, I should be in pocket to the amount
of three thousand. It was one of those things, which, at the time, seemed to me
almost as sure as death. The commonest justice to myself compels me to say as
much as that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He had spoken slowly and quietly, giving its due emphasis to every word, but he
might have been addressing himself to a graven image for any notice his father
condescended to accord his words.
</p>

<p>
He now went back to his seat. Sir Gilbert had removed his chair, so that an
oblong mahogany table now divided him and his son. Resting his arms on this and
leaning forward a little, Alec said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now, sir, will you be good enough to specify the terms which you
propose to exact from me?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My terms are these,&rdquo; replied Sir Gilbert, in the same tone that he
might have used had he been laying down the conditions of a lease with his
land-steward: &ldquo;You will at once leave England, not to return to it
without my express sanction. Further, should you choose to reside on the
Continent, it must be in some place out of the ordinary lines of travel, where
there will be little likelihood of your being seen or recognised by anyone who
has known you in England. In return, I will relieve you of your liabilities of
every kind whatsoever, and will, in addition, make you an allowance of two
hundred and fifty pounds per annum, which shall be remitted to you quarterly
through my solicitor, Mr. Page.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
By the time Sir Gilbert had finished speaking, Alec&rsquo;s face had paled
perceptibly. He lay back in his chair, and for a few seconds his eyes, wide
open though they were, saw nothing of all that was around him. His heart beat
painfully; he was as a man afflicted with vertigo.
</p>

<p>
That his father&rsquo;s conditions would be hard, he&mdash;knowing the
man&mdash;had not doubted, but the reality dumfounded him.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert was toying with his watch-guard, his eyes apparently fixed on a
corner of the ceiling.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, sir, have you nothing to say in answer to my proposition?&rdquo;
at length he asked, bringing his gaze back to his son&rsquo;s face. &ldquo;Do
you agree to my terms, or do you reject them?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have no option but to agree to them. Beggars cannot be
choosers.&rdquo; The bitterness at his heart made itself apparent in his words.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your last statement embodies a great truth, and one which you would do
well to bear in mind for the rest of your life,&rdquo; said the baronet, with
the nearest approach to a sneer he ever permitted himself. &ldquo;It may,
perhaps, be as well that I should recapitulate the terms of my proposition in
order that there may be no after-mistake in the matter.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
When he had done so, he said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you pledge me your word to carry out the conditions as laid down by
me, in their entirety?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I pledge you my word to that effect.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert rose and pushed back his chair.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In that case, I need not detain you further. You know Page&rsquo;s
address. Send him at once a complete list of your liabilities, with all needful
particulars to enable him to settle the same. He will receive my instructions
in the course of to-morrow to advance you a hundred pounds, or rather, to make
you a present of them, as I neither know, nor care to know, how you are off for
ready money. As soon as you have decided where to bestow your worthless self,
you will write Page to that effect. And now I am not aware that I have anything
more to add.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Alec had risen by this time and had picked up his hat and cloak. His eyes
sought his father&rsquo;s eyes and met them. They stood confronting each other
thus while one might have counted six slowly. The younger man&rsquo;s gaze was
instinct with a grave questioning wistfulness. As plainly as speech could have
done, it said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Father, have you no word of forgiveness for me before I go?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But in Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s chilly blue-grey eyes was to be read no faintest
response. Had his son been a stranger, whom he had never before set eyes on, he
could not have regarded him with more apparent indifference. With a heavy sigh
that seemed to choke back a sob, Alec turned, and crossing to the window by
which he had entered, opened it. A moment he paused on the threshold, and threw
a backward glance over his shoulder.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Goodbye, father,&rdquo; he said in a voice that was scarcely above a
whisper.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Goodnight and goodbye,&rdquo; came the response in accents clear and
unmoved.
</p>

<p>
An instant later and Alec was gone. Sir Gilbert waited till the noise of his
son&rsquo;s footsteps on the gravel had died away. Then he crossed to the
window and refastened the shutters, and drew again the heavy curtains. So
departed from the home of his ancestors the heir of Withington Chase.
</p>

<p>
By this time the night was fair, but although the wind had spent much of its
force, it still blew in fitful gusts. Having crossed the lawn and the
flower-garden, Alec leaped the sunken fence which divided the latter from the
park, and then turning sharply to the right, presently struck into a footpath,
well known to him of old, which wound through the belt of timber that sheltered
the Chase from the north and north-east winds. Having traversed this, he
emerged into a wilder part of the grounds rarely trodden by anyone save an
occasional poacher, or by that law-breaker&rsquo;s implacable foe, the
gamekeeper, in the course of his nocturnal rounds.
</p>

<p>
Alec Clare was returning by the way he had come. He had quitted the London
train at Westwood station, four miles away, where there was no one who knew
him, rather than go on to Mapleford, the station nearest the Chase, where, even
at that late hour, he could not have made sure of not being recognised: and he
had his own reasons for wishing to keep his midnight visit a secret from
everybody. His intention was to climb the wall at the far corner of the park
where it abutted on a narrow lane which, at a distance of a quarter of a mile,
opened on to the high road that led direct to Westwood station.
</p>

<p>
He was plunging forward through the rain-soaked bracken, feeling intolerably
sore at heart, wroth with himself, his father and the world at large, but most
of all with himself, and the prey to a dull heavy pain, which had its origin in
the knowledge that he was leaving behind him the home of his birth, his
mother&rsquo;s grave, and all the haunts that were inextricably interwoven with
the memories of his boyhood, perhaps never to see them again&mdash;when
suddenly from behind the bole of a huge elm a man stepped full in his path and
barred the way.
</p>

<p>
Alec fell back a step or two with an involuntary exclamation, so startled was
he, and next moment the man did the same. He was a big, burly fellow, dressed
in velveteens and gaiters, and carrying a stout cudgel in his right hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, lawks-a-me, if it ain&rsquo;t Master Alec!&rdquo; he exclaimed with
a gasp of astonishment; &ldquo;and just as I&rsquo;d made sure I was a going to
cop one o&rsquo; them confounded poachers. Well, wonders will never cease.
I&rsquo;m mortal glad to see you, sir, anyhow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The speaker was Martin Rigg, Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s gamekeeper. Alec and he had
been firm allies in days gone by. Many a night had the &ldquo;young
master&rdquo; and the keeper gone the rounds together when the former was
supposed to be sound asleep in bed. Many had been their escapades, even to the
extent of doing a little night-poaching on their own account. All that Alec
knew of woodcraft, of the &ldquo;gentle art&rdquo; and of the haunts and habits
of birds and animals, he owed to Martin Rigg.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, it is I, Martin,&rdquo; replied the young man, now thoroughly
roused from his abstraction. &ldquo;If you took me for a poacher, I, at the
first glance, took you for a ghost, or something equally as uncanny.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For the Grey Monk, perhaps?&rdquo; suggested the keeper, with a chuckle
in his voice.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You forget that the Grey Monk wears a cowl, and not even by starlight
could your wide-awake be mistaken for that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Wide-awake or no wide-awake, sir, I&rsquo;ve reason to believe that more
than one timid servant lass has been ready to take her affidavy that she had
seen the Grey Monk, when it&rsquo;s only been me that she&rsquo;s caught sight
of in the dark, prowling among the trees, on the lookout for gins and
snares.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By the way,&rdquo; said Alec, but with the tone of one whose mind had
far more serious things to occupy it, &ldquo;has anything been seen of the
family spectre of late?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, sir&mdash;not of late. It&rsquo;s nigh on for three years since it
was seen last, and then it was her ladyship who was nearly frightened out of
her wits by it. She was coming downstairs at the time, and had reached the
lowermost landing, when she saw the Grey Monk glide across the hall in the
moonlight. She shrieked out, and they do say she nearly fainted. The best of it
was that up to then she had always made light of the ghost, and said its
appearances were nothing more than &rsquo;lucinations, whatever they may be.
But she never said so after that night. Sir Gilbert was awfully wild when he
heard about it, and would fain have hushed it up; but it was too late. However,
that&rsquo;s an old wife&rsquo;s tale by this time. As I said afore, sir,
I&rsquo;m mortal glad to see you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not for one moment do I doubt you, old friend. All the same, I am sure
you would like to know why I am here and where I am bound for at this hour of
the night. Listen! there is the turret clock striking twelve. Well, I will tell
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He waited till the clock had done striking; then resumed:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have just left my father. He and I have said goodbye to each other for
a long time to come. I am on my way to Westwood station: you know the near cut.
Forty-eight hours hence I shall have left England, to return I know not
when.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am main sorry to hear that, Master Alec,&rdquo; remarked the keeper in
a tone of real concern. In common with everybody connected with the Chase, and
a good many people in no wise connected with it&mdash;for such things cannot be
kept secret&mdash;he was cognisant of the breach between Sir Gilbert and his
heir, and could form a pretty shrewd guess as to the origin of it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And I am no less sorry to have it to tell,&rdquo; replied Alec.
&ldquo;Now, when I tell you further that I don&rsquo;t want anyone to know of
my present visit to the Chase, nor to hear from your lips that you have as much
as set eyes on me, you will, I am sure, respect my wishes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;O&rsquo; course I will, sir. You may make yourself easy on that score. I
<i>dreamt</i> as I saw you&mdash;that&rsquo;s all&mdash;and I don&rsquo;t tell
my dreams to nobody.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br />
AN OLD FAMILY AND ITS HOME</h2>

<p>
Withington Chase was a fine old Jacobean mansion, which had been added to from
time to time as whim or necessity had dictated.
</p>

<p>
The walls of the original structure were composed of small red bricks, relieved
at frequent intervals, as far as the main frontage was concerned, by fluted
pilasters of white stone with Ionic capitals, which, when seen from a little
distance, had all the effect of marble. However incongruous and out of keeping
with the general scheme of the house the various additions which had been
patched on to it during the course of the last two centuries might have seemed
when they were crude and new, Time&rsquo;s chastening fingers had mellowed them
to a certain degree of beauty, so that in these latter days the general effect
was that of a harmonious and homogeneous whole.
</p>

<p>
Originally there had been a much older mansion, which, after having been
partially destroyed by fire, had been razed to the ground, all of it save one
sturdy fragment which, for some unknown reason, had been allowed to stand.
</p>

<p>
This relic of a state of things long vanished was an octagonal tower, about
sixty feet in height, built of undressed blocks of grey stone, held together by
a mortar as hard as themselves. The interior of the tower consisted of three
small rooms, one above the other, with a leaded roof surmounted by a
breast-high parapet. Each of the rooms was lighted by a couple of long narrow
openings in the wall, which at one time might have been glazed, but were so no
longer. Of these rooms the ground floor one alone was now put to any service,
access to the others, owing to the rotten state of the woodwork, being deemed a
risk not worth adventuring. The basement in question was used as a receptacle
for gardeners&rsquo; tools, and a general storage place for things
horticultural, which had been allowed to accumulate there for years.
</p>

<p>
As already stated, the tower had formed a part of the older mansion of
Withington Chase, although what the intention had been in building it, and to
what special purposes it had been put, nobody nowadays seemed to know. There it
was, however; and there&mdash;the elements being its only enemies&mdash;it was
likely to remain for some centuries to come. It was about five or six hundred
yards apart from the more modern mansion, the space between the two being
occupied by the belt of timber before mentioned.
</p>

<p>
The main entrance to Withington Chase was approached by a broad carriage-drive,
which swept with a graceful curve from the lodge some half a mile away. The
park was well timbered, and contained a number of grand old trees said to have
been planted before the present mansion was in existence. In front of the
house, but intersected by the drive, was a spacious expanse of closely-shaven
lawn, to the right of which was a small but choicely kept flower-garden, while
on its left was a shrubbery of tall clipped hedges and thick clumps of
evergreens, among the sheltered paths of which Sir Gilbert found it pleasant to
take his constitutional when the weather was too cold and raw to allow of his
walking elsewhere in the open air.
</p>

<p>
The master of Withington Chase was proud of his long descent, and that not
without reason.
</p>

<p>
He could trace back his pedigree on the male side in unbroken sequence to the
time of Henry IV. One head of the family had fought at Agincourt, another had
distinguished himself at Malplaquet; while scions of the family, more than one
could count on one&rsquo;s fingers, had fought and, in several cases, died for
their king and country wherever the British flag had penetrated. Quite a number
of Clares had been in Parliament from time to time, and if none of them had
been noted for his eloquence, or had risen to office, they had all possessed
the negative virtue of being staunch voters, men whose political opinions could
be relied upon never to stray beyond the hard and fast lines laid down by their
own party.
</p>

<p>
The present baronet had taken no share in public affairs, and had declined more
than once to allow himself to be nominated for a seat in Parliament. An
occasional appearance on the magisterial bench, which grew still more
occasional with advancing years, just sufficed to remind his brother justices
and the good folk of Mapleford, that Sir Gilbert Clare of Withington Chase had
not yet been gathered to his ancestors in the family vault.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert, at the age of five-and-twenty, had inherited an impoverished
estate, and, by consequence, a diminished revenue.
</p>

<p>
His father had been a man of fashion and a gamester, under the Regency, and in
the course of a few years of reckless expenditure had contrived to undo the
work of several generations of thrifty progenitors. This was a state of things
which the young baronet at once set himself to remedy. The town house and its
contents were sold to the highest bidder; the Yorkshire property was let on
lease to a wealthy manufacturer; while the Withington establishment was cut
down to the lowest limits compatible with keeping up his station in the county.
</p>

<p>
Unfortunately for his worldly prospects&mdash;and he was the first to admit the
fact later on&mdash;Sir Gilbert had married about a year prior to his
father&rsquo;s death, and, little likely as one would have deemed him, with his
cold temperament, to commit such an imprudence, had married for love. His bride
had come of a good family, but beyond a trifling dowry of a few thousand
pounds, had had nothing save a pretty face, and a piquant manner to recommend
her. Such as she was, however, she had contrived to fascinate the haughty young
heir of Withington Chase.
</p>

<p>
Alas! that it should have to be told, but in the course of a few brief years
after marriage the pretty face had become a memory of the past, and the piquant
manner had degenerated into the querulous repinings of a semi-invalid; for Lady
Clare was one of those women who find in a naturally delicate constitution an
ample excuse for shirking all the active duties of life, and for coddling
themselves into a state of chronic invalidism, the chief features of which, in
her case, seemed to be reclining the day through on a couch, and being waited
on, hand and foot, by everyone about her.
</p>

<p>
Under these circumstances it was scarcely to be wondered at that, after a time,
Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s home-life became intolerable to him. He was by nature of a
restless disposition, with a strong inclination for travel and adventure, and
by degrees his absences from the Chase grew longer, till at length it came to
pass that he would be away for several months at a time.
</p>

<p>
It was during one of these absences that his wife died, greatly to his surprise
and relief. She had so coddled herself up for years, and had made of herself
such a hothouse plant, that a slight chill, too trivial in the first instance
to seem worth notice, had sufficed to carry her off. She left behind her a son
ten years old, the John Alexander Clare to whom we have already been
introduced.
</p>

<p>
Whatever might have been Lady Clare&rsquo;s defects in other ways, she had
passionately loved her child.
</p>

<p>
Unfortunately, however, not content with loving him, she had done her best to
spoil him. This, Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s frequent absences had allowed her ample
opportunities for doing. When he was at the Chase it was tacitly understood
between mother and son that matters were on a different footing. At such times
her ladyship curbed, in some measure, the display of her affection, and Alec
left off bird-nesting and consorting with Martin Rigg, and attended assiduously
at the rectory, where the Rev. Bruce Amor was doing his best to ground him in
the humanities.
</p>

<p>
With his mother&rsquo;s death everything was changed for Alec.
</p>

<p>
Whether Sir Gilbert had all along been aware of the way in which his son was
being spoiled, but had his own reasons for ignoring the fact, or whether some
meddler had made it his business to enlighten him, the result was the same as
far as the boy was concerned. In place of good, easy-going Mr. Amor, he was now
put under the charge of a tutor whose reputation as a martinet had been his
chief qualification in the eyes of the baronet. Mr. Duggan&rsquo;s instructions
were to prepare the lad for a public school and in the meantime, as Sir Gilbert
expressed it, to &ldquo;break him in.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And now for Alec began an experience which was all the harder to bear by reason
of what had gone before.
</p>

<p>
The new tutor was like a baleful shadow which dogged him wherever he went. From
the time he rose till the time he went to bed he could never get rid of him for
more than a few minutes at a time. It was a tyranny which at length became
almost unbearable and went far towards breaking the lad&rsquo;s all but
indomitable spirit.
</p>

<p>
One day, when he had been only a few weeks at the Chase, Mr. Duggan, with the
view, perhaps, of keeping up his reputation as a martinet, chose, by way of
punishment for some trifling fault, to administer a sound caning to his pupil.
The lad took his punishment without a murmur, but half an hour later, he was
missing; nor, when search came to be made, was he anywhere to be found.
</p>

<p>
Alec, however, was no great distance away.
</p>

<p>
Being nearly as active as a squirrel, he had climbed the bole of one of the big
old trees in the park, and there, for two days and nights&mdash;the month being
June&mdash;he lay perdu in his leafy shelter, being supplied with food
meanwhile by Martin Rigg, who was the only person in the secret of his
hiding-place. It was only his father&rsquo;s threat, conveyed to him by that
faithful servitor, to send for Captain Darville&rsquo;s bloodhounds and so
track him down, that induced him to give himself up.
</p>

<p>
For this freak he was sentenced to a week of bread-and-water in a darkened
room. Even so, he was not left wholly forlorn, food and candles and books being
surreptitiously conveyed to him from the servants&rsquo; hall. But Mr. Duggan
never laid hands on him again.
</p>

<p>
In due course this period of his life came to an end, and it was with something
of the feeling of a captive released after a long imprisonment that he one day
found himself on his way to Harrow, from which place, in the natural sequence
of things, he proceeded to Cambridge.
</p>

<p>
All his life Alec had stood in awe of his father. It was a feeling which, to
some extent, had been fostered by his mother. To both of them it had been as a
load lifted off their lives when the baronet left home on one of his
excursions, and both had looked forward with dread to his return. There had
been no cordiality, no sympathy, no <i>rapprochement</i> in any proper sense of
the word, between father and son.
</p>

<p>
That, however, had been owing to no fault on the boy&rsquo;s part, for
Alec&rsquo;s was one of those bright, open dispositions which respond readily
to whatever kindly influences may be brought to bear on them. But Sir Gilbert
had no liking for children, or young people, and it was not in his nature to
make any exception even in the case of his own son. He had kept himself aloof
from him from the first, and with the lapse of years the silent, passive breach
between the two, if such it could be termed, grew gradually wider and more
impossible of being bridged over. Many an hour&rsquo;s heartache had the boy,
more especially after his mother&rsquo;s death, but there was too large a
tincture of family pride in his composition to allow of even an inkling of what
he felt to be visible on the surface. More than once in after-life he said
bitterly to himself: &ldquo;If when I was young, my father had treated me as
other fathers treat their sons, I should have been a different man from what I
am now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
That might, or might not, have been the case.
</p>

<p>
It was while Alec was at Harrow that Sir Gilbert married again.
</p>

<p>
There was no question of sentiment mixed up with his second matrimonial
venture, as there had been with his first. It was the simple fact of Miss
Delmayne being possessed of a fortune of sixty thousand pounds in her own right
that led him to propose to her.
</p>

<p>
On her part, the lady, who had seen thirty summers, had no illusions. She was
perfectly aware for what reason she was being sought, but, all the same, it
seemed to her that she would have been very foolish to let slip the chance of
becoming Lady Clare, of Withington Chase.
</p>

<p>
She was a capable, managing woman, who allowed her husband to go and come and
do just as he liked, without any repining or questioning on her part&mdash;a
mode of procedure which just suited the baronet. On the other hand, she
tolerated no interference in domestic matters, or the indoor management of the
Chase. It may be accounted as a virtue in her that she was no more inclined for
an extravagant style of living than was her husband. Still more did this become
the case after her three sons were born; indeed, for the sake of their future
she began after a time to develop a disposition which, in a person of her
social position, might almost be termed penurious.
</p>

<p>
Lady Clare&rsquo;s special grievance, and it was one which debarred her from
seeking the sympathy of others&mdash;the one thorn in her pillow&mdash;was the
existence of her husband&rsquo;s eldest son.
</p>

<p>
In that particular, if in no other, it seemed to her that Providence had dealt
hardly with her. No such person ought to have been born; or, if that could not
have been avoided, his sojourn in this vale of tears should have been of the
briefest. To her it seemed a monstrous thing that anyone other than her own
darling Randolph should be the legal heir to his father&rsquo;s title and
estates. More especially hard did it seem to her in view of the fact that a
third of the dowry she had brought her husband had gone to clear off certain
old mortgages contracted by the preceding baronet, and in so far, might be said
to have benefited the estate in perpetuity.
</p>

<p>
Yet, in the face of this, Randolph, at his father&rsquo;s death, would only be
entitled to a younger son&rsquo;s share of the baronet&rsquo;s
savings&mdash;provided there should be any to divide&mdash;both the
Hertfordshire and the Yorkshire estates being strictly entailed. Her ladyship
felt that she had indeed just cause for repining.
</p>

<p>
She was coldly gracious to Alec, whenever that young man made his appearance at
the Chase, which, as time went on, became less frequently than ever. He felt
that he was not wanted at home, that he had now become less to his father even
than he had been before, and he knew that his instincts did not deceive him
when they told him that in her ladyship he had an enemy whom no efforts on his
part would avail to conciliate.
</p>

<p>
It was as well, perhaps, for more reasons than one, that Lady Clare had no
knowledge of the considerable sums disbursed by the baronet from time to time
in liquidation of the debts contracted by his spendthrift heir. In those
matters Mr. Page, the family solicitor, was the only person taken into Sir
Gilbert&rsquo;s confidence. It was a source of gratification to her ladyship to
know that father and son lived on permanently bad terms with each other; and
when, after that October night which saw the heir banished from home, her
husband told her that Alec had gone abroad, and that they were not likely to be
troubled with him or his affairs again for a long time to come, she sincerely
rejoiced. Alec was wild and careless of his health, and reckless in many ways.
There was no knowing what might come to pass. It no longer seemed to her the
foolish daydream she had deemed it heretofore, that she might, perhaps, live to
hear her son addressed as Sir Randolph Clare of Withington Chase.
</p>

<p>
It was well for her ladyship, as it is for all of us, that there was no
invisible hand to draw aside the curtain of the future and reveal to her even a
glimpse of what was to be.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile, the real heir had unaccountably vanished from the haunts which had
known him, and was as one dead to that little world in which he had been such a
familiar figure. No word of him, or message of any kind reached his whilom
associates. A vague rumour got spread about, originating no one seemed to know
how or whence, that he had joined a certain exploring expedition which just
then was being a good deal talked about; but it was a rumour which was never
confirmed.
</p>

<p>
Men talked and wondered for a little while, and then presently he was
forgotten.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br />
ALEC&rsquo;S PROPOSITION</h2>

<p>
With the inmates of Withington Chase two uneventful years glided imperceptibly
away. Between Sir Gilbert and his wife the name of the proscribed heir was
never mentioned; to all seeming he had vanished out of their lives as
completely as if he had never existed. That his image still dwelt more or less
in his father&rsquo;s thoughts was only in the natural order of things, but to
faithful Mr. Page alone, from whom the baronet had few or no secrets, did
Alec&rsquo;s name ever cross his lips, and to him no oftener than was
unavoidable.
</p>

<p>
The lawyer had duly remitted his quarterly allowance to the young man,
forwarding it now to one obscure continental town and now to another, in
accordance with Alec&rsquo;s written request; but, beyond that, nothing
whatever was known of him or his whereabouts.
</p>

<p>
Then one day the baronet received a letter from his son, dated from Catanzaro,
a small out-of-the-way town in southern Italy.
</p>

<p>
In it the writer stated that he was utterly tired of the idle, purposeless life
he had been leading for the past two years, and that if his father would agree
to give him six thousand pounds down, he would emigrate to the United States
and never trouble him for another shilling as long as he lived. But he would do
more, much more, than that, should his father consent to his proposition. In
that case he would agree to the cutting off of the entail and would sign
whatever documents might be needful for the due carrying out of that design.
Sir Gilbert sat staring at the letter after he had finished reading it like a
man whose faculties had been paralysed by sheer amazement.
</p>

<p>
So absorbed was his attention that he was unconscious of the door behind him
being opened and of the entry of his wife. Her footfalls made no noise on the
thick carpet. She went up behind him and was on the point of placing a hand on
his shoulder, when her gaze vas attracted to the letter which lay spread open
on the writing-table in front of him.
</p>

<p>
Lady Clare was more than a score of years younger than her husband and her
eyesight was still as keen as ever it had been. Half-a-dozen seconds sufficed
her to take in the sense of Alec&rsquo;s letter, the handwriting of which she
had at once recognised. A little gasp escaped her before she knew it. An
instant later the baronet had started to his feet, and was confronting her with
flaming eyes; involuntarily his hand closed over the letter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Madam, I am not in the habit of being startled in this way,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;nor do I like it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;On the contrary, dear, it was you who startled me,&rdquo; she replied in
her blandest accents, with a hand pressed to her left side. &ldquo;Of course I
naturally supposed that you had heard the door opened and shut, and was on the
point of addressing you when you started up as if you had been shot.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Humph! I have had occasion before to-day to beg of you not to be quite
so feline in your movements,&rdquo; he answered with something like a snarl.
&ldquo;Did you&mdash;did you read any portion of the letter that was on the
table in front of me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear Gilbert, what <i>do</i> you take me for! That there <i>was</i> a
letter there, I am aware, but as for reading as much as a line of
it&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There, there, that will do. Just ring the bell, will you, and then tell
me what you want to see me about.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
When the servant came in response to the summons, he said: &ldquo;Tell Graves
to bring the dog-cart round at once.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ten minutes later saw Sir Gilbert on his way to Mapleford with his son&rsquo;s
letter in his pocket. In such a contingency he felt that he could not do better
than seek the advice of his valued counsellor.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Page, a tall, lanky, somewhat loose-jointed man, with a long thin face, a
prominent nose and an expression that was a curious compound of hard common
sense, shrewdness and good-nature, gave vent to a low whistle when he had come
to the end of Alec&rsquo;s epistle.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What an exceedingly foolish young man!&rdquo; were his first words.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why so, pray&mdash;why so?&rdquo; demanded the baronet with a lifting of
his eyebrows.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To offer to sell his birthright for a mess of pottage&mdash;for that is
what he here proposes to do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Six thousand pounds is a large sum, Page.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In itself it may perhaps seem so, but what is it in comparison with the
reversion of Withington Chase and the other entailed property? Why, it&rsquo;s
not equivalent to one year&rsquo;s rent-roll! A very foolish young man!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is to be presumed that he knows his own business best,&rdquo;
remarked the baronet drily. &ldquo;Besides, you seem to forget the many
hundreds of pounds&mdash;nay, I may say thousands&mdash;that I have had to
disburse at different times by reason of his extravagance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The lawyer shook his head.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There&rsquo;s more under the surface, I feel convinced, than either you
or I yet know of.&rdquo; Then, after a pause, during which he seemed lost in
thought, he added, &ldquo;I should not be in the least surprised if a woman
were at the bottom of this business.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The baronet was startled.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is a possibility which did not suggest itself to me,&rdquo; he
said. &ldquo;It would, indeed, be just like Alec to finish up his career by
contracting a low marriage.&rdquo; Then with a shrug he added: &ldquo;But he
can please himself about that when once the proposition embodied by him in his
letter has been duly carried into effect.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then you really mean to accept his offer to cut off the entail?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do. If I had any hesitation before, your last suggestion would have
effectually disposed of it. I am certainly inclined to believe that you have
hit upon the real reason which underlies his offer. Well, I am glad he has
sufficient sense and good-feeling left to betake himself to a country where
there&rsquo;s not a creature who knows him. In that case a <i>mésalliance</i>
on his part will be a matter of very minor consequence. And now let us consider
by what means we can most readily lay our hands on six thousand pounds.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A week later Sir Gilbert and Mr. Page set out for Italy.
</p>

<p>
It had never been the baronet&rsquo;s practice to take his wife into his
confidence about matters which, from his point of view, did not concern her,
consequently he had kept his own counsel as far as Alec&rsquo;s letter and its
contents were concerned. It would be time enough to tell her after the
all-important document should have been signed by which Alec renounced his
birthright. He began to regard young Randolph, the present Lady Clare&rsquo;s
eldest son, with very different eyes from those with which he had hitherto
looked upon the boy. A few more days and <i>he</i> would be the heir of
Withington. The pity of it was that the title could not descend to him as well
as the estates. That was a point as to which the law was manifestly to blame.
</p>

<p>
Lady Clare betrayed not the slightest interest as to the nature of the business
which was taking her husband and Mr. Page all the way to Italy. So well did she
play her part that no faintest suspicion entered Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s mind that
she had any knowledge of the existence of Alec&rsquo;s letter, much less of the
nature of its contents. She judged, and rightly, that her husband would not
have been at the trouble to go to Italy and take his lawyer with him, unless he
had agreed to accept the terms proposed by his eldest son. After all, then, the
one great grievance of her life would cease to exist, and her darling Randolph
would become his father&rsquo;s heir, as he ought to have been all along! Only
herself knew with what eager anxiety she awaited her husband&rsquo;s return.
Surely, surely, he would not be so cruel as to keep the good news from her an
hour after it should be his to tell! He could not fail to know how happy it
would make her.
</p>

<p>
The theory propounded by Mr. Page as to the motive which lay at the foundation
of Alec&rsquo;s letter to his father, was not very wide of the mark. Had it not
been for a certain pair of brilliant black eyes, in all probability it would
never have been written.
</p>

<p>
About six months before, in the course of his aimless wanderings Alec had found
himself and his very limited luggage at Catanzaro, a small but romantically
situated Calabrian town, a few miles inland from the Gulf of Squillace.
</p>

<p>
The place had pleased him and he had made up his mind to stay there awhile.
</p>

<p>
He had accordingly taken up his quarters at the principal <i>osteria</i>, kept
by one Giuseppe Rispani. Alec lived very simply, and, of late, had learnt to
confine his wants within narrow limits, so that his father&rsquo;s allowance,
conjointly with his own income of one hundred and eighty pounds a year, amply
sufficed for all his needs.
</p>

<p>
Rispani was a widower with one son, who had lately left home for England in the
hope of bettering his fortunes, and one daughter, Giovanna by name, at that
time a beautiful girl of nineteen.
</p>

<p>
Rispani&rsquo;s wife had been an Englishwoman, whom he had married for the sake
of her little fortune of five hundred pounds, while she had married him for his
<i>beaux yeaux</i>; for in early life the Italian had been a very handsome man,
with a soft tongue and a persuasive manner which poor Miss Verinder had found
it impossible to resist.
</p>

<p>
The Signora Rispani, who at one time had been a governess, and, later on,
companion to a lady of rank, was a woman of considerable education and
refinement. She took great pains with the tuition and bringing up of her
daughter, and to her mother Giovanna owed it that she was almost as familiar
with the English tongue as the Italian.
</p>

<p>
Unfortunately the Signora died when Giovanna was about thirteen years old, just
the age when a mother&rsquo;s care and watchfulness were most needed, for the
girl&rsquo;s disposition, like her father&rsquo;s, was cold, calculating, and
avaricious; and when the one person was gone whose untiring effort it had been
to keep down the weeds of selfishness and greed of which her nature was so
prolific&mdash;for the Signora had by no means been blind to her
daughter&rsquo;s defects&mdash;it was not difficult to foretell what the result
would be.
</p>

<p>
If Giuseppe Rispani had known anything of the doctrine of heredity, he might
have pointed to his daughter as a living example of it as far as the
reproduction in her of certain of his own most predominant qualities was
concerned.
</p>

<p>
In appearance Giovanna was a true daughter of the sunny South.
</p>

<p>
Her figure was tall, with a certain stateliness of carriage that became her
well. Her complexion was of the clearest and most transparent olive, her eyes
and hair as black as midnight, while her features were almost classic in the
regularity of their outlines. In any country in the world Giovanna Rispani
would have been accounted a very beautiful young woman.
</p>

<p>
Vanna had not reached the age of nineteen without having had several suitors,
eligible and otherwise, for her hand, but to one and all she had turned a deaf
ear. Her father had in no wise tried to influence her choice, being, indeed,
firmly persuaded in his own mind that it would have been futile to attempt to
do so; but had merely laughed pleasantly as each baffled aspirant went his way,
and remarked that Vanna, had plenty of time before her in which to make up her
mind.
</p>

<p>
Alec Clare had not been many days an inmate of the <i>osteria</i> of the Golden
Fig before it became clear to Vanna Rispani, that in the tall, handsome young
Englishman, she had achieved another conquest.
</p>

<p>
Vanna had never made a practice of waiting on her father&rsquo;s guests,
holding herself, indeed, somewhat haughtily aloof, but she condescended to wait
on Alec. It was not his looks that attracted her, but the fact that in him she
found some one who could talk to her in her mother&rsquo;s native tongue.
</p>

<p>
She was proud of her ability to speak English, but it was an acquisition which
had been in some danger of becoming rusty from disuse; now, however, a day
rarely passed without she and Alec having at least one long talk together. To
him, too, who had lived for the last two years among what might be termed the
byeways of life, it was an inexpressible pleasure to have lighted on some one
with whom he could converse in his own tongue; for although by this time he
could speak Italian almost as fluently as a native, his thoughts and
self-communings were all couched in the language to which he had been born.
</p>

<p>
Giovanna was wholly free from self-consciousness and <i>mauvaise honte</i>; she
was as self-possessed as a woman twice her age; consequently there was a
charming ease and naturalness in her intercourse with Alec, which he found
increasingly fascinating as time went on.
</p>

<p>
It was surprising what a number of things they found to talk about, and how
naturally one subject seemed to lead up to another. If sometimes Alec&rsquo;s
talk went a little over the girl&rsquo;s head, if he now and then started a
subject which for her was devoid of interest, she was careful not to betray the
fact. She might be secretly bored, but her lips never lost their smile, nor her
eyes their sparkle.
</p>

<p>
The heir of Withington Chase lingered on week after week in the little Italian
town till a couple of months had gone by, without caring to ask himself why he
did so.
</p>

<p>
At length the time came when he had neither the power nor the will to tear
himself away. Self-deception was a species of weakness in which he had never
indulged; he had always dealt frankly with himself, and he did so now. He was
in love with the innkeeper&rsquo;s daughter, and he admitted it. More than
once, in years gone by, his fancy had been taken captive, but in every case the
day had come, and that after no long time, when he had snapped the silken
thread that loosely held him, and had gone on his way again, heart whole and
fancy free.
</p>

<p>
But it was no frail silken chain that held him now: he was a helpless captive
bound hand and foot in Love&rsquo;s golden fetters.
</p>

<p>
When, however, he asked himself what prospect there was of his passion being
reciprocated, he could but reply that he had no grounds whatever for answering
the question in his own favour. That Vanna sought his society and that she
derived a certain amount of pleasure from it, could not be doubted; but, on the
other hand, every one of those signs was wanting which are supposed to
foreshadow the dawn of love in a young girl&rsquo;s heart. She was as easy and
unembarrassed in his company as in that of her father, which, of itself; seemed
to indicate the absence of any special regard for him. And yet there were times
when an inscrutable something glanced at him for a moment out of the depths of
her magnificent eyes and kindled a sudden flame of hope in his heart, which, if
it quickly died down again, left behind it a certain glow less evanescent than
itself.
</p>

<p>
At length a time arrived when it became clear to Alec that matters between
himself and Vanna could not go on much longer as they were. The state of
uncertainty in which he lived was fast becoming intolerable to him. Not much
longer could he keep silent. He would give words to the passion that was
consuming him and win all or lose all by the result.
</p>

<p>
On more than one occasion in the course of their many talks together, Giovanna
had so far opened her mind as to confide to Alec the longing which beset her to
get away from the dull and narrow routine of her life in her native town. She
wanted to see something of the world, to live a larger and freer existence in
some country beyond the sea.
</p>

<p>
Probably it was owing to the influence of these talks that the inception of the
scheme was due which, a few weeks later, Alec embodied in his letter to his
father.
</p>

<p>
Should the latter prove willing to give him the sum he had specified, he would
ask Giovanna to become his wife, and if she consented, he would seek with her a
home in the New World, where his six thousand pounds would, he confidently
hoped, prove the corner-stone from which to build up one of those colossal
fortunes in comparison with which the revenues of Withington Chase would seem
insignificant indeed. In any case, as he truthfully stated in his letter, he
was heartily sick of the idle, purposeless existence he had been leading for a
couple of years. For aught he knew to the contrary, his father might never
revoke the promise extracted from him not to return to England till leave
should be given him to do so.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile his life was slowly rusting away.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br />
AN OFFER AND ITS ACCEPTANCE</h2>

<p>
Sir Gilbert Clare and Mr. Page reached Catanzaro in due course. They were met
by Alec, who had been apprised by the lawyer of the time when they might be
expected to arrive, and who had secured rooms for them at the Golden Fig, the
<i>osteria</i> at which he himself had been a guest for so long a time.
</p>

<p>
Father and son greeted each other with a grave silent bow. Alec flushed to the
roots of his hair as soon as he realized that it was Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s
intention to treat him as a stranger; then as suddenly he turned pale. Next
moment his pride came to his aid. He drew himself up, and turning courteously
to Mr. Page, expressed to him his fear that he must have found the journey both
tedious and fatiguing.
</p>

<p>
At dinner, which had been ordered by Alec beforehand, the two arrivals were
waited upon by Rispani in person. This also was by arrangement with Alec, who,
for some reason which he could not have defined to himself, was desirous that,
for the time being, Giovanna should keep in the background.
</p>

<p>
It is to be borne in mind that Rispani had no suspicion, either then or
afterwards, that the English &ldquo;Milor&rdquo; was Alec&rsquo;s father, or,
indeed, any relation whatever of the young man. Ever since he had come abroad,
young Clare had dropped his surname and had simply been known as &ldquo;Mr.
John Alexander,&rdquo; a cognomen which his Italian friends, to whom the
English syllables seemed a concatenation of barbarous sounds, had not failed to
naturalise into &ldquo;Il Signor Alessandro.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Both Sir Gilbert and Mr. Page retired at an early hour.
</p>

<p>
The lawyer, who despite Alec&rsquo;s failings, had a very genuine liking for
him, would fain have secured half an hour&rsquo;s private talk with the young
man, but there was no possibility of such a thing till the baronet had sought
his own room, and then Alec was nowhere to be found. He had gone for a long
solitary walk, and there was no knowing when he would be back. The hour of ten
next morning had already been named as that which was to see the important
business entered upon which had brought the two Englishmen so far from home.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Page had not failed to come prepared with the legal document to which, in
the presence of the requisite witnesses, the heir would be required to affix
that signature which would leave him an heir no longer.
</p>

<p>
The lawyer had anticipated some difficulty in obtaining a couple of witnesses
in that out-of-the-way spot with sufficient knowledge of English to comprehend
what was required of them, but it proved to be a difficulty that was readily
overcome with the help of Alec. In Giuseppe Rispani and a friend of his who at
one time had filled the position of <i>courrier de place</i>, were found
precisely the two people needed.
</p>

<p>
No sooner was breakfast over than word was sent to Alec that everything was in
readiness. Then he and the witnesses proceeded upstairs to the <i>sala</i>
which had been set aside for the use of the <i>forestieri</i>. A slight haughty
inclination of the head was the sole greeting vouchsafed them by Sir Gilbert as
they entered the room.
</p>

<p>
It may be here remarked that Alec had neither dined nor breakfasted with his
father. Time had availed nothing to soften the latter&rsquo;s hostility towards
his eldest son.
</p>

<p>
The baronet&rsquo;s chair was apart near the window. On a table in the middle
of the room were pens and ink, together with a formidable looking document.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Page, having shaken hands with Alec, greeted the two Italians in his most
urbane manner, and then motioned them to a couple of chairs on the opposite
side of the table. Next he handed the paper to Alec, who sat down on the third
chair while he glanced over its various clauses, the lawyer standing at his
elbow while he did so. That done, without a moment&rsquo;s hesitation, Alec
dipped a pen in the ink and wrote his name in full at the foot in bold flowing
characters. He then made way for the witnesses, standing aside with folded
arms. At Mr. Page&rsquo;s invitation, Rispani moved to the chair vacated by
Alec and proceeded to scrawl his signature on the line indicated by the
lawyer&rsquo;s finger. A like process was then gone through by the second
Italian. Neither of them had the least notion as to the contents of the
document to which they had appended their signatures. Mr. Page had taken care
of that. A sheet of blotting-paper which he had applied to Alec&rsquo;s
signature was left so as to cover three-fourths of the paper, while the sleeve
of his coat, as he indicated the spot where each witness was to write his name,
effectually hid the last of the three words, &ldquo;John Alexander
Clare.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He had not lost sight of the fact that in Catanzaro Alec was known only as the
Signor Alessandro.
</p>

<p>
As soon as the Italians were gone Mr. Page sat down, and from the breast pocket
of his coat produced a bulky packet of bank notes of various denominations,
which, with the help of a moistened forefinger, he proceeded to count with
methodical deliberation.
</p>

<p>
Having satisfied himself on a point about which he had felt perfectly sure
beforehand, he pushed the notes across the table to Alec.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There, sir,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;if you will be at the trouble of
counting them, you will find that they amount in the aggregate to exactly six
thousand pounds.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I will take your word for that, Mr. Page,&rdquo; replied Alec, with a
bitter smile as he crumpled up the notes and thrust them into his pocket.
</p>

<p>
By this a carriage, previously ordered, was at the door. The two gentlemen had
arranged to post as far as Reggio. Sir Gilbert, who despite his husk of
frigidity, was far from comfortable in his mind, and was especially desirous of
getting away at the earliest possible moment, had already drawn on his gloves
and taken possession of his dust-coat and umbrella. He now extended his rigid
fingers to his son, whose hand instinctively closed over them, but without any
consciousness of the slightest pressure in return.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Goodbye,&rdquo; said the baronet. &ldquo;You have my best wishes for
your prosperity in the future. At any time it will gratify me to hear that you
are doing well. Now, Mr. Page, if you are ready.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
With that the fingers were withdrawn, and turning on his heel, he stalked
solemnly out, leaving his son, who had said no word in reply, standing in the
middle of the room.
</p>

<p>
Next moment Mr. Page was wringing Alec&rsquo;s hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Goodbye, my dear boy, and may Heaven bless and prosper you,&rdquo;
exclaimed the lawyer, with an unwonted tremor in his voice. &ldquo;Never forget
that in Cornelius Page you have a firm friend; and don&rsquo;t fail to advise
me from time to time of your whereabouts.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Three minutes later, as one in a dream, Alec heard the crack of the
driver&rsquo;s whip and the rattle of the carriage as it jolted over the narrow
paved street. Then when the last sound had died away, his manhood suddenly
broke down. Sinking into a chair, with his elbows resting on the table and his
face covered with his hands, he let the tears drop silently between his
fingers.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Now it so happened that there was one feature about the <i>osteria</i> of the
Golden Fig, which, for various reasons, it is to be hoped is by no means common
to similar houses of entertainment either in Italy or elsewhere.
</p>

<p>
The peculiarity in question was neither more nor less than a peephole, or place
of espial, behind one corner of the elaborate plaster scroll-work of fruit and
foliage which ran round the ceiling of the room in which the scene related
above had taken place. This spy-hole was reached by means of a flight of steps
shut up from ordinary view in what looked like a tall clothes closet in the
adjoining chamber.
</p>

<p>
The house was an old one, and what purpose this secret place of observation had
originally served it was now impossible to tell. Rispani had found it there
when he took the house, and on more than one occasion had taken advantage of it
to pry into the doings of his guests; but never to such good purpose as to-day,
for from that coign of vantage he had been an unseen witness of the transfer of
the roll of notes to Signor Alessandro.
</p>

<p>
Immediately after the departure of the Englishman Rispani sought his daughter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The Signor Alessandro loves thee&mdash;is it not so?&rdquo; he said to
her in Italian. There was something in his tone which convinced Vanna that he
had a special motive in putting the question.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;His eyes have told me that he loves me, but his words never.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Thou lovest him in return?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I like him&mdash;yes; better than I like any one. But as for loving
him&mdash;no.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Should he ask thee to wed him, what will thy answer be?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It will be time enough to decide that when he <i>has</i> asked
me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He <i>will</i> ask thee&mdash;I feel sure of it&mdash;and thy answer
must be yes&mdash;yes&mdash;yes!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Vanna&rsquo;s dark orbs looked the surprise she felt.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; resumed Rispani, laying a hand on her arm and speaking
into her ear. &ldquo;One of the strangers who have just gone gave the Signor
Alessandro bank-notes to the value of six thousand pounds English money. These
eyes saw him do it. Think! Six thousand pounds!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Father and daughter looked meaningly at each other. In the eyes of both
sparkled the same cold avaricious gleam. At that moment the likeness between
them was almost startling.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Giuseppe Rispani had prophesied rightly. At the hour of sunset Alec Clare
sought Giovanna and found her where she sat under the grape trellis in the far
garden. Nowhere could there have been a spot more suitable for the purpose he
had in view. Vanna might have had a prevision that he would look for her there.
</p>

<p>
Alec had dreaded lest, when the crucial moment should have come, his tongue
would fail him and that he should find himself the prey of a silence, at once
painful and absurd. But no such mishap befell him.
</p>

<p>
How the declaration brought itself about he could hardly have told afterwards;
all he knew was that he found it surprisingly easy and simple to give utterance
to what he wanted to say. But it may have been that Vanna smoothed the way for
him after a fashion which, in his preoccupation, he was scarcely conscious of.
In any case, he spoke with an ardour and a manly earnestness which did not fail
to carry conviction to his listener&rsquo;s heart. It was impossible to doubt
his sincerity.
</p>

<p>
Vanna had already been made love to by more than one impulsive Italian, but she
now discovered that this Englishman, ordinarily so undemonstrative and
phlegmatic, could, the occasion being given him, rise to a height of passionate
fervour which transformed him for the time being into a veritable son of the
sunny South. Taking both the girl&rsquo;s unresisting hands in his, and
devouring her with his eyes, he ended with the words, &ldquo;Giovanna, will you
be mine?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
No faintest tinge of superadded emotion flushed the clear olive of
Vanna&rsquo;s cheek, but the heavy fringes of her eyelids lifted and the
midnight orbs behind them gave back Alec look for look.
</p>

<p>
Then the full ripe lips curved into a siren-like smile, the cool brown fingers
softly returned her lover&rsquo;s clasp, and in a whisper came the words:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I will be yours.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br />
AT ONE FELL BLOW</h2>

<p>
We are under other skies and the time is again two years later. &ldquo;Alec
Clare, by all that&rsquo;s wonderful!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The exclamation came from one of two men who, happening to be bent on getting
into a street car at the same moment, found themselves unexpectedly face to
face. It was followed next moment by a hearty hand-grip, and then the
long-parted acquaintances&mdash;friends, in the best sense of the word, they
could hardly have been termed&mdash;sat down side by side.
</p>

<p>
It was at Pineapple City, a thriving and intensely go-ahead township on the
borders of Lake Michigan, that the meeting just recorded took place.
</p>

<p>
Denis Boyd and Alec Clare had been intimate at college, without being exactly
chums. Their fathers had been friends of long standing, and it seemed only
natural to the two young men that they should copy their sires&rsquo; example.
Boyd had read far more assiduously than the heir of Withington Chase had ever
cared to do: his father was far from being a rich man and he was anxious about
his degree. Their college career had come to an end at the same time, they had
gone down together and had parted with mutual good wishes and an implied
promise to meet again in town later on, since which time till now they had not
set eyes on each other.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now tell me what fortune, good or bad, has landed you in this
out-of-the-way spot,&rdquo; began Boyd. &ldquo;Of course I assume that, like
myself, you are merely a bird of passage.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;On the contrary, this place is my home. I am engaged in business
here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Denis Boyd gave vent to a low whistle.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Strange how things turn out, is it not?&rdquo; continued Alec.
&ldquo;But before I add to your surprise, suppose you make your own confession,
and tell me how it comes to pass that you happen to be here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Boyd laughed. &ldquo;My confession&mdash;to accept your own term&mdash;will be
of the briefest and baldest. You may, or may not, remember that I was destined
for the Law, but shortly after you and I parted my father came to grief over a
bank failure, and I was compelled to look out for some immediate means of
earning a living. A situation in a commercial house in Liverpool offered
itself, which I gladly accepted, and there I have been ever since, working my
way up by slow but sure degrees. I am over in the States on a matter of
business for my firm, which admits of my combining a little holiday-making with
it. I reached here late last evening, got through my business a couple of hours
ago, and am killing time while waiting to be picked up by a train going East in
exactly half an hour and five minutes from now. But here we are at the depot.
Won&rsquo;t you alight and keep me company for my remaining thirty-five
minutes? My portmanteau is in the cloakroom, or whatever they call the place in
this part of the world.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Accordingly they alighted and proceeded to stroll up and down the station
platform.
</p>

<p>
While the other had been talking, Alec had had time to pull himself together
and to decide how far he should, or should not, take Boyd into his confidence.
For various reasons he would much have preferred not meeting him, but that was
beyond help now; and, after all, Boyd was a gentleman and the least hint would
suffice to seal his lips.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose,&rdquo; began Alec, with a little laugh, &ldquo;that I am not
the first fellow by many who has contrived to find himself at odds with his
father, or whose father thought he had just cause to find fault with the error
of his ways; at any rate, the pater and I came to the conclusion that we should
be better apart for at least a few years to come. For a time I wandered about
the Continent, leading a free-and-easy Bohemian sort of life. At length I grew
tired of doing nothing, and having had a certain amount of capital placed at my
command, which I was desirous of tripling, or quadrupling, as the case might
be, I determined to try my fortune in the States. That was two years ago. The
result, considering my utter lack of business knowledge, was only what might
have been expected. I gained a certain amount of experience, it is true, but it
was at the expense of half my capital. I was disheartened, but by no means
despairing. Leaving the scene of my ill fortune, I came West. I had no
particular object in halting even for an hour at Pineapple City, beyond being
tired with a long railway journey and intolerably bored by a fellow traveller
who persisted in clinging to me like a leech, and whom I was determined to get
rid of at any cost. Well, I had not been here many hours before I made the
acquaintance of an Englishman of the name of Travis, a gentleman by birth and
education, who, like yourself, had lighted on evil days, and had been lured all
this way from home in the hope of being able to make a living, and ultimately,
perhaps, a competence. The profession he had set up in was that of a breeder
and trainer of horses for riding and carriage purposes. It was a business which
he believed to be capable of considerable extension, and, just then, he was
looking out for a partner who was prepared to invest a certain number of
dollars in the concern. The opportunity seemed to me one which I should have
been foolish to let pass me, more especially as I happen to know something
about horseflesh; and, not to bore you with details, I will merely add that,
after due investigation, I became Frank Travis&rsquo;s partner. That happened
two months ago.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;From what you have just told me,&rdquo; said Boyd, &ldquo;I conclude
that you have no present intention of returning to England.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;None whatever,&rdquo; answered Alec drily.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And have you never regretted your self-imposed expatriation?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Alec shook his head. &ldquo;So far I have had no cause whatever for doing
so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At this juncture they were all but run down by a man who was coming full tilt
out of the refreshment buffet. &ldquo;Ah, Mr. Alexander, glad to see
you,&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Have only time to say that the pair of
chestnuts you and your partner sold me a fortnight ago have turned out perfect
rippers&mdash;yes, sir, rippers. My wife&mdash;ah-ha!&mdash;hasn&rsquo;t once
been out of temper with me since I bought &rsquo;em. By-bye.&rdquo; And with
that he was gone.
</p>

<p>
Denis Boyd looked at Alec, and the latter read a certain question in his eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When I came out to the States I chose to drop my surname. I am known to
everybody here simply as John Alexander,&rdquo; he said quietly. &ldquo;And
look here, Boyd,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;I shall be glad if, when you get back
home, you will make no mention of having met me. I have certain reasons for
asking this of you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear fellow, not a word more is needed,&rdquo; replied the other
heartily. &ldquo;You may rely upon my silence.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A minute or two before, Boyd had been on the point of asking Alec whether he
was still a bachelor, but it now seemed to him that such a question might
savour, if not exactly of impertinence, yet of a desire to pry into a matter
which was really no concern of his. It was evident there were incidents in his
friend&rsquo;s career which he did not wish to have touched on. He would leave
his question unasked.
</p>

<p>
A few minutes later Boyd&rsquo;s train steamed into the station.
</p>

<p>
After having parted from his friend, Alec was tempted by the fineness of the
evening to go for a solitary ramble into the outskirts of the town, which, in
one direction, could almost claim to be termed picturesque. His encounter with
Boyd had served to awaken in him thoughts and memories which had long been
dormant, but which now for a little while claimed him as their own with a
persistency that would not be denied. It was not so much the scenes of his
college life that his meeting with Boyd had recalled to visionary existence,
but still earlier scenes connected with his life at the Chase. Once more he was
a boy by his mother&rsquo;s side, and felt her caressing hand smooth down his
ruffled curls; once more he was pacing the dusky coverts with Martin Rigg,
flushing now a covey of young partridges, and now some crusty old pheasant that
evidently resented being disturbed; or else he was galloping through the park
at a break-neck pace on his shaggy Shetland pony. And then, like some grim
spectre, the image of his father came gliding in, and all the happy pictures
vanished, as when the dark slide of a magic lantern is suddenly shut down.
</p>

<p>
He came back to the present and its more immediate interests with a sigh.
</p>

<p>
There were several circumstances in his life since they had last met, of which
he had hinted nothing to Boyd, and he was grateful to his friend for having
forborne to question him more closely, as many men in like circumstances would
not have failed to do.
</p>

<p>
For instance, he, Alec, had breathed no syllable having reference to his
marriage. That, indeed, was with him a subject about which he could bear to
speak to no one, for long before this he had discovered, to his bitter cost,
that his marriage was a failure, and that in asking Giovanna Rispani to become
his wife he had committed one of the greatest mistakes which it is possible for
a man to make. He and his wife had scarcely an interest in common. Giovanna had
never really cared for him, but had married him for the sake of his money. To
her limited experience, six thousand pounds had represented unbounded riches;
for her it meant travel, and fine clothes, and sojourning at big hotels in such
cities as Milan, or Paris, or London.
</p>

<p>
Bitter, very bitter was her disappointment when, after their arrival in
America, her husband took up his abode in a third-rate town in one of the
Eastern States, where he conceived that there was an opening for the profitable
investment of a portion of his capital. At that time his dream was to make a
fortune, whereas he had only succeeded in losing his money, and in helping to
build up the fortunes of others. All Giovanna&rsquo;s foolish dreams had
vanished like a wreath of mist at sunrise, and intensely did she resent the
fact. There was nothing of the scold about her, nor had she any of those
pettish, irritating ways, by means of which so many women make their discontent
with their surroundings felt. She was a cold, proud, silent, disappointed
woman, who withdrew into herself, and who manifested not the slightest interest
in her husband, or any of his concerns. She hated the country to which he had
brought her; the climate was atrocious; the people among whom she dwelt, and
all their ways, were antipathetic to her; she grew homesick and pined for her
own country and her own people. One child had been born of the marriage.
</p>

<p>
When Alec went West in further search of that fortune which seemed so chary of
smiling on him, he left his wife and child behind. At that time he had still a
little over two thousand pounds remaining of the six thousand he had received
from Mr. Page. This balance had lately been reduced by the sum of fifteen
hundred pounds, that being the price he had paid for the privilege of entering
into partnership with Mr. Frank Travis.
</p>

<p>
Good fellow as the latter was, and much as he esteemed him, not even to him had
Alec confided the fact that he was a married man. It was not that he had the
slightest wish to make a secret of it, but simply from an innate disinclination
to speak of his private affairs to any one. Once each week he wrote to
Giovanna. In view of the relations now existing between them, he was not weak
enough to encumber his letters with any superfluous terms of endearment, which
would merely have caused her lip to curl with quiet scorn; his epistles were
rather such as a sober business-like brother might have penned to an equally
sober and business-like sister. He had kept her informed as to the progress of
his negotiations with Travis, and when the matter between them was concluded he
did not fail to tell her at what cost the partnership had been secured by him.
</p>

<p>
All this time he had been living at a boarding-house, but now that his business
matters were finally arranged there was no reason why he should not at once
look out for a permanent home to which he could remove his wife and child.
</p>

<p>
In the last letter he had written to Giovanna he had told her that he hoped
another month at most would see them together again, by which time the house he
had in his mind&rsquo;s eye, a newly built one, would be finished and ready for
occupation. In his stroll this evening his footsteps naturally gravitated in
the direction of the house in question. His choice of it had in part been
determined by reason of its somewhat romantic situation. It was built on a
considerable elevation, and from it the eye ranged over a wide extent of wooded
undulating country, rising here and there into rocky eminences which owed
everything to Nature and nothing to art. A flash of silver on the horizon
revealed that the waters of Lake Michigan were no great distance away.
</p>

<p>
To the eyes of Alec there was something in this landscape that was almost
Italian in character, and he flattered himself with the fancy that perchance it
would please Giovanna and that she might find in it a charm that would serve in
some measure to lessen her regrets for the country he had brought her from.
</p>

<p>
After he had reached the house and had ascertained what progress the workmen
had made since his last visit, and had settled in his mind after what fashion
he would like the garden and shrubbery laid out, he sauntered back towards the
town. At the boarding-house he found his partner awaiting him. A business
telegram had arrived in the course of the afternoon which necessitated that one
or the other of them should set out next morning for Milwaukee, on the opposite
shore of the lake. After talking matters over, it was decided that Alec should
be the one to undertake the journey. It was now Tuesday, and the probability
was that he would be back by Saturday evening at the latest.
</p>

<p>
Next forenoon Travis drove his partner as far as the steamboat wharf at
Davisville and there shook hands with him and bade him goodbye. They had no
prevision of what the next few days would bring forth.
</p>

<p>
As it fell out, Alec&rsquo;s business detained him longer than he had thought
it would, necessitating, among other things, an up-country journey of two score
miles to a place where no railway had yet penetrated. It was not till a late
hour on Monday afternoon that he got back to the hotel at Milwaukee, where he
had secured a room on his arrival there the previous Wednesday.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A letter for you, Mr. Alexander,&rdquo; said the hotel clerk to him as
he was passing through the hall. &ldquo;Been here since Saturday.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As Alec took the letter he saw that the address was in his partner&rsquo;s
writing. Anticipating nothing of greater moment than an ordinary business
communication, he lingered to glance over the latest batch of telegrams, and
proceeded leisurely to his own room before opening the envelope. But all his
<i>sang-froid</i> vanished the moment his eye lighted on the contents, and in
its stead a deadly fear gripped him by the heart. There were two enclosures,
one a brief hurried scrawl from Travis, the other a black-edged missive from
his wife. Of what fatal news was this last the messenger? Could it be that his
child was dead? or&mdash;or was it merely that Vanna had had news from home of
the death of some one there? It was the former dire possibility that had
smitten him with an unspeakable dread.
</p>

<p>
He steadied himself sufficiently to read what his partner had to tell him
before breaking the black-edged envelope.
</p>

<p class="letter">
&ldquo;Dear Alexander&rdquo; (wrote Travis), &ldquo;the enclosed was brought
here by a boarding-house messenger a few minutes ago. As it may be of
importance that it should reach you with the least possible delay, and as you
have wired me not to expect you back before Tuesday, I mail it on at once.
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;Sincerely yours,<br />
&ldquo;F<small>RANK</small> T<small>RAVIS</small>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then he tore open his wife&rsquo;s letter.
</p>

<p>
A single devouring glance at the first half dozen lines was enough. His child
was dead!
</p>

<p>
He could read no further then. The lines danced and quivered before his eyes.
The letter fluttered from his fingers. For a moment or two every drop of blood
seemed drawn from his heart. He caught at a chair and sank into it. He was as
one smitten by a blow from an invisible hand. The love his wife had repudiated
and would have none of, had been lavished by him, secretly and
undemonstratively, on his child. His affection for it had been of that deep
intense kind which neither seeks nor finds for itself an adequate outlet in
words. And now he was bereft of the one object that had made life still sweet
to him, and henceforward naught was left him save the dust and ashes of
existence!
</p>

<p>
Afternoon had darkened into evening, and night had come before he roused
himself sufficiently to pick up his wife&rsquo;s letter and read it through to
the end. By that time a lighted lamp had been brought him.
</p>

<p>
He now noticed for the first time that the letter bore a date a week old, but
just then he could no more than vaguely wonder why and how it had been delayed.
Giovanna had always been in the habit of beginning her epistles to her husband
without troubling herself to employ any of those preliminary terms of affection
or politeness which most writers make use of; and her present one was no
exception to the rule.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It has become my most painful task&rdquo; (she began) &ldquo;to have to
inform you that our child died in the course of Friday night last, after only a
few hours&rsquo; illness. Everything was done for it that could be done, but in
vain. The doctor whom I had summoned was present when the end came. The funeral
took place to-day, Monday. I enclose you the certificate of burial.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It seemed to me that it would have been useless, as well as foolish, to
bring you upwards of seven hundred miles merely in order that you might be
present at the interment. All was over. Your presence could have availed
nothing.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;With the death of my babe the strongest link in the chain which bound me
to you, is broken. Had it lived I should not have taken the step I have now
determined upon: which is, to at once go back to my own home, in my own
country&mdash;which I ought never to have left.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Both you and I have long been aware of the terrible mistake we made in
taking upon ourselves the obligations of matrimony. It is not too late, however
(or so I think and believe), to undo in some measure at least the folly of
which we were mutually guilty. There is one way, and one only, by means of
which this can be effected. It is for us to separate&mdash;it is for you to go
your way, and I to go mine&mdash;and to be virtually dead to each other
henceforward and for ever.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I shall leave this place three hours hence on my way to New York, whence
I shall take the steamer for Europe, but whether I shall proceed direct to
Italy, or whether I shall first visit my mother&rsquo;s relatives in England, I
have not yet decided. In any case, it would be useless for you to follow me. My
mind is fully made up, and nothing would induce me to return to you.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When you left this place three months ago you put into my hands a number
of blank signed cheques which I was to fill up at my own discretion for
whatever sums I might find myself in need of while you were away. By means of
one of the cheques in question I have drawn out the remaining balance standing
to your credit in the bank, amounting to a trifle over five hundred pounds. You
are not the man to begrudge me this sum, I am sure, for you were ever
generosity itself towards me.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now I have nothing more to add, except to bid you farewell, and to
ask you to believe that you have, in all sincerity, the best wishes for your
future happiness and prosperity of one who regrets that she cannot love you as
such a man as you deserves to be loved.
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;G<small>IOVANNA</small>.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;P.S. I have arranged for this letter not to be posted till a week after
my departure, so that by the time you read these lines I shall be halfway on my
road to Europe.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Alas, poor Alec! Wife and child lost to him at one fell blow! As regarded the
latter, he could but bow his head in all humility, as it behoves all of us to
do when our turn comes to be smitten, and breathe the words: &ldquo;Thy will be
done.&rdquo; But Vanna? Oh, the callousness, the cruelty that breathed through
almost every line of her letter! He had wept for the loss of his child, and it
had been an infinite relief to him to do so&mdash;but his eyes were dry now; he
had no tears left for her. It seemed rather as if her desertion of him served,
during those first bitter hours, to kindle in his heart a dull smouldering fire
of resentment, which was none the less intense in that it betrayed nothing of
itself on the surface. Go after her, indeed!&mdash;try, with endearments and
protestations, to induce her to return! Not a single step would he stir in
pursuit. He and she had done with each other for ever.
</p>

<p>
The miserable hours trod slowly in the footsteps of each other, and the night
wore itself away somehow. He never undressed, or went to bed, but about
daybreak he flung himself on a couch, where he sank into a half slumber which
lasted till the people of the house were astir and the world had woke up to
another day.
</p>

<p>
He was glad when ten o&rsquo;clock had come, at which hour he set foot on board
<i>The Prairie Belle</i> on his way back to Pineapple City.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br />
ALEC&rsquo;S FATE</h2>

<p>
Denis Boyd did not forget the promise he had given Alec Clare not to mention
his encounter with the latter after his return to England. It did not, however,
seem to him that there was any necessity to include his father in the embargo
thus laid on his tongue. Accordingly when, a little later, Colonel Boyd went on
a visit to his son, the latter, knowing that his father and Sir Gilbert were
acquaintances of many years&rsquo; standing, mentioned, as one of the minor
incidents of his recent visit to the States, his meeting with young Clare,
without any thought that the Colonel might have occasion to deem it worth his
while to mention the circumstance again. As it fell out, however, a few weeks
later, Colonel Boyd and Sir Gilbert found themselves together in the
reading-room of the London club of which both were members. They had not met
for some time, for of late years the baronet&rsquo;s visits to the metropolis
had become few and far between. They greeted each other heartily, and agreed to
lunch together.
</p>

<p>
In the course of the meal the Colonel said: &ldquo;By the way, Clare, my lad
and yours stumbled across each other quite by accident a little while ago in
the States, where Denny had been sent on a matter of business for his
firm.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, indeed,&rdquo; remarked the baronet as he set down the glass of wine
he had been in the act of raising to his lips. &ldquo;And how was Alec?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;First-rate, for anything I was told to the contrary. They had only a
very short time together, as I understood, and seeing that they were chums at
college, they would have plenty of subjects to talk about.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No doubt&mdash;no doubt. By-the-bye, did your boy say whereabouts in the
States it was&mdash;in New York, or Boston, or Chicago&mdash;that he came
across Alec?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, it was in some quite outlandish place I believe; but I did not
trouble to remember the name.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am rather anxious to ascertain Alec&rsquo;s address, and for this
reason: his godmother, Mrs. Fleming, died lately and left him a legacy of two
thousand pounds. The executors, being anxious to wind up the estate, have
applied to me for his address, which I am unable to furnish them with. You see,
Alec kicked over the traces pretty considerably some time ago, and he and I
parted in a huff, since which he has not condescended to keep me <i>au
courant</i> of his movements. Now, if your boy can supply me with his address,
it will get me out of my difficulty with Mrs. Fleming&rsquo;s executors.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have no doubt Denny can furnish you with what you want. I will write
to him by to-night&rsquo;s post, and advise you of the result the moment I hear
from him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Denis Boyd, in view of his promise to Alec Clare, could not help feeling
annoyed at the turn the affair had taken; and yet, as he put it to himself,
what harm could come of his furnishing Sir Gilbert with the information he
asked for? Apparently the only purpose for which the baronet required his
son&rsquo;s address was that he might thereby be enabled to inform him that a
certain legacy was awaiting his instructions. Really, when he, Boyd, came to
think of it, Alec ought to be very grateful to him, and doubtless would be were
he made aware of the circumstances, for having had it in his power to do him
such a capital turn.
</p>

<p>
His brief note to his father was to the effect that young Clare, who passed in
the States under the name of &ldquo;John Alexander,&rdquo; was at the time the
writer met him, residing at Pineapple City, a town on the borders of Lake
Michigan, in the State of the same name; and, further, that he was engaged in
business there, his partner being an Englishman of the name of Travis.
</p>

<p>
This note was at once forwarded by Colonel Boyd to Sir Gilbert, who lost no
time in taking it in person to Mr. Page.
</p>

<p>
As it happened, the lawyer about that time had occasion to send a confidential
member of his staff to America, to make certain inquiries in the interests of
one of his clients; so it was decided that, instead of trusting to the chances
of a letter reaching Alec through the medium of the post, the clerk in
question, Winch by name, should proceed as far as Pineapple City, seek out
&ldquo;Mr. John Alexander,&rdquo; and deliver into his hands the communication
which would be entrusted to him for that purpose.
</p>

<p>
The letter referred to was written by Mr. Page, and was read and approved of by
Sir Gilbert before being sealed up. It was nothing more than a briefly worded
intimation to the effect that two thousand pounds, being the amount of the late
Mrs. Fleming&rsquo;s legacy to her godson, was awaiting his disposal in the
hands of the executors at such and such an address. But the baronet had no
knowledge of the little private note from the same pen which the lawyer
contrived to smuggle into the envelope. In it he reproached Alec for having
allowed so long a time to pass without communicating with him, begging him at
once to repair the omission, and assuring him that in the writer he had a
friend who might always be relied upon to keep a watchful eye over his
interests.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Winch started on his long journey in due course. He would attend, first of
all, to that other business which was taking him across the Atlantic, and then
make the best of his way to Pineapple City.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Winch was an undersized, podgy man, with a round full-moon sort of face and
cold fish-like eyes of no hue in particular, to which a pair of spectacles lent
a still more vacuous expression. He was clean shaven, always dressed in
well-worn black, and, wet or fine, was never seen without a serviceable alpaca
umbrella. He had been Mr. Page&rsquo;s confidential clerk for many years, and
that gentleman esteemed him highly. Behind that Dutch-clock-like mask of a face
was a complex-working brain which delighted in secrets and mysteries, and
occasionally went so far as to imagine them where none existed. Although his
employer had never told him so&mdash;for that was one of the few matters which
the lawyer kept to himself&mdash;Mr. Winch had not the least doubt in his mind
that the John Alexander to whom the letter of which he was the bearer was
addressed and the heir of Withington Chase, who had set out on his travels
upwards of four years ago and had never returned, were one and the same person.
The name alone had been enough to furnish him with the first hint. He seemed to
scent a most delightful mystery. Mr. Winch was jubilant, although, to look at
him, nobody would have guessed it.
</p>

<p>
What, then, must have been his feelings&mdash;indeed, it is not too much to say
that a tear blurred his spectacles&mdash;as on the morning of the twenty-first
day after his departure from Liverpool he stood in the telegraph office at
Pineapple City and wrote out the following cablegram, addressed to Mr. Page:
</p>

<p class="letter">
&ldquo;J. A. killed. Steamboat explosion&mdash;September 18th. Am returning at
once.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The mystery on which he had counted had all at once collapsed owing to the
death of the person chiefly concerned.
</p>

<p>
It became Mr. Page&rsquo;s unenviable duty, on receipt of the above message, to
convey the news to Sir Gilbert. Over what passed between the two on that
occasion we need not linger.
</p>

<p>
On arriving at Liverpool, Mr. Winch telegraphed to his employer by which train
he might be expected to reach Mapleford. It was as a consequence of this
message that he found Sir Gilbert Clare seated in Mr. Page&rsquo;s private
office when, after a preliminary tap at the door, he was bidden to enter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Glad to see you back, Winch, and looking so well,&rdquo; said Mr. Page
heartily, as he shook hands with his subordinate. &ldquo;Of course I know
already from your advices the nature of the arrangements you were enabled to
make in that matter of Lord Dovercourt, and I congratulate you on your success.
Later on we will go through the details one by one. But, sit down. What I want
you to do first of all is to furnish me with the whole of the particulars you
have been able to obtain confirmatory of the cablegram by which you advised me
of the death of Mr. John Alexander.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Winch seated himself opposite his employer at the big square writing-table
in the centre of the room. Sir Gilbert sat with his back to them and facing the
fire. Although he appeared to be immersed in <i>The Times</i>, and betrayed no
more interest in what followed than any stranger might have done, the reason
that had brought him there was perfectly transparent to Mr. Winch, who could
not help saying to himself: &ldquo;Surely to goodness, Mr. Page does not think
me such an innocent as not to be able to see through Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s little
plot!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Much of what Mr. Winch had to relate will have already been anticipated by the
reader. We need only take up his narrative at the point where Alec Clare, on
the morning following the receipt of his wife&rsquo;s letter, stepped on board
the <i>Prairie Belle</i> at Milwaukee, in the expectation of landing at
Davisville about nine o&rsquo;clock the same evening. But the <i>Prairie
Belle</i> never reached Davisville. When about a dozen miles from that place,
and soon after nightfall, one of her boilers exploded. The vessel parted
amidships, and five minutes later all that was left of her sank in deep water.
The accident happened only about half a mile from the shore, and a number of
boats at once put out to the rescue of the survivors, of whom a considerable
number were picked up, several of them, however, being so badly injured that
they afterwards succumbed. Of those saved John Alexander was not one. The only
inference which could be drawn, was that, either, like many among both
passengers and crew, he had been killed outright by the explosion, and that his
body had gone down with the ship, or else that, even though, perhaps unhurt, he
had sunk before help could reach him from the shore. In any case, alive or
dead, nothing was seen or heard of him after the explosion, which had happened
just eight weeks prior to Mr. Winch&rsquo;s interview with Mr. Frank Travis.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I presume,&rdquo; said Mr. Page, &ldquo;it is a matter of absolute
certainty that Mr. Alexander was really on board the ill-fated vessel at the
time of the accident.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That was a question I did not fail to put to Mr. Travis. In reply he
told me that among the survivors was a person well acquainted with Mr.
Alexander, who had been talking to him only a few minutes before the
explosion.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In that case, I am afraid there is no room left for doubt as to the poor
fellow&rsquo;s fate. A sad end, truly, for any one to come to!&mdash;I think
that will do for the present, Mr. Winch. We will go into other matters later
on.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By-the-way, sir, there is one point which I have not yet mentioned. It
is this: When Mr. Alexander, some little time prior to his death, entered into
partnership with Mr. Travis, he put the sum of fifteen hundred pounds into the
business. That amount Mr. Travis desired me to say that he shall be prepared to
refund to Mr. Alexander&rsquo;s heir-at-law after due substantiation of claim
and reasonable notice having been given him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Hum! very honourable on the part of Mr. Travis. It is a matter, however,
as to which there is no immediate hurry, and in regard to which I can take no
steps without instructions.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As soon as Mr. Winch had closed the door behind him the baronet faced round.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is all true, then!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;There seems no longer
any room for hope.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;None whatever, I am afraid, Sir Gilbert.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He was my son, Page&mdash;my firstborn! I cannot forget that whatever
his faults&mdash;and they were many&mdash;may they lie lightly on his
head!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
When, on his return home, the baronet broke the news to his wife, that lady,
being a fairly good actress, had no difficulty in giving the needful lugubrious
twist to her features, but when she strove to eliminate a tear, she was not so
successful. &ldquo;I am so sorry,&rdquo; she said softly, laying a plump hand
for a moment on her husband&rsquo;s shoulder. &ldquo;Sorry for his sake, poor
fellow!&mdash;and sorry for yours. But you must strive not to give way, dear.
You may rely upon it that it has been ordained for the best.&rdquo; To herself
she said: &ldquo;So, after all, the title as well as the estates will come to
Randolph! That is only as it should be. I hate the thought of having to go into
mourning, but I suppose there&rsquo;s no help for it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Poor Lady Clare!
</p>

<p>
No long time elapsed before a marble tablet was placed <i>in situ</i> above the
family pew in Withington Church&mdash;where there were many more tablets to
keep it company&mdash;which recorded that it was to the memory of John
Alexander Clare, &ldquo;who was accidentally killed abroad&rdquo; on such and
such a date, &ldquo;in the twenty-eighth year of his age.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To think,&rdquo; said Mr. Winch as he one day read the inscription
through his spectacles, &ldquo;that there are only three people in England who
know how that poor young man really came by his death, and that I am one of
them! But what reason had he for dropping his surname and hiding his identity?
Ah! those are mysteries which I&rsquo;m afraid I shall never now have a chance
of fathoming.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
By Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s desire, no communication was ever entered into with Mr.
Frank Travis. The baronet preferred to sacrifice the fifteen hundred pounds
which Alec had invested in the business rather than reopen before the eyes of
strangers a chapter of family history which, as he trusted, was now closed for
ever.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br />
TOO LATE</h2>

<p>
Years nearly a score have come and gone since Mr. Winch brought home the news
of the untimely demise of the whilom heir of Withington Chase.
</p>

<p>
Many have been the changes under the old roof-tree during that time. Sir
Gilbert Clare, who is now entering on his seventy-fourth year, is both a
widower and childless. Not only is the second Lady Clare dead, but her three
sons have followed her to the tomb. Two of them have died of consumption when
on the verge of manhood, while the youngest has been accidentally drowned.
</p>

<p>
Yes, a lonely, childless old man is Sir Gilbert, but still carrying himself
bravely before the world, as if in defiance of all the blows a cruel fate has
aimed at him, and still retaining a large measure of his old irritability of
temper and imperiousness of manner. Would it be too much to wonder whether his
heart is ever touched with compunction, or regret, when his eyes chance to rest
on a certain tablet above the family pew&mdash;that pew now empty of all but
himself&mdash;which professes to record the death of his firstborn? That,
however, is one of those things known to himself alone.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The venue of our story now changes to St. Oswyth&rsquo;s, a town in the
Midlands of some twelve to fifteen thousand inhabitants.
</p>

<p>
It was the fourteenth of May, and Ethel Thursby&rsquo;s nineteenth birthday.
Nowhere was there a happier girl than she. Breakfast was just over, and she had
come out into the garden to gather a posy of such flowers as were already in
bloom for the drawing-room table. Earlier there had been congratulations and
presents from her aunts. Miss Matilda had given her &ldquo;such a love&rdquo;
of a gold watch and chain, while Miss Jane&rsquo;s gift had taken the shape of
an inlaid writing-desk filled with stationery stamped with Ethel&rsquo;s
monogram, so that really, as she told herself, it was quite a pity her
correspondents were so few in number, and that she could not well write to any
of them oftener than once a week. Nor had Tamsin forgotten her&mdash;dear,
rugged, true-hearted Tamsin, who had been her aunt&rsquo;s maid, and hers too
for that matter, for more years than she could remember. Ethel&rsquo;s present
from her had been a silver thimble, having engraven on its rim the appropriate
legend, &ldquo;A stitch in time saves nine.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
While busying herself with the gathering and arrangement of her flowers,
Ethel&rsquo;s thoughts were engaged on two very diverse subjects. As she rose
from the breakfast-table this morning, her Aunt Matilda had said to her:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear, I and my sister would like to see you in the drawing-room at
twelve precisely, when we shall have something of importance to communicate to
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
That the girl should wonder to herself what the &ldquo;something of
importance&rdquo; could be was but natural.
</p>

<p>
But just then she had neither time nor inclination to wonder overmuch, her
thoughts being almost exclusively taken up by an altogether different matter.
The communication which she hoped to be able to make to her aunts a few hours
hence, far outweighed, in her estimation, anything they could possibly have to
say to her. For had not Launce promised that to-day, on her birthday, to wit,
he would take off the embargo of silence he had imposed upon her, and give her
leave to inform her aunts of their engagement? It was a secret which had
weighed upon her ever since, in response to his persistent entreaties, she had
yielded a reluctant consent to an arrangement so totally opposed to her
feelings and modes of thought. No one but herself could tell how happy she
should feel when it was a secret no longer.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The Miss Thursbys had come to reside at St. Oswyth&rsquo;s when Ethel was about
two years old. She was an orphan, and who, if not they, should take charge of
the parentless girl and bring her up as their own? Even then they were
spinsters of mature age, but beyond silvering their hair in some measure, the
intervening years had changed them scarcely at all. They belonged to that happy
class of persons, with equable tempers, untroubled by dyspepsia and uncorroded
by pessimism, whom Time loves to touch with the gentlest of fingers. He does
not overlook them entirely, but the furrows he traces on their placid brows are
few and far between. And so they go on for years, growing older by gradations
so gentle as to be scarcely perceptible; for, say as we will, the old
scythe-man has his favourites.
</p>

<p>
The sisters, on coming to St. Oswyth&rsquo;s, had bought Vale View
House&mdash;a substantial modern-built mansion, standing in its own pleasant
grounds, but a world too big for the requirements of their unpretentious
establishment. That, however, was nobody&rsquo;s business but their own.
</p>

<p>
There they had settled down, and there, in &ldquo;quiet innocency,&rdquo; it
was their hope to spend the remaining term of their lives.
</p>

<p>
They had a joint income, derivable in part from property left them by their
father, and in part by their brother, of about eight hundred pounds a year. In
addition to their faithful Tamsin, they kept a couple of maid-servants, a cook,
a youth in buttons, and a man who combined the duties of gardener with those of
groom to Flossie, the pony driven by them in their pretty little
basket-carriage. They came of a Quaker stock, but their father had seceded when
they were quite young. They still, however, retained much of the traditional
simplicity of dress and demeanour of their progenitors and
&ldquo;thee&rsquo;d&rdquo; and &ldquo;thou&rsquo;d&rdquo; each other when they
were alone, but rarely, or never, when in the company of others.
</p>

<p>
Be it known, further, that Miss Matilda and Miss Jane were twins, they having
been born within half-an-hour of each other.
</p>

<p>
Owing, however, to some stupid mismanagement on the part of the nurse, they had
got &ldquo;mixed,&rdquo; so to speak, when only a few hours old, and it was not
positively known which of them was the elder.
</p>

<p>
In this embarrassing state of affairs they had long ago&mdash;that is to say,
from the date of their commencing to keep house together&mdash;come to a mutual
arrangement by which they agreed to take it in turns, month and month about, to
enact the part of elder sister, during which time the other deferred to her in
every way, only, in her turn, to occupy the superior position and be deferred
to throughout the following month.
</p>

<p>
It was an arrangement well understood among the circle of their friends and
acquaintance, but, in order that there should be no mistake in the matter, each
in turn, during the month she filled the <i>rôle</i> of elder sister, wore
round her neck, by way of distinguishing token, an old-fashioned gold chain
from which was suspended an equally old-fashioned locket, which, when open,
displayed on one side a miniature of their mother, and on the other a lock of
their father&rsquo;s hair.
</p>

<p>
Thus it came to pass that whenever people visited at Vale View House, or
whenever they were called upon by the sisters, they would nudge each other and
whisper, &ldquo;This is Miss Matilda&rsquo;s month,&rdquo; or Miss
Jane&rsquo;s, according to which of them was wearing the chain and locket; and
to that one they would have been considered by the sisters as lacking in good
manners, had they failed to address her as &ldquo;<i>Miss</i> Thursby,&rdquo;
or to treat her with an added shade of deference as representing for the time
being the head of the family.
</p>

<p>
By every one who knew them, both rich and poor (and to numbers of poor people
they were very well known indeed) the ladies of Vale View were beloved and
respected; although it might be that there were not wanting some would-be
&ldquo;superior&rdquo; persons who smiled to themselves at certain
old-fashioned ways and quaint simplicities of speech and manner which they were
quite incapable of appreciating. But such people are to be met with everywhere.
It was Mrs. Trippington-Fynes, a new-comer at St. Oswyth&rsquo;s, and regarded
as quite an acquisition to the somewhat restricted circle of society in the
little town, who, after having been introduced to the Misses Thursby and
chatted with them awhile, remarked to Mrs. Sandilands, wife of the popular
squire of that name:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you know, my dear, I find them quite too deliciously archaic.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was a phrase that was repeated and taken up, and for many a day afterwards
the sisters were spoken of by one person or another as being &ldquo;quite too
deliciously archaic, don&rsquo;t you know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But we have left Ethel all this time alone in the garden.
</p>

<p>
Following her with our eyes, while she pursues her dainty occupation, what do
we see? A slender supple figure of medium height, every movement of which
betrays an easy unstudied grace with which training has evidently had nothing
to do. A small head crowned with plaits and coils of glossy dark brown hair;
eyes, too, of a brown so dark that unless you are privileged to gaze into them
by sunlight, you would be almost ready to wager that they are absolutely black;
large and luminous, with here and there a tiny fleck of ruddy light, they
respond instantaneously to every fluctuating emotion of the loving, brave,
reverent soul which looks out at you through them. The face, with its candid
brow, its rather short straight nose and the soft curves of its chin, has the
ineffable charm of purity, of equable pulses, of slow-breathing health both of
mind and body; the whole expression is one of sweet, grave steadfastness.
</p>

<p>
To connect Ethel Thursby in one&rsquo;s thoughts with such feminine weaknesses
as a fit of hysterics, or an attack of &ldquo;nerves,&rdquo; would seem as
preposterous as to assume that the man in the moon is afflicted after a similar
fashion. This morning she is wearing a lavender-coloured frock of some soft
clinging stuff which displays to perfection the charming contours of her
figure. Her collarette and cuffs are of lace, woven by a crippled girl in a
neighbouring village, whom Ethel counts as one among the number of her humble
friends.
</p>

<p>
The sound of footsteps on the gravel of the carriage drive breaks up her
reverie. She turns to behold Everard Lisle, and, as she does so, a smile of
welcome illumines her face.
</p>

<p>
The young man in question was the son of the vicar of the parish church of St.
Oswyth&rsquo;s, and had been intended for the medical profession, for which he
had displayed much natural aptitude; but an illness, the result of overwork
while a student in Paris, had left him with weakened eyesight.
</p>

<p>
Having been ordered to give up his studies for a long time to come, and to
confine himself to some outdoor occupation, he had chosen to become the pupil
and, later on, the assistant to an architect and land surveyor in St.
Oswyth&rsquo;s; and so much did his new profession prove to his liking, and so
well did it agree with his health, that at length he definitively decided to
discard the one for which he had originally been intended.
</p>

<p>
Everard&rsquo;s father, the Rev. Harold Lisle, and Sir Gilbert Clare&mdash;at
that time simply Mr. Clare&mdash;had been contemporaries at college, but
strangers to each other previously to a certain afternoon, when it had been the
good fortune of the former to save the life of the latter, who had been seized
with cramp while bathing.
</p>

<p>
From that time they had never quite lost touch of each other, so that when Sir
Gilbert, who always felt that he owed a debt of gratitude to his preserver,
became in want of some one to fill the double post of amanuensis to
himself&mdash;his eyesight having failed him considerably of late&mdash;and
assistant to his land-steward, Mr. Kinaby, whose health was breaking up, he
wrote to the Rev. Harold, offering the position in question to his son, of
whose affairs he had some knowledge, by whom it was gladly accepted. Everard
Lisle, who had now been a couple of months at Withington Chase, had come over
to St. Oswyth&rsquo;s to-day for a special purpose, the nature of which will
presently appear.
</p>

<p>
He had known Ethel Thursby for years, and had loved her as long as he had known
her.
</p>

<p>
They had met frequently, sometimes at his own home, for now and then the ladies
from Vale View took tea with his mother, and sometimes in general society. When
he had first known her she had been still a schoolgirl, and he had told himself
that he could afford to wait till she should be of an age to listen to what he
had to say to her.
</p>

<p>
Then had come the break in his prospects consequent on his illness, after which
he had had to begin the world afresh. Knowing that he would have to rely solely
upon his own exertions&mdash;for his father&rsquo;s living was far from being a
lucrative one and there were several fledgelings still under the parental
roof&mdash;and that some years must necessarily elapse before he would be able
to marry, with rare self-abnegation he determined neither by word nor sign to
betray his love to the object of it till he should have some assured prospect
of being able to ask her to share with him such a home as she was entitled to
expect. To that prospect he had at length attained, and he was here to-day with
the determination to tell her all that he had carefully hidden in his heart for
so long a time. But delays are dangerous in love, as in so many other of the
affairs of life, as Everard was presently destined to find to his cost. He was
a well set-up resolute-looking young fellow, clear-eyed and clear-skinned, and
groomed to perfection; in brief, as far as appearance was concerned, a typical
young Briton of the latter half of the nineteenth century.
</p>

<p>
He was making directly for the house, but the moment he caught sight of Ethel
his face flushed, a sudden sparkle leapt to his eyes, and he at once turned and
made across the lawn towards her. In one hand he was carrying a bouquet of
choice orchids covered up in tissue paper.
</p>

<p>
Ethel, seeing him thus unexpectedly, supposed, naturally enough, that he had
come to spend a brief holiday at home, not troubling herself to remember that
only a couple of months had gone by since he had taken up the duties of his new
position.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is a surprise,&rdquo; she said smilingly as she gave him her hand.
&ldquo;I quite thought you were a hundred miles away at the least. That&rsquo;s
about the distance, is it not, to&mdash;to&mdash;I forget its name&mdash;the
place where you are now living?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They turned together and strolled slowly along.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is about the distance,&rdquo; he smilingly replied. &ldquo;Duty
ought, perhaps, to have kept me at Withington Chase, but inclination has
brought me to St. Oswyth&rsquo;s. I did not forget that this is your birthday,
Miss Ethel; as a proof of which I venture to offer you these few flowers. Will
you deign to accept them with the giver&rsquo;s best wishes for your health and
happiness.&rdquo; As he spoke he stripped the paper off the bouquet and offered
it for Ethel&rsquo;s acceptance.
</p>

<p>
She took it without a shadow of hesitation, first coming to a stand and placing
on the lawn the basket in which she had been gathering her own flowers.
&ldquo;Oh, how lovely&mdash;how exquisitely lovely!&rdquo; she exclaimed with
unfeigned admiration. Flowers such as those were a revelation to her. &ldquo;It
was very very kind of you, Mr. Lisle, to remember my birthday in such a
charming fashion. My aunts will be as delighted as I am. Of course you will
come in and see them now that you are here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Even now there was no dawn of suspicion in her heart as to the real purport of
his visit. Everard&rsquo;s courage sank a little, but he had come all the way
from the Chase to seek his opportunity, and now that he had found it he was not
the man to let it slip through his fingers.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;One moment, if you please,&rdquo; he pleaded. &ldquo;There is something
that I wish particularly to say to you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes?&rdquo; she said interrogatively, turning her gaze full upon him,
with the slightest inflection of surprise in her voice.
</p>

<p>
Then, all at once, she saw that in his eyes which revealed to her what it was
he was about to say to her, and before the clear intense flame of love which
glowed in their depths, her own eyes sank abashed and dismayed. To her it came,
indeed, as a revelation. For a moment or two all the pulses of her being seemed
to stand still. She said to herself, &ldquo;I am dreaming&mdash;presently I
shall awake.&rdquo; Everard took her hand and she did not know it. From her
unresisting fingers he withdrew the bouquet and placed it on the basket at her
feet. It was only when he began to speak that she came to herself. Between the
spot where they were standing and the house a large clump of evergreens
intervened. From none of the windows could they be overlooked.
</p>

<p>
Everard, reading in her face some portion of that which was passing through her
mind, gave her a few moments in which to recover herself; before saying more.
Then, not without misgivings, he resumed:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was more, far more, than merely to congratulate you on your birthday
and offer you a few flowers that brought me here to-day. It was to tell you
that I love you&mdash;that I have loved you in secret for years&mdash;it was to
ask you to be my wife.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A faintly-breathed &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; fluttered from Ethel&rsquo;s lips. She
withdrew her fingers from his clasp gently but firmly. Everard&rsquo;s heart
sank still lower, but he went bravely on:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Many a time before to-day,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;have I been
tempted to speak to you, to tell you what I am telling you now, but it was a
temptation to which I would not yield. I was a poor man with no prospects worth
speaking of; and I would not seek to entangle you in an engagement which might
have to last for years. But, after long waiting, Fortune&rsquo;s wheel has
turned for me, and now&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He ceased abruptly at the touch of her hand on his sleeve. Her large dark
eyes&mdash;and at that moment they looked to him larger and darker than they
had ever looked before&mdash;were gazing into his beseechingly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not a word more&mdash;not one, please, Mr. Lisle,&rdquo; she entreated.
&ldquo;Oh, I am so sorry that you have told me this!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is my telling it you, then, of no avail?&rdquo; he demanded, a little
hoarsely.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Of none whatever,&rdquo; she replied with a slow shake of her head.
</p>

<p>
His eyes scanned her face searchingly and read there but too surely that his
sentence was irrevocable. His chest rose and fell a few times. Not all at once
could he command himself.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So be it,&rdquo; he said at length. &ldquo;We must all bow to the
inevitable. Mine has been the mistake, and mine must be the penalty. I will not
urge you by a word more, because I feel how useless it would be to do so. Nor
will I longer intrude upon your time. We shall always, I trust, meet as friends
in time to come.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would grieve me to think otherwise.&rdquo; Then, as she held out her
hand: &ldquo;Always as friends, Mr. Lisle, come what may.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
With one hand he lifted his hat and with the other he raised her fingers to his
lips.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am so sorry,&rdquo; again broke involuntarily from Ethel.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The sorrow and the regret are for me,&rdquo; answered Everard with a dim
smile as, after touching her fingers with his lips, he released them with a
sort of gentle reluctance. &ldquo;For you I trust there are in store many, many
returns of to-day, each and all of them crowned with happiness.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Half-a-minute later she was alone.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Everard Lisle loves me!&rdquo; she murmured to herself as he disappeared
round a bend of the drive. &ldquo;How strange it seems! And yet, now that he
has told me, I can call to mind a dozen little things, any one of which would
have revealed his secret to me had I not been so blind. How cruel he must have
thought me! how abrupt! And yet what other answer was it possible for me to
give him? None whatever.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It may seem strange, nay, perhaps, almost incredible, to that class of young
women who are in the habit of regarding three-fourths of the eligible bachelors
whom they encounter here and there in society in the light of potential lovers,
that Ethel Thursby had never so regarded Everard Lisle. But so it was. She had
liked him, she now told herself, far better than she had liked any other of the
young men whom she was in the habit of occasionally meeting; but liking is not
love, and besides, Launce Keymer had already whispered certain words in her
ear.
</p>

<p>
Perhaps&mdash;perhaps, if Everard Lisle had been the first to speak, who could
have told what might have happened? Was there some faint premonition in her
heart, as this question put itself to her, that he to whom she had given her
love might, peradventure, prove less worthy of the gift than Everard would have
done?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No&mdash;no!&rdquo; she told herself almost passionately. &ldquo;Dear
Launce is everything&mdash;yes, everything&mdash;that any girl could wish for
in the man she loves.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then she began to cry a little, being all the while indignant with herself
because her tears would come in her own despite. Then with a start she
bethought herself that she had to meet her aunts in the drawing-room at noon,
and eleven had struck long ago. She dried her eyes and took up her flowers.
More than once, as she walked towards the house, her face was hidden in the
bouquet Everard had brought her. What would have been his thoughts had he been
there to see?
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br />
THE EBONY CASKET</h2>

<p>
AT five minutes to twelve the two Miss Thursbys, who prided themselves on their
punctuality, entered the drawing-room together, or rather, to speak more
correctly Miss Matilda entered first, with Miss Jane close on her footsteps,
this happening to be the former&rsquo;s month for enacting the part of elder
sister, as a consequence of which she wore what might be termed the
&ldquo;chain of office&rdquo; with its pendant locket. That something out of
the common was on foot could not be doubted, seeing that at that early hour of
the day the sisters were already attired in their puce-coloured lutestring
gowns, and were wearing their &ldquo;company caps&rdquo; and best lace
mittens&mdash;a conjunction rarely, if ever, witnessed except when some special
visitors were expected at Vale View.
</p>

<p>
Earlier in the day&mdash;before breakfast, indeed&mdash;they had told each
other sadly and for the last time, as if their courage needed stimulating by
reiterated assurances, that a certain revelation must no longer be delayed. It
had been Matthew&rsquo;s&mdash;their dead brother&rsquo;s&mdash;wish that Ethel
should be told on her nineteenth birthday, and with them his wishes had always
been law. And yet it was a grievous thing to have to do. It seemed to them that
after to-day &ldquo;the child,&rdquo; as they still continued to call Ethel
between themselves, could never regard them with quite the same eyes as
heretofore. Very downcast they looked as they sat there on the ottoman, side by
side, waiting for the timepiece to chime the hour of noon.
</p>

<p>
They were tall fair women, thin without being in the least degree angular; with
blue eyes, rather long straight noses, and a slight droop at the corners of the
mouth, which, when they were not engaged in conversation, lent them an
habitually pensive air, although, in reality, they could be sprightly enough on
occasion. When younger they had been noted for their lovely pink-and-white
complexions, and their cheeks still retained the delicate ivory clearness of an
arum lily. If one had been asked to sum up in the fewest possible words the
predominant expression of the twin sisters&mdash;so strangely alike and yet not
without discernible points of difference&mdash;one would have said that it was
a mixture in equal parts of sweetness and goodness, and, in so saying, one
would not have been far wrong. How it had come to pass that two such
women&mdash;or neither of them&mdash;had never married, was one of those
delicate problems which no mere bystander is justified in trying to solve. That
they themselves could have told the reason why, had they chosen to do so, is
scarcely to be doubted.
</p>

<p>
On the centre table stood a quaintly carved ebony casket, clamped with silver
and having a silver plate let into the lid, on which, in Old English
characters, was engraved the monogram, &ldquo;M. T.&rdquo; Tamsin had brought
it in and placed it there a few minutes before the entrance of the sisters.
</p>

<p>
Scarcely had the timepiece chimed the last stroke of twelve when the door
opened and Ethel entered the room. Miss Matilda rose and, crossing to her,
embraced her tenderly, an example which was at once followed by Miss Jane. This
ceremonious greeting, taken in conjunction with her aunts&rsquo; &ldquo;robes
of state,&rdquo; and the presence of the ebony casket, which she had never seen
opened, but which, as long as she could remember, had been known to her as the
depository of Uncle Matthew&rsquo;s papers, all sufficed to convince the girl
that some momentous occasion was at hand. Her cheeks paled perceptibly and her
limbs began to tremble. Then she drew in her breath, called herself a coward,
and asked herself what she had to fear. A moment or two she stood, and then she
seated herself in the pretty fancy-chair which she called her own. It had been
her Aunt Jane&rsquo;s gift on her sixteenth birthday.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear child,&rdquo; began Miss Matilda&mdash;and then she was
compelled to pause for a few seconds before she could continue&mdash;&ldquo;My
dear child,&rdquo; she repeated, &ldquo;your Aunt Jane and I have asked you to
meet us in order that we may reveal to you certain circumstances connected with
your early history of which you have heretofore been kept purposely in
ignorance, but which it was the desire of our dear brother should be made known
to you on your nineteenth birthday. That day has now arrived, and we are here
in order to carry out our brother&rsquo;s wishes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Miss Matilda paused again, and glanced at her sister, who responded by an
encouraging nod, as much as to say, &ldquo;Very nicely put, indeed.&rdquo; Miss
Matilda resumed:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear Ethel, you have been brought up to call my sister and me by the
title of Aunt&mdash;and very sweet, as coming from your lips, it has sounded in
our ears&mdash;and to the world at large you have passed as our niece. But the
time has now come when the truth must no longer be withheld from you. My child,
you are <i>not</i> our niece, nor any relative whatsoever. It grieves me to the
heart to have to tell you this.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Here the spinster&rsquo;s voice quavered and broke; she turned away her face.
Miss Jane was biting her underlip in an effort to keep down her emotion; one of
her hands stole out and clasped a hand of her sister.
</p>

<p>
A low, inarticulate cry broke from Ethel. It was the cry of one not merely
wounded, but stunned. She half rose from her chair and then sat down again and
stared from one to the other, her eyes saying for her that which her lips were
powerless to utter. Then all in a moment her tongue was loosened as if a cord
had been cut. An instant later she was on her knees in front of the sisters,
pressing a hand of each &ldquo;Then, if you are not my aunts, whose child am
I?&rdquo; she cried aloud.
</p>

<p class="p2">
It was a quarter of an hour later. The sisters had mingled their tears with
Ethel&rsquo;s. They had petted and made much of her till some measure of
composure had come back to her. She knew that she had not yet been told all
there was to tell; there was more to follow; but no second shock could equal
the first. The worst was known to her; it could matter little&mdash;-or so just
then it seemed to her&mdash;what still remained to be told.
</p>

<p>
Presently Miss Matilda resumed her interrupted narrative.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Many years ago&mdash;between nineteen and twenty, in point of
fact&mdash;my brother Matthew, by the death of a half-cousin who had made his
home in the United States, came in for a considerable legacy in the shape of
landed property in that country. As a consequence, Matthew deemed it necessary
that he should go out there in order to look after his interests, and he kindly
offered to take my sister and me with him for a holiday. To this day Jane and I
look back to that journey as the one great event of our lives. We remained in
the States about three months, during which time we saw much, both of the
country and the people. In the hope that the longer sea voyage would prove
beneficial to my brother&rsquo;s health, we came back by a sailing vessel named
<i>The Pandora</i>, instead of by steamer, as on our outward journey. It was in
the course of our return voyage that certain events happened in connection with
you, my dear child, having an important bearing on your future; an account of
which, later on, and when he felt that his time in this world was growing
short, my brother embodied in the form of a written statement, which was placed
by him in his ebony casket and the same given into the custody of myself and
sister a few hours before he breathed his last. It is that statement which I
shall now proceed to place in your hands and which it has become your duty to
open and read.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As she finished speaking, Miss Matilda rose and having selected one of the keys
which hung from her chatelaine, proceeded to unlock and open the casket, which
proved to be full of legal-looking documents&mdash;deeds, securities and what
not. From underneath these she presently drew forth an oblong envelope which
she handed to Ethel. It was fastened on one side with a large red seal and on
the other was endorsed, &ldquo;To my adopted Niece. To be opened by her on her
nineteenth birthday, or sooner should my sisters deem it advisable.&mdash;M.
T.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel&rsquo;s hands trembled in spite of her. She looked at Miss Matilda with a
pitiful smile. &ldquo;Will not you open it and read it for me, dear
aunt&mdash;if&rdquo;&mdash;with a little sigh&mdash;&ldquo;I may still be
allowed to call you by that name?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My child, it is <i>your</i> place, nay, your duty, to open it and read
what you will find written therein;&rdquo; adding, with a touch of that
old-fashioned phraseology which became her so well: &ldquo;And I have never yet
found my Ethel unresponsive to the call of duty.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel said no more, but at once broke the seal and drew forth the enclosure,
which consisted of a double sheet of letter paper closely covered with writing
in a bold, masculine hand. The sisters, sitting bolt upright, one mittened hand
laid across the other, looked on in silence. Having laid aside the envelope and
straightened out the enclosure, Ethel said to Miss Matilda: &ldquo;Do you wish
me to read it aloud?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear, that is entirely a matter for your own judgment. My sister and
I are already cognisant of the contents, our brother having permitted us to
peruse the paper previously to sealing it up.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Still, I think I should prefer to read it aloud.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As you please, my love.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A faint wintry smile lighted up the faces of the sisters. It was perhaps
because they were so sad at heart that they smiled. It is a way their sex
sometimes have.
</p>

<p>
Without further preface Ethel began to read:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;M<small>Y DEAR</small> C<small>HILD</small>,&mdash;When these lines meet
your eye the hand that penned them will be dust.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Having reason to feel assured that my remaining span of life will be a
brief one, I have deemed it best, in your interests, and with a view to any
contingencies which may arise in the future, to draw up a clear and succinct
statement of the circumstances which first served to bring you under the notice
of my sisters and myself, and led to our taking charge of you, temporarily, as
we thought at the time, and ultimately to your adoption by us.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In the autumn of the year 18&mdash; my sisters and I, after a brief
sojourn in the United States, took passage on our return voyage from New York
to London by the clipper ship <i>Pandora</i>. There were not more than a score
of passengers in addition to ourselves, but among them was a certain Mrs.
Montmorenci-Vane, with her child, a baby about six months old. Her nursemaid,
according to her account, having deserted her within an hour or two of her
coming on board, she engaged a young woman from among the steerage passengers
to look after her child during the voyage. Unfortunately, when the voyage was
about half accomplished, Mrs. Montmorenci-Vane fell overboard one dark night
and was lost. There was no one on the Pandora who knew anything about her; she
was a complete stranger to every one. In this state of affairs, my sisters, who
had their maid Tamsin with them, took upon themselves the care of the drowned
woman&rsquo;s babe for the rest of the voyage, in the expectation that some one
would meet the ship on its arrival&mdash;some relative or friend&mdash;into
whose hands they could transfer it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In point of fact, when the <i>Pandora</i> reached the London Dock it was
met by a thin, shabbily-dressed, consumptive-looking man, who had come to
inquire for his sister, one Martha Griggs. There was no such person on board,
but, by means of a photograph, he recognised his sister in the Mrs.
Montmorenci-Vane, who had fallen overboard. Never did I see a man more utterly
dumfounded than he. His sister had been unmarried. Only a few months before she
had gone out to the States as maid to a wealthy lady, who, a little later, had
died there. She had written to her brother that she was coming home by the
<i>Pandora</i>, and had asked him to meet the ship. But as to why she had
chosen to call herself Mrs. Montmorenci-Vane, why she had gone to the
extravagance of paying for a cabin passage, and whence she had obtained the
child she passed off on board as her own, he professed himself as being utterly
unable to comprehend. That the man&rsquo;s wonder and amazement were genuine it
was impossible to doubt.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He was a poor man, he averred, with a family of his own, and he would
have nothing to do with his sister&rsquo;s child, which, according to his
account, was not hers at all. For anything he cared, it might go to the
workhouse. He went away like a dazed man, with a promise that he would call on
me the next morning; but he failed to do so, and I have never set eyes on him
from that day to this.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That the child thus strangely thrown on our hands should be committed to
the tender mercies of the workhouse was not to be thought of. For the time
being it was put out to nurse, where my sisters were satisfied that it would be
well cared for. When, a couple of years later, they went to reside permanently
at St. Oswyth&rsquo;s, they took the child with them, they having decided to
adopt it; and, in order that the tongue of idle rumour and scandal might have
no cause to wag, at my persuasion they consented to the innocent ruse of
passing the girl off to the world as their niece.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I need scarcely add that you, my dear Ethel, are the child in question.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In these few lines are summed up the whole of the facts bearing upon
your early history which are known to my sisters and myself. I may, however, be
allowed to record my firm belief that the person who called herself Mrs.
Montmorenci-Vane was not your mother. That, after this length of time, the
mystery of your birth and parentage will ever be cleared up, seems to me
exceedingly doubtful; but even should such prove to be the case, who shall
venture to say that the knowledge has not been withheld from you for some wise
purpose. That, should you be spared, you will grow up to be a comfort and a
blessing to those who have made their home your home, and that you will return
them love for love, I feel fully assured.
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;M<small>ATTHEW</small> T<small>HURSBY</small>.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br />
ETHEL AND TAMSIN</h2>

<p>
When Ethel had read Matthew Thursby&rsquo;s letter to the last word she quietly
refolded the paper and laid it on the table. The sisters were watching her
every movement intently. She wished they would speak&mdash;that they would say
something&mdash;anything. But it seemed as if they were waiting for her to
break the silence. Her eyes turned from one to the other. In their faces she
read nothing save love and compassion. Then, with a sob in her throat, she
spoke.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And I&mdash;the child of a stranger&mdash;a nobody&rsquo;s child, owe
everything to you! But for you I might have starved, or found my only home in
the workhouse! Oh! how can I ever love you half enough? But now I have learnt
this, I feel that I have no longer a right to call this place my home. I must
go out into the world and earn my living. I must strive to&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ethel!&rdquo; exclaimed an austere voice, that of Miss Matilda.
</p>

<p>
There was an inflection in it which the girl had not heard for years&mdash;not
since some juvenile peccadillo had momentarily excited the spinster&rsquo;s
ire. &ldquo;Nothing which has occurred this morning justifies you in adopting
such a tone towards my sister and myself. You seem to forget that what comes as
news to you has been known to us from the first. Why, then, should you assume
that the mere fact of your having learnt certain things to-day for the first
time should have the effect of abrogating arrangements which have been in
existence for a longer period than you can remember?&rdquo; Miss
Matilda&rsquo;s style in her more didactic moments was unconsciously modelled
to some extent on that of her favourite authors, the English essayists of the
eighteenth century.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Forgive me for speaking as I did,&rdquo; pleaded Ethel, with eyes that
were blinded with tears. &ldquo;But, indeed, I am so overcome by what you have
told me, and what I have just read, that I know not either what to say or what
to do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There is nothing for you to do&mdash;nothing whatever,&rdquo; said Miss
Matilda, still with a touch of peremptoriness.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And perhaps, my dear, if you were to say as little as possible just now,
it might be as well,&rdquo; interposed Miss Jane for the first time. Then
turning to her sister, she added: &ldquo;The poor child needs a little time to
recover herself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There I agree with you, and I think the best thing she can do is to go
and lie down for an hour.&rdquo; Then to Ethel, with a sudden softening of the
voice, she said: &ldquo;Child, child, cannot you understand that, despite all
you have learnt to-day, nothing is to be changed&mdash;that you are still to be
our niece, and we are still to be your aunts, and that everything is to go on
precisely as before? Vale View will continue to be your home, as it has been
for as long as you can remember, and you must never again hint at such a thing
as going out into the world to earn your living, unless you wish your aunts to
believe that you have ceased to care for them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And,&rdquo; added Miss Jane, with one of her sweetest smiles,
&ldquo;that you are tired of living under the same roof with two humdrum old
women.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
What reply Ethel would have made will never be known, because at this juncture
there came a tap at the door, which was followed by the appearance of
Charlotte, the parlourmaid, carrying a salver with a card on it. &ldquo;If you
please, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said the girl, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve shown the lady
into the morning-room.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Tell Mrs. Lucas Dexter that I and my sister will be with her almost
immediately,&rdquo; answered Miss Matilda, after a glance at the card.
</p>

<p>
As the girl left the room by one door, Ethel stole softly out by another.
</p>

<p>
The sisters looked at each other. It was a look which said, as plainly as words
could have done, &ldquo;How very fortunate that we happen to be wearing our
puce lutestrings and our best caps this afternoon!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The Hon. Mrs. Lucas Dexter was one of the great ladies of the neighbourhood,
and had never condescended to call at Vale View but twice before, on both of
which occasions she had contrived to extract a small cheque from the sisters.
Indeed, it was a peculiarity of hers never to call upon anyone who was not
quite in her own set, or whose position in the social scale, which in small
provincial centres is marked by so many gradations, was admittedly below her
own, without making them pay for the privilege in the shape of a subscription
to one or other of the benevolent schemes in which she professed to be
interested. Those among the small gentry of St. Oswyth&rsquo;s, and such of the
professional people as were tolerably well-to-do, would have been pleased to
have the Hon. Mrs. Lucas Dexter call upon them twice as often as she did, and
would have looked upon the two or three guineas of which each of her visits
depleted them as money well laid out, in so far as it had been the means of
securing her presence for a quarter of an hour in their drawing-rooms. But
there were others, to whom every guinea was an object, who would have been glad
if she had passed them by altogether, and who groaned in spirit, while smiling
a sickly smile, when the inevitable tablets and pencil were produced, and Mrs.
Dexter, fixing her victim through her <i>pince-nez</i>, said, with that
stand-and-deliver air which few people were found bold enough to resist:
&ldquo;And pray, what sum shall I have the pleasure of putting down opposite
<i>your</i> name?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Although Miss Matilda had advised Ethel to go and lie down awhile, the latter
had no inclination for anything of the sort. Instead, she went in search of
Tamsin, and found her in her own room, an apartment situated between the
dressing-rooms of the sisters, and having a door which opened into each of
them. Tamsin had been on board the <i>Pandora</i>, when Ethel&rsquo;s supposed
mother had lost her life, and had a knowledge of all the events connected with
that far-off time. Ethel could talk to her and question her, as she could not
talk to or question her &ldquo;aunts,&rdquo; and there were half-a-score things
she was burning to hear about.
</p>

<p>
Tamsin was sitting in her favourite spot, on the broad, low, cushioned
window-seat of her room. She was crooning to herself one of the quaint hymns
she had learnt at her mother&rsquo;s knee half a century before. She had a
short, rather dumpy figure, and very homely features. Her eyes were at once
shrewd and good-humoured, and she had a very pleasant smile. Her still
plentiful grey hair was crowned by a plain net cap, with goffered frills, bound
over the crown of the head with a broad black ribbon. In age she was some three
or four years older than her mistresses, whose service she had entered soon
after they left school, and with whom she had remained ever since. Tamsin was
famed for her skill as a needlewoman, and this afternoon she was engaged on
some fine sewing, which it was her pride to be still able to see to do without
the aid of spectacles.
</p>

<p>
Ethel burst into the room, and before Tamsin knew what had happened, she found
herself being violently hugged.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know all!&rdquo; exclaimed the girl. Next moment she corrected
herself. &ldquo;No, not quite all, but much&mdash;a great deal. I have just
been reading Uncle Matthew&rsquo;s letter, written a little while before he
died, with directions that it should be opened by me on my nineteenth birthday.
And to think that you&mdash;you dear, but artful old thing&mdash;have known all
these years everything there is in the letter, and yet have never breathed the
least hint that I was somebody altogether different from the Ethel Thursby I
have always believed myself to be!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The secret was not mine, dearie,&rdquo; replied Tamsin, as she pulled
her cap into shape. &ldquo;What would my mistresses have thought, if by as much
as a single word, I had betrayed their trust in me? No, no, it was far better
for you in every way, that you should be told nothing about these things till
you were grown up. You would only have kept on bothering your child&rsquo;s
brain to no good purpose.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But, oh! Tamsin, to think that my aunts are not my aunts, and that I
have no more right to bear their name than the veriest beggar that walks the
streets!&rdquo; There was that in her voice which told the elder woman that her
tears were very close to the surface.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Listen, honey,&rdquo; said Tamsin, as she stroked the girl&rsquo;s brown
hair fondly. And thereupon, only in different words, and homelier phraseology,
she proceeded to state the case to almost the same effect that it had been
stated by Miss Matilda already. The mere fact that a certain piece of
information, hitherto, for wise reasons, kept from her, had been told her
to-day, did not and could not in the remotest degree affect the relations which
had existed for so long a time between herself and her supposed aunts. They had
chosen to adopt her as their niece when she was an infant, and such she would
continue to be to them so long as it should please Providence to leave
unsevered the thread of their earthly existence. She, Ethel, must strive to
forget that Miss Matilda and Miss Jane were not her aunts in reality, and must
continue to regard them in precisely the same light that she had always done.
</p>

<p>
Ethel sat awhile in silence after Tamsin had finished speaking. Then she said:
&ldquo;Just now it all seems so strange and incredible to me, that I find it
almost as hard to believe as I should one of the fairy tales I used to read
when a girl. In time, no doubt, I shall get used to it, so that it will seem as
if I must have known of it all along; but that will not be to-day, nor
to-morrow.&rdquo; A sigh broke from her. She sat staring out of the window
without seeing anything of that which her eyes rested upon.
</p>

<p>
Presently she resumed: &ldquo;But now that I have been told so much, I want to
know more. There are several questions, Tamsin, which I do not care to ask my
aunts, but which I don&rsquo;t in the least mind asking you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Tamsin screwed up her mouth, but said nothing. It altogether depended on the
nature of the girl&rsquo;s questions whether they would be answered by her or
no.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;First of all,&rdquo; resumed Ethel, &ldquo;Uncle Matthew, in his letter,
states it as his belief that the&mdash;the person who passed me off on board
ship as being her child was not in reality my mother, but he omits to give any
reason for such a belief. You were there. Can you tell me what his reasons
were, or what was your own belief in the matter?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Tamsin&rsquo;s needle stopped in the middle of a stitch. She did not reply at
once, but seemed to be considering within herself in what terms she should
answer the question.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My belief was the same as Mr. Matthew&rsquo;s,&rdquo; at length she
replied. &ldquo;Mrs. Vane had not been two days on board before I said to
myself, &lsquo;It&rsquo;s very strange to me if that woman is that
child&rsquo;s mother.&rsquo; It was not merely that she didn&rsquo;t seem to
care about you, and was never so pleased as when you were out of her sight, but
from a score of different things, each a trifle in itself, that I so judged
her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Was she&mdash;was she a lady?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Tamsin shook her head. &ldquo;She was not what <i>I</i> should call a lady, and
I think I know a real lady when I see one as well as most people. She was not
at all bad-looking, but as full of vanity as a peacock. Even at breakfast-time
she always appeared in a silk or satin gown, with a lot of jewellery about her,
which is not what ladies are in the habit of doing. Then, she used to make
little slips in her talk, so that one could form a pretty good guess that her
bringing up had been nothing particular. Her greatest delight was to flirt and
carry on with the unmarried gentlemen on board, who used to encourage her in
every way they could think of; just to make fun of her afterwards among
themselves. But, with all her faults, hers was a dreadful fate&mdash;poor
thing! To be laughing and giggling one minute, and playing off; as she
supposed, one admirer against another, and the next to be overboard in the
great black waste of waters! One wild despairing shriek came borne to our ears,
and then all was silence. Oh, it was terrible!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There was a long pause, and then Tamsin said: &ldquo;I suppose, dearie, that
Mr. Matthew in his letter told you about a certain person coming to the ship
and inquiring for his sister, and of his recognising her in a photograph of
Mrs. Vane which was shown him?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel nodded assent.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you would also be told how the man in question stated that his
sister had gone out as lady&rsquo;s-maid only a little while before, that she
was unmarried, and that it was impossible you should be her child?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Uncle Matthew&rsquo;s letter told me all that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then, do you think, yourself, that any further evidence is needed to
prove that, whoever else&rsquo;s daughter you may be, you are not the child of
the woman who called herself Mrs. Montmorenci-Vane?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose it must be as you say,&rdquo; replied Ethel. &ldquo;So that
the mystery of my birth remains as much a mystery as ever, and, after all these
years, there is very little likelihood of its ever being solved.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And if it has been kept from you, you may rely upon it that it has been
for the best. How can you tell from what unhappiness, from what unknown
dangers, you may have been saved? Instead of encouraging vain dreams about a
past which is locked up from you, try to reckon up by how many blessings you
are surrounded. Think what a happy girl you are, or ought to be, in comparison
with what you might have been, and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, you dear old Tamsin, don&rsquo;t for one moment get it into your
head that I am anything but grateful and thankful from the bottom of my heart
for&mdash;for&mdash;oh, for everything!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She had flung her arms round Tamsin&rsquo;s neck, and she now cried softly on
her shoulder for a minute or two.
</p>

<p>
Presently she looked up with an April smile. &ldquo;What a weak, foolish girl
you must think me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;But I have shed my last tear now for
ever so long to come. I feel as if there&rsquo;s not another left for anybody.
So, now tell me this: If nobody knows whose child I am, nor where I came from,
how is it known that to-day is my nineteenth birthday?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is very easily answered. It was on the 14th of November that Mrs.
Vane brought you on board the <i>Pandora</i>. She told more than one person
that you were just six months old, so that, if she spoke the truth, you were
born sometime about the 14th of May in the same year, and that was the date
which Mr. Matthew afterwards decided should be kept as your birthday.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So that, besides so many other things, I owe my birthdays to Uncle
Matthew. And what happy days they have always been! How I wish he had lived to
see the child grow up on whose head he showered so many kindnesses! And now,
Tamsin, the next thing I want to know is, who it was that gave me the name of
Ethel.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was the name Mrs. Vane called you by, so, of course, there was no
thought of changing it later on; but whether it was your real name, or only one
the poor woman had taken a fancy to call you by, she alone could have told us.
But see, there goes Mrs. Lucas Dexter&rsquo;s carriage! You had better run away
now, honey. The bell will be almost sure to ring for me in a minute or
two.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
It is still the same day. The early dinner is over, and Ethel is again
strolling by herself in the grounds. She feels that she wants to be alone. As
yet, she can scarcely realise the news her birthday has brought her. As yet, it
all seems so strange and incomprehensible. It is as if an earthquake had shaken
the foundations of her life, leaving nothing stable or steadfast around her.
Her aunts have said that everything is to go on as before, that not a word is
to be said to any one. But one exception there must be&mdash;she must tell her
lover&mdash;she must have no secrets from him. Perhaps, when he learns that she
is a waif, a child of unknown parentage, and without a home other than that
which charity has afforded her, he will&mdash;&mdash; But no; not even in her
inmost thoughts will she so far wrong him as to deem him capable of that.
</p>

<p>
There is a hillock in the grounds, from the summit of which, a stretch of high
road leading to the town is visible. More than once she climbs it to look out
for her lover. At length she discerns him in the distance and her heart begins
to flutter like a frightened bird in its cage. Presently she takes out her
handkerchief, and waves it as a signal to him. He sees it and waves his hat in
return. Then she runs down the hillock, and so times herself that at the moment
he opens the side door, which admits people on foot to the grounds of Vale
View, she is there to meet him.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br />
LAUNCE KEYMER</h2>

<p>
Launce Keymer was a good-looking young fellow, with an insinuating manner and a
plausible tongue. Being possessed of so many advantages, it was scarcely to be
wondered at that he was extremely popular among the marriageable young ladies
of St. Oswyth&rsquo;s and its neighbourhood. He was the son of a local brewer,
and assisted his father in the business. He had been spoiled and indulged while
young, and, as an only son, had been allowed a free rein in his extravagances.
But, with a second family growing up, and an expensive wife half his own age,
the elder Keymer found it a difficult matter nowadays to meet Launce&rsquo;s
frequent demands on his purse. In short, the only thing left for the latter to
do&mdash;and it was a point as to which both father and son were in thorough
accord&mdash;was to marry a girl with money.
</p>

<p>
Now, it so happened that Keymer <i>père</i> had a cousin, who was a clerk in
the office of Mr. Linaway, the chief lawyer in St. Oswyth&rsquo;s&mdash;a man
with a large family and a very limited income, whom the brewer had more than
once been able to help, at little or no cost to himself. This cousin, Tuttle by
name, not ungrateful for past favours, and with an eye, perhaps, to any which
the future might have in store for him, and having some reason to believe that
Launce was looking out for a wife with a fortune, determined to do the brewer
what he termed &ldquo;a good turn,&rdquo; in confiding to him a certain
professional secret which he had learnt by accident, and of which he was
supposed to be wholly ignorant.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The very man I&rsquo;ve been wanting to see for the last week or
more,&rdquo; said Tuttle to the elder Keymer, next time they met. &ldquo;Rather
a curious thing happened to me about ten days ago, which I want to tell you
about. I&rsquo;ll turn and walk part of the way with you, if you don&rsquo;t
mind. Well, you must know that one forenoon I had occasion to visit the strong
room which opens out of the governor&rsquo;s private office, in order to obtain
some title-deeds which were wanted, but which I was not at once able to find,
owing to their having been misplaced. While thus engaged, the governor rang his
bell for Mr. Dix, the managing clerk. I suppose the old boy, who is beginning
to break up, and whose memory fails him strangely at times, had quite forgotten
that I was there within hearing. But be that as it may, he proceeded to give
Dix instructions for the drawing up of a couple of wills, the particulars of
which he was to keep strictly to himself. The wills in question were those of
the two Miss Thursbys of Vale View House. The governor talks in a low voice,
and mumbles a good deal, so that I was not able to catch all he said; but I
picked up enough to satisfy myself that, with the exception of a few hundreds,
to be distributed amongst various charities, an annuity to an old servant, and
a few minor legacies, the whole of the property of both sisters is bequeathed
to the young lady known as Miss Ethel Thursby&mdash;their niece, I believe she
is. Of course, I can only make a rough guess as to the value of the property in
question, which seems to consist chiefly of securities of various kinds; but
there&rsquo;s no doubt in my mind that, if realised, it would mount up to a
respectable number of thousands. That being the case, Cousin Bob, it might be
worth your boy&rsquo;s while to make up to the heiress, who is, I believe, a
very pretty girl into the bargain. But not a word to a soul of what I&rsquo;ve
just told you, unless you want me to lose my berth and be ruined for
life.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The hint thus afforded was too precious not to be followed up and acted upon.
</p>

<p>
Launce Keymer had already been introduced to Ethel, he having met her on two or
three occasions at garden parties and other gatherings of young people. He had
admired her for the time being, as he admired every pretty girl he met, and had
thought no more about her. Truth to tell, Ethel was not the kind of girl to
attract more than a passing glance of admiration from the brewer&rsquo;s son.
She was too quietly dignified and &ldquo;stand-offish&rdquo;; she was lacking
in dash and &ldquo;go&rdquo;; she was one of those girls whom he felt
instinctively it would be unwise to talk slang to; there was something about
her which, when in her company, compelled him to be upon his best behaviour; he
never felt quite what he termed &ldquo;at home&rdquo; with her; as a
consequence of which, while always smilingly polite to her, he had rather
shunned than sought her society.
</p>

<p>
When the brewer had told his son that he must either change his mode of life,
or marry a girl with money, the latter had pertinently asked: &ldquo;Where am I
to find her?&rdquo; That there was an overplus of marriageable young women at
St. Oswyth&rsquo;s, as there is in all small provincial towns, was a melancholy
fact which could not be gainsaid, nor that many of them were nice girls,
carefully brought up, well educated, and in every way fitted to make a
reasonable man happy; but, alas! they were one and all comparatively poor.
Several of them had small dowries, and would inherit something considerable at
the death of their parents; but &rsquo;tis ill waiting for dead men&rsquo;s
shoes, and Launce Keymer&rsquo;s needs were those of the immediate future.
Meantime, while waiting for the coming heiress, he flirted to his heart&rsquo;s
content, but, so far as was known, contrived to steer clear of any serious
entanglement.
</p>

<p>
And now, lo and behold! the heiress was here&mdash;had been here, at his elbow
all the time, without his having had the least suspicion of the fact.
</p>

<p>
No long time was allowed to elapse after the interview between Mr. Keymer and
his cousin before Launce began to seize every opportunity that came in his way
to pay assiduous court to the heiress of Vale View. There was a good deal of
quiet gaiety in St. Oswyth&rsquo;s that winter and spring, and they met on a
number of occasions. It is not needful that we should linger over what came to
pass. Launce, with a cleverness which, in a better cause, would have done him
credit, did his best to adapt himself to what he called Ethel&rsquo;s
&ldquo;Quaker-like ways,&rdquo; toning himself down, so to speak, when in her
presence, content to feel his way gradually, and not to startle her by too
premature a declaration of his love, or what he wished her to regard as such.
As already stated, he was both handsome and plausible. Ethel had never had such
attentions paid her by any one else, and, almost before she knew what had
befallen her, her heart had capitulated. When he had, as he conceived,
sufficiently paved the way, Launce seized an opportunity to press his suit with
well-simulated ardour, and succeeded in winning from the shrinking girl a
half-reluctant consent, which, as soon as the glamour of his presence was
removed, sent her to her chamber, there to shed tears which had in them a sting
of poignant regret.
</p>

<p>
But she had passed her word, and she was too loyal to attempt to recall it. As
the days went on, she strove to persuade herself that she had not made a
mistake, but that she really did love Launce, and it may be that she gradually
succeeded in hoodwinking herself into such a belief. Yet at times there was a
strange aching void in her heart which puzzled and frightened her. She had
always understood that when people were in love it was for them a season of
unalloyed happiness; but she, alas! was far from happy.
</p>

<p>
And then there was that hateful promise which Launce had extracted from her,
not to speak of their engagement to any one till he should give her leave to do
so. It was only for a few weeks, he told her, probably a month at the most,
that he asked her to keep unbroken silence. Private reasons of an imperative
nature compelled him to ask this favour at her hands. She had yielded to his
importunity, but none the less did she realise how disloyal it was on her part
to have a secret&mdash;and such a secret&mdash;locked up from her aunts.
</p>

<p>
The fact was that Launce Keymer, unknown to his father, or any one at St.
Oswyth&rsquo;s, had for some time past been making love to a pretty nursery
governess at Dulminster, the county town, a dozen miles away, to which place he
ran over by train on a couple of evenings in each week. Furthermore, he had
been infatuated enough&mdash;and he now reviled himself in bitter terms for his
folly&mdash;to write her a number of compromising letters, such as if produced
in an action for breach of promise would infallibly land him in heavy damages.
He knew that Hetty Blair had more than one correspondent in St. Oswyth&rsquo;s,
and that, if the news of his engagement with Ethel Thursby were once made
public, it could scarcely fail to reach her ears. Not that he would have minded
that in the least, if Hetty had only burnt or otherwise destroyed those fatal
letters. But, as he was well aware, she had done nothing of the kind. He had
seen them with his own eyes, tied round with white ribbon, where they lay in
the girl&rsquo;s old-fashioned workbox which stood on the top of the bureau in
her mother&rsquo;s little parlour, and his object was to get them back into his
own hands before his engagement to Ethel got noised abroad. That once
accomplished, he felt that he could afford to snap his fingers at Miss Hetty
Blair.
</p>

<p>
It may seem strange that such a cool, calculating, mercenary fellow as Launce
Keymer should so far have run counter to all the principles by which it was his
ambition to regulate his life as to permit himself to fall in love with a young
person who was compelled to work for her daily bread. But it was just one of
those things which occasionally come to pass, as if to upset all one&rsquo;s
preconceived notions of what we poor mortals think ought to happen, and to
prove by what contradictory impulses hearts the most calculating and
unemotional are sometimes swayed, as by a force they are powerless to resist.
</p>

<p>
Hetty Blair was a pretty brunette, with sparkling black eyes, full ripe lips,
and a vivacious, not to say saucy, manner. She was genuinely in love with
Keymer, and jealously miserable, although she strove to hide the fact from her
lover, because for five evenings out of seven she saw nothing of him, and had
no assurance that he was not making love to some one else at St.
Oswyth&rsquo;s&mdash;which was precisely what he was doing.
</p>

<p>
Miss Blair, who at this time was filling the post of day-governess to the two
young children of a major on half-pay, had her home with her mother in a little
cottage in a suburb of Dulminster. Keymer was in the habit of visiting Hetty
twice a week, on Wednesdays, when the girl&rsquo;s pupils were allowed a
half-holiday, and on Saturdays, when business with the young brewer was over at
an early hour; consequently, when he made an unexpected appearance at the
cottage on a certain Thursday afternoon, when he was fully aware that Hetty was
from home, Mrs. Blair could not refrain from expressing her surprise. His
explanation was, that having to come to Dulminster on business for his father,
he could not resist the temptation of arranging a little surprise for Hetty.
Accordingly, he had brought her a bouquet of hothouse flowers, and one of those
delicious Madeira cakes of which she was so fond, and if Mrs. Blair would so
far oblige him as to step upstairs, where she kept her little cellaret, and
bring down one of those half dozen of choice bottles of port he had once sent
her, he should feel that his little surprise was complete.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Blair did not object in the least. She had a weakness for port, as Launce,
who was a great favourite with her, was quite aware. Accordingly she trotted
slowly upstairs, for she was somewhat infirm, leaving Keymer alone, smoking his
cigar in the little parlour, and he was still occupied in the same harmless
fashion when she returned, ten minutes later. But in the interim he had
contrived either to pick or force the lock of Hetty&rsquo;s workbox and obtain
possession of his letters. Presently he took his leave. His father, he
explained, would expect him back by six o&rsquo;clock at the latest; but of
course he should see Hetty as usual on Saturday.
</p>

<p>
It was on the day prior to Ethel Thursby&rsquo;s birthday that Launce Keymer
regained possession of his letters.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br />
HOPES AND FEARS</h2>

<p>
Launce Keymer was radiant as he opened the side door which admitted him to the
grounds of Vale View. He had got back those compromising letters, which had
been the bugbear of his life ever since he had won Ethel&rsquo;s promise to
become his wife. Hetty Blair might rave and storm to her heart&rsquo;s content,
as no doubt she would do, for she was a girl with a temper of her own, but it
was no longer in her power to harm him, and beyond that he cared not at all.
There was nothing now to hinder him from pressing forward his suit with Ethel,
and it should be owing to no lukewarmness on his part if they were not married
before the end of summer. Of course he was quite aware that the wills which the
spinsters had caused to be drawn up in favour of their niece made no provision
for her in the event of her marriage, and would only benefit her after the
demise of one or both of them. But he had seen and heard enough of the Miss
Thursbys to imbue him with a feeling of all but absolute certainty that they
would not fail, on her marriage, to liberally dower the girl who was destined
ultimately to succeed to the whole of their property&mdash;always provided that
she married in accordance with their wishes, and he had far too good an opinion
of himself to fear that his suit would meet with any discouragement at their
hands. In any case, the risk of his wedding a dowerless wife was one which, in
Ethel&rsquo;s case, Keymer was fully prepared to face; indeed, to him it seemed
an almost infinitesimal one.
</p>

<p>
Master Launce gave a well-feigned start of joyful surprise when, on opening the
green door, he found Ethel waiting for him just inside it, although he had
quite expected to find her there. An instant later she was imprisoned in his
arms, while half-a-dozen passionate kisses were imprinted in quick succession
on her flaming face. One cool kiss on a coyly proffered cheek was the utmost
she had ever conceded her lover before. Never had he ventured to put his arms
around her till to-day. When he released her she stood panting and indignant,
and half inclined to cry. But Launce only looked at her with laughing eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I could not have helped it, darling, had it been to save my life,&rdquo;
he said. &ldquo;For one thing, it is your birthday, and surely on such an
occasion a lover&rsquo;s kisses are the sweetest congratulations he can offer.
And then, again, I am the bearer of good news. The need no longer exists for
keeping our engagement a secret. I am here this afternoon to seek an interview
with your aunts, and I trust that by the time we are a couple of days older all
the world of St. Oswyth&rsquo;s will know that you and I are betrothed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel did not reply; she had not yet recovered her equanimity. They had turned,
and were now sauntering slowly across the lawn. Launce&rsquo;s promise to at
once seek an interview with her aunts had served to lift a weight off her
heart, and yet she was conscious of a certain shrinking, not untinged with
regret, now that the time had come when the secret of her engagement would be a
secret no longer. It seemed to her as if the act of telling her aunts would
serve to bind her irrevocably to a promise which till now she had felt in some
vague sort of way she could have broken had she willed to do so. Now, however,
that power would be lost to her for ever. For better for worse, she had
accepted this man for her life partner, and she must abide by the result. She
told herself that she ought to be very, very glad, and yet, somehow, there was
no glow of gladness at her heart.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am given to understand,&rdquo; resumed Launce presently, &ldquo;that
nowadays young ladies are in the habit of looking for something on their
birthdays much more substantial than mere kisses and good wishes. So, as I have
no desire to be behind other people in such matters, I venture to offer this
little trinket for your acceptance, in the hope that it may sometimes serve to
remind you of the giver.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
While speaking he had drawn from his pocket a pretty bracelet of novel design,
having on it the letter &lsquo;E&rsquo; formed with small diamonds and
emeralds. Mr. Keymer senior had groaned in spirit while drawing the cheque to
pay for it, but, for all that, he looked upon it as money well laid out. Taking
Ethel&rsquo;s left hand in his, Launce proceeded to fix the bracelet round her
wrist. Then raising his hat for a moment, he touched her fingers with his lips
as respectfully as if she had been a princess. It was an effect which had been
duly planned beforehand, as had also the apparently spontaneous embrace on
which he had audaciously ventured at the moment of seeing her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is exceedingly pretty, and you are very kind,&rdquo; murmured Ethel,
as she let her eyes dwell for a moment on his. But, for all that, she felt as
if the bracelet were a manacle.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now,&rdquo; resumed Launce, &ldquo;the sooner I get over my
formidable interview with your aunts, the better it will be for all
concerned.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
His words served like a shock to bring back to Ethel&rsquo;s mind all that had
happened to her since the morning, which the events of the last few minutes had
served temporarily to banish, and to remind her of the painful duty she had
still to perform. There was no way of escape. To have married Launce without
having first made known to him as much of the story of her early life as was
known to herself, would have been disloyal both to herself and him, and that
was a possibility which did not find a moment&rsquo;s lodgment in her thoughts.
All the same, the task she had set herself was none the less a hard one to
fulfil.
</p>

<p>
But there was no time for hesitation. Already Launce had come to a halt. In
another moment he would have turned and bent his steps towards the house. She
laid a detaining hand on his sleeve. &ldquo;Before you see my aunts,&rdquo; she
said in a slightly tremulous voice, &ldquo;I have something of much importance
to reveal to you&mdash;something of which I myself had no knowledge till this
morning.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He turned on her a quick startled look. There was something in the way she had
spoken which convinced him that it was no ordinary young lady&rsquo;s
secret&mdash;such as the confession of some prior girlish romance&mdash;that
was about to be told him. It was quite out of the question that this pure-eyed,
candid-browed, fair young creature could have anything to reveal which could in
any way affect his suit for her hand. It might be that her conscience&mdash;and
that she had a very tender conscience he did not doubt&mdash;troubled her about
some trivial sin of omission, or commission, as to which she felt that she must
take him into her confidence, but at which he, a man, could well afford to
smile, and never give to it as much as a second thought.
</p>

<p>
The look of startled surprise merged into one of his brightest smiles. He
pressed her hand as if to give her confidence. &ldquo;Whatever may be the
nature of what you have to tell me,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you are at least
assured beforehand of my sympathy, should you deem it worthy of
acceptance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She cast on him a grateful look. &ldquo;Here is my favourite walk,&rdquo; she
said. &ldquo;Let us turn into it. It is the most secluded spot in the grounds,
and, as a rule, the gardener and I have it all to ourselves.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It seemed as if she were pitifully desirous of delaying her revelation till the
last possible moment. Now, however, she drew in her breath and took the plunge
which could no longer be avoided. In brief but clear terms she proceeded to
narrate to her astonished listener the details of that romantic episode of
which she had been the baby heroine. She told him all as it had been told to
her; she kept nothing back. Keymer listened with growing uneasiness. He had
drawn one of her hands within his arm, and, as they strolled along, turning and
retracing their steps from one end of the walk to the other, he pressed it
gently to his side from time to time, as if to assure her that the sympathy he
had promised her was hers in fullest measure.
</p>

<p>
There was a little space of silence after she had come to an end. He was
turning over in his mind all that she had just told him, piecing together the
different facts, and making of the narrative a connected whole. Had he
formulated aloud the conclusion he presently arrived at, he would have stated
it thus: &ldquo;The old maids have all along been aware that the girl was no
relative of theirs, and yet, with this knowledge clearly in their minds, they
have chosen to make her their heiress; consequently, the simple fact of their
having told her about certain things, which had previously been kept from her
of set purpose, will in no way serve to alter the disposition of their
property. She will still remain their heiress, and the world at large will not
know otherwise than that she is their niece. Nothing will be changed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Launce&rsquo;s brain worked nimbly on occasions of emergency, and the silence
had not lasted more than half a minute before he flashed on Ethel one of his
most seductive smiles. &ldquo;Darling,&rdquo; he said, in tones the tenderest
at his command, &ldquo;what you have now told me will only serve, if that be
possible, to make you dearer to me than you were before. I assure you that I
appreciate to the full the confidence thus placed in me. It proves what you may
perhaps think stood in no need of proof&mdash;that you have a genuine regard
for me, and unless that warmer sentiment which I trust in your case is not
wholly absent be based on regard and&mdash;and on some measure of esteem, it
can only be likened to one of those shallow-rooted plants which the first
tempest infallibly uproots.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Launce had an excellent memory, and his last sentence had been conveyed bodily
from a novel he had lately been reading. &ldquo;It is just the sort of trashy
aphorism that Ethel would appreciate,&rdquo; he had said to himself, and he had
resolved to retain it in his mind till a suitable occasion should arise for
making use of it. After a scarcely perceptible pause, he resumed:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid you wronged me somewhat in your thoughts in making your
confession, if I may be allowed to call it so, seem such a measure of
necessity. As if any love worthy of the name could be affected, or lessened, by
the fact of your being the child of unknown parents, and owing all you possess
to the kindness of others in no way bound to you by the ties of kindred! I
trust, for the honour of my sex, there are not many men with whom such
considerations would have more weight than a grain of sand.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He spoke with so much earnestness and with such a tone of conviction, that it
was impossible for Ethel not to be impressed by his words. She glanced up into
his face. He was certainly very good-looking, especially just now when his
features were lighted up with what seemed to her like the glow of a chivalrous
and high-souled passion. She told herself that he had never been so dear to her
as at that moment. She felt that she <i>almost</i> loved him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was not because I distrusted your affection that I told you what I
did,&rdquo; she said gently, &ldquo;but as a simple matter of right and
justice, in view of the relations that exist between us.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In any case, we may now regard it as an incident that is over and done
with. For my part, I see no need for either you or I ever to refer to it again.
And now, perhaps, I may be allowed to go in search of your aunts and explain to
them the errand which has brought me here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, you have my permission to go now,&rdquo; answered Ethel, with a
smile that was born of a blush.
</p>

<p>
They turned in the direction of the house, parting at a point where the path
divided in two. Keymer took the road to the right, which would bring him out
close to the main entrance of Vale View. Ethel took the one to the left, and
entered the house by way of the conservatory, going straight to her own room,
where she remained alone, lost in a tangled maze of thoughts in which the past,
the present, and the future were inextricably mixed up, till Tamsin knocked at
her door, an hour later, and brought her word that her aunts would like to see
her in the drawing-room.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And there&rsquo;s been a young man shut up with them for sixty minutes
by the clock,&rdquo; added the elder woman as she glanced shrewdly at the girl.
&ldquo;I fancy it&rsquo;s young Mr. Keymer, the brewer&rsquo;s son. I hope
he&rsquo;s not here on your account, honey. I had a good look at him when I
took him in a cup of tea half an hour ago. (It&rsquo;s Charlotte&rsquo;s
afternoon off, so I did the waiting myself.) He&rsquo;s fair enough to look
upon, but, oh I my dearie, he&rsquo;s far too smooth-spoken for me&mdash;butter
itself would hardly melt in his mouth: and why does he glance at you sideways
out of the corners of his eyes when he thinks you&rsquo;re not looking? A man
not to be trusted, for all his pleasant tongue. Have heed to an old
woman&rsquo;s instinct, honey, and don&rsquo;t you have anything to do with
him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel was too flustered to reply. She gave Tamsin a look which the latter was
unable to interpret, and then ran quickly downstairs. She paused at the
drawing-room door and pressed her hand to her side for a few seconds. Her heart
was pulsating at railway speed. Tamsin&rsquo;s words rang in her ears. &ldquo;A
man not to be trusted.&rdquo; But she had trusted him and would trust him to
the end! She drew herself up proudly, turned the handle of the door and went
in.
</p>

<p>
It is to be borne in mind that the ladies of Vale View were already acquainted
with young Keymer, they having met him at various social gatherings during the
course of the last year or two. His good looks and <i>debonnair</i> manner had
not failed to prepossess them in his favour, as they did nearly every one with
whom he was brought in contact.
</p>

<p>
There was a small fire in the grate, for the spring evenings were still chilly,
and Launce was standing by it with one elbow resting on the chimney-piece.
Ethel&rsquo;s eyes sought his face for a moment as she entered the room. One
glance at it was enough to tell her that he had won the day.
</p>

<p>
Miss Matilda rose from her chair and met Ethel halfway across the room. Taking
the girl&rsquo;s head between her hands, she drew it forward and imprinted a
tender kiss on the pure young brow.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My love, we congratulate you,&rdquo; she said simply, but her voice
trembled, and the smile that accompanied her words was closely allied to tears.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Can you ever forgive me for having kept it secret from you for four
whole weeks?&rdquo; demanded Ethel tremulously.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; replied Miss Matilda, with a touch of stateliness,
&ldquo;Mr. Keymer has already been good enough to explain that it was only by
his express desire you consented to do so. He had his reasons. Not a word more
is needed.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br />
A RECREANT LOVER</h2>

<p>
The day was two hours older.
</p>

<p>
Launce Keymer had not required much pressing to induce him to accept the
invitation of the ladies of Vale View to join them over their early supper. The
sisters had been used to early hours in their youth, and as they did not
account themselves as being in any respect fashionable folk, they had seen no
reason to alter their ways now they were growing old. In the dining-room the
lamps were lighted and the curtains drawn. The circular table was laid out with
immaculate napery and gleaming silver, with a china centre bowl heaped with
some of the flowers Ethel had gathered earlier in the day, supplemented by
other blooms from the conservatory. Charlotte, deftest of waiting-maids, in her
neat black dress and snowy cuffs and apron, had an eye to the wants of each and
all.
</p>

<p>
Keymer was in the brightest of spirits, and did not allow the talk to flag for
a moment. The sisters had not laughed so much for a long time as they did over
his description of a voyage in bad weather from Boulogne to Folkestone. He was
a capital mimic, and the way in which he hit off the idiosyncrasies of sundry
of those on board was genuinely diverting, without any trace of the vulgarity
to which such a subject so readily lends itself; for Launce Keymer was clever
enough to know where to draw the line in accordance with the class of company
in which he happened to find himself. As for Charlotte, she was several times
compelled to turn her back on the table, and even then was unable wholly to
suppress the giggle with which she could not help greeting some of Mr.
Keymer&rsquo;s sallies.
</p>

<p>
If Ethel did not laugh much, a smile was rarely long absent from her lips,
while there was a sparkle in her eyes and a flush on her cheeks such as, to
those who knew her well, might almost have seemed due to a touch of fever. But,
if such were the case, they had their origin in a fever of the mind rather than
of the body. Was she happy? She could not have told. Had the question put
itself to her, she would have thrust it aside, and have resolutely refused to
answer it. Self-analysis was about the last thing she would have cared to enter
upon just then; indeed, she was far too healthy-minded to indulge much at any
time in introspective moods and fancies. So many surprising things had happened
to her in the course of the day, that she might well be excused for feeling as
if she had not yet recovered her mental equilibrium. She ate scarcely anything,
and to her that scene at the supper-table was almost as unreal as some
phantasmagoria, conjured up by an overwrought brain. What she needed was a long
night&rsquo;s sleep to calm her overheated pulses, and restore the delicate
balance of her nervous system which a crowd of circumstances had for the moment
sufficed to disturb.
</p>

<p>
Supper was just over, but the ladies had not yet risen from the table, when
Fanny, the under-housemaid, entered the room with a letter which had arrived by
the evening post. The letter was addressed to &ldquo;The Misses Thursby,&rdquo;
but, as a matter of course, she took it direct to Miss Matilda, as she would
have taken it to Miss Jane had it not arrived till a fortnight later. Miss
Matilda examined the address and postmark through her <i>pince-nez</i>, which
she did not wear habitually, but only when reading or writing.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It bears the London postmark,&rdquo; she remarked to her sister, across
the table; &ldquo;but the writing of the address is strange to me.&rdquo; Then
turning to Launce, with a smile and a little bow, she said: &ldquo;Have I your
permission, Mr. Keymer?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Most certainly, my dear madam,&rdquo; he replied, with a grave
inclination of the head. Then, while Miss Matilda was occupied with the opening
and reading of her letter, he said to himself, glancing from one sister to the
other: &ldquo;What a couple of queer old frumps they are! They are awfully nice
and good, though, far too good, not to say goody-goody, for the like of me. If
I were compelled to be shut up here, I should be bored to death in a week. I
suppose this place will be Ethel&rsquo;s, when they have gone over to the
majority. Well, by that time, what&rsquo;s Ethel&rsquo;s will be mine, and it
strikes me I could make myself pretty comfortable at Vale View, with a
thousand, or twelve hundred a year. No, on second thoughts, I could never bear
to settle down here. I should let the place and&mdash;&mdash;but what&rsquo;s
up with the old damsel? She looks as if she might be going to have a
fit.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And, indeed, Miss Matilda&rsquo;s face, as she read the letter, had gradually
faded to a dull, ashen hue.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What is it, Mattie, dear?&rdquo; demanded Miss Jane, with a gasp. It was
a proof how much she was moved that she should have addressed her sister before
company by the familiar name of her girlhood.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, aunty, what has happened?&rdquo; broke in Ethel.
</p>

<p>
For answer Miss Matilda pushed the letter across the table to her sister.
&ldquo;Perhaps you had better read it for yourself,&rdquo; she said. Then
turning to Charlotte, she added: &ldquo;You can leave the room till I
ring.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Miss Jane, with fingers that trembled slightly, brought her <i>pince-nez</i>
into requisition and did as her sister had bidden her. &ldquo;What does it
mean?&rdquo; she asked when she had read it through; but there was a frightened
look in her eyes which seemed to indicate that, in part at least, she guessed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It means ruin, sister&mdash;nothing less than ruin,&rdquo; replied Miss
Matilda in her most solemn tones, &ldquo;should what is here stated prove on
further investigation to be the fact.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At the word &ldquo;ruin&rdquo; Keymer&rsquo;s marrow seemed to freeze. If the
sisters were ruined, where, then, would be the fortune which Ethel was to have
inherited as their heiress?
</p>

<p>
For a while no one spoke. What, indeed, was there to say? The shock was of a
kind which words could do nothing to mitigate, and at no time were the sisters
in the habit of giving vent to their feelings in futile exclamations. They were
of the women who suffer mostly in silence.
</p>

<p>
Presently, Miss Matilda, reading in the look with which Keymer was regarding
her what seemed like a note of interrogation, said to herself: &ldquo;It is due
to him that he should be told the particulars of our loss; for is he not now
almost like one of ourselves?&rdquo; With that she handed him the letter.
&ldquo;Oblige me by reading this, Mr. Keymer,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Your
doing so will save me the necessity of a long explanation.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He took the letter in silence.
</p>

<p>
Well might Miss Matilda turn pale when she read it. Briefly stated, the
information it conveyed (afterwards supplemented by her for Keymer&rsquo;s
further enlightenment) was to the following purport: The London solicitor
through whom, and through whose father before him, nearly all the monetary
affairs of the sisters had been managed since the time when they were quite
young women, had recently died. Although Mr. Tidson&rsquo;s cheque for the
interest due on account of the various investments he was supposed to have made
on their behalf had come to hand with the utmost regularity, the securities
which should have represented the investments in question were not now to be
found, and there was only too much reason to fear that the dead man had
surreptitiously disposed of them from time to time and applied the proceeds to
his own use. The letter concluded with an intimation that the sisters should
hear further from the writer in the course of a few days.
</p>

<p>
As Launce Keymer, a little later, walked homeward through the dewy night, the
word <i>ruin</i> rang in his ears like a knell. Ethel Thursby (or whatever her
right name was, or ought to be) was a charming girl, no one more
so&mdash;although, perhaps, a trifle too demure and puritanical for his
taste&mdash;and, as heiress to the spinsters, he would gladly have made her his
wife. But to marry her without a shilling to call her own, either now or in
time to come, was an altogether different affair.
</p>

<p>
Launce lost no time on the morrow in laying the case before his father. That
astute person, having heard him quietly to the end, said: &ldquo;What a very
fortunate thing it is that this news has come to hand now, instead of later on.
Of course the affair must not be allowed to proceed any further till we have
ascertained for a fact whether the old maids are, or are not, ruined. After
all, it is just possible that the missing securities may turn up and nobody be
a penny the poorer. By the way, has the girl any letters written by you in her
possession?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not a single line.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So much the better. Now, what you must do is to disappear from the scene
for awhile. You can run down to Cornwall and stay with your uncle for a week or
two.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But,&rdquo; urged Launce, &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t, with any show of
decency, leave home without either calling on, or writing to Ethel, and giving
some more or less plausible excuse for my absence.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You must neither call nor write,&rdquo; said his father. &ldquo;You had
better start by the three o&rsquo;clock train this afternoon, and have your
right wrist bound up as if the result of a sprain. I will make all needful
excuses for you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Launce Keymer was one of that numerous class of young men who can do with an
unlimited quantity of holidays, and his father&rsquo;s suggestion seemed to him
in every way an admirable one. Accordingly, the three o&rsquo;clock train
carried him away in due course, with his wrist bound up in accordance with his
father&rsquo;s directions; but by the time St. Oswyth&rsquo;s had been left
half-a-dozen miles behind, the bandage was unrolled and flung out of the
carriage window.
</p>

<p>
In the course of the same afternoon a note, addressed to &ldquo;Miss
Thursby,&rdquo; was delivered at Vale View. In it Mr. Keymer senior begged to
inform that lady, that, in consequence of his son having been called away by
telegram owing to the serious illness of a near relative,
he&mdash;Launce&mdash;would not be able to dine at Vale View that day, as
promised. His son would himself have written had he not unfortunately happened
to sprain his wrist so severely that it would be impossible for him to hold a
pen for some time to come.
</p>

<p>
The note made no mention of Ethel, purposely leaving it an open question
whether, before quitting home, Launce had, or had not, confided to his father
the fact of his engagement.
</p>

<p>
Later in the day Mr. Keymer senior made it his business to call on his cousin,
the lawyer&rsquo;s clerk. To him he said: &ldquo;I have reason to believe that
the Miss Thursbys of Vale View have lost the greater part, if not the whole, of
their fortune. What I want you to do is, to keep your eyes and ears open and
pick up whatever scraps of information may come in your way tending to prove
either the truth or falsity of the rumour which has reached me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The brewer argued with himself that if the news conveyed by the letter which
Launce had read should prove to be correct, the sisters would go to his
cousin&rsquo;s employer, as their local man of business, and seek his advice in
the matter&mdash;which, some few days later, was precisely what they did.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br />
CAPTAIN VERINDER AND HIS VISITOR</h2>

<p>
While the events bearing on the life-story of Ethel Thursby, as narrated in the
last few chapters, were duly working themselves out, certain other events
destined to exercise an important influence on her future, the chief factors in
which were two people of whose very existence she was unaware, were in process
of evolution.
</p>

<p>
It was eleven o&rsquo;clock on a bright May morning, and Captain Verinder, who
had only lately risen and had but just finished his breakfast, which this
morning had consisted of nothing more substantial than a tumbler of rum and
milk, was engaged in a rueful examination of the pockets of the suit of clothes
he had been wearing the previous evening.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not a stiver more,&rdquo; he said, with a grimace, as he tossed his
waistcoat across the room; and with that he turned and counted for the second
time the little pile of silver and coppers which he had previously extracted
from his pockets and placed on the chimney-piece. &ldquo;Seven shillings and
elevenpence-ha&rsquo;penny, all told,&rdquo; he muttered; &ldquo;and
there&rsquo;s seventeen days yet to be got through before the end of the
month.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was not the first time by many that he had found himself
&ldquo;cornered,&rdquo; but the process became none the pleasanter through
repetition.
</p>

<p>
He turned away with a shrug, and began to charge his meerschaum with the strong
tobacco he was in the habit of smoking.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When we find ourselves in a hole of our own digging, or in a scrape, the
result of our own folly, we have a way of telling ourselves that the truest
philosophy is to grin and bear it. Of course there&rsquo;s nothing else to be
done, but it&rsquo;s only cold pudding at the best.&rdquo; He spoke aloud as he
had a way of doing when alone. &ldquo;Verinder, my dear boy, if there was ever
any man who sold himself cheap, you were that one last night. Let us hope you
will take the lesson to heart, and not carry your nose quite so high in the air
in time to come.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Having lighted his pipe, he drew his shabby dressing-gown about him and seated
himself in a somewhat dilapidated easy-chair by his open window in Tilney
Street, Soho&mdash;a narrow thoroughfare of tall, old-fashioned houses that had
seen better days.
</p>

<p>
For anything beyond a small assured income of eighty pounds a year, Captain
Verinder had to trust to the exercise of his wits. At this time he was a man of
sixty, rather below the medium height, but still slim and upright for his
years, and with something that might be termed semi-military in his appearance
and carriage. The mental exercise in question took the form of billiards.
Although far from being a fine player, his natural aptitude for the game had
been cultivated by long practice, till he had attained a degree of proficiency
at it which he found to answer his purpose very well indeed. That purpose was
neither more nor less than to haunt the public rooms within a wide radius of
his lodgings, on the lookout for those simpletons with more money than sense,
of whom there is an unfailing supply in big cities, who can only be convinced
at the expense of their pocket that in the art of billiard-playing they have
not yet got beyond their apprenticeship. The Captain regarded it as a very poor
week indeed at the end of which he did not find himself in pocket to the extent
of fifty shillings, or three pounds&mdash;or rather, would have found himself
that sum in pocket but for his ineradicable propensity for treating himself and
others to innumerable &ldquo;drinks&rdquo; and cigars. When perfectly sober, he
was one of the stingiest of mortals, but after his third glass he began to
thaw, and, a little later, the veriest stranger would have been welcome to
share his last shilling. It is a by no means uncommon trait.
</p>

<p>
On the evening of the day prior to the one with which we are now concerned, the
Captain, in the course of his rounds, had encountered a sheep-faced, but
gentlemanly-looking young fellow, in whom he thought he saw an easy prey.
</p>

<p>
What, then, was his rage and amazement when at the end of the evening the
Captain&rsquo;s eyes opened to the fact that it was a case of the biter being
bitten, and that the sheep-faced provincial, instead of being the greenhorn he
looked, was, in reality, a graduate in the same school as himself.
</p>

<p>
Small wonder, then, was it that his thoughts this morning were bitter, when,
after emptying his pockets, he realised that the absurdly inadequate sum of
seven and elevenpence-halfpenny was all that was left him to exist on till the
next quarterly payment of his income should fall due, which would not be till
between a fortnight and three weeks hence.
</p>

<p class="p2">
He was still smoking moodily when he heard his landlady&rsquo;s shuffling
footsteps on the stairs, and, a moment later, her head was protruded into the
room. &ldquo;If you please, Captain, here&rsquo;s a lady asking for you,&rdquo;
said Mrs. Rapp, a Londoner born and bred.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A lady asking for me? Impossible!&rdquo; exclaimed the Captain as he
started to his feet.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not at all impossible, Uncle Augustus,&rdquo; said a full rich voice,
and thereupon, following close upon the heels of Mrs. Rapp, there advanced into
the room a tall and stately female figure, attired in black. Pausing in the
middle of the floor, she raised the veil which had hitherto partially shrouded
her features.
</p>

<p>
The captain stared for a moment or two, and then from his lips broke the one
word, &ldquo;Giovanna!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, it is I&mdash;your niece Giovanna&mdash;come all the way from Italy
to see you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Rapp discreetly withdrew.
</p>

<p>
Notwithstanding her years, which now numbered not far short of forty, Giovanna
was still a very handsome woman, with a large and generous style of beauty
which would have made her a striking figure anywhere. Although she called the
Captain uncle, there was no blood relationship between the two, her mother
having been merely Augustus Verinder&rsquo;s stepsister by a previous marriage.
They had never met but once before, when the Captain had spent a month at the
<i>osteria</i> of Giuseppe Rispani, Giovanna being at that time a girl of
sixteen. Ever since her desertion of her husband in America she had passed as a
widow&mdash;la Signora Alessandro. She had not been without offers of marriage
meanwhile, but had not seen her way to accept any of them. As to whether her
husband was alive or dead, she had no knowledge.
</p>

<p>
Giuseppe Rispani had recently died, and Vanna, having realised the small
fortune bequeathed her by him, had now come to England, which she had long
wished to visit.
</p>

<p>
In the course of the confidential talk that ensued between Vanna and her uncle
she was induced by the latter to relate to him all about her marriage, the
details of which were quite new to him.
</p>

<p>
She began by telling him of the arrival of the young Englishman, Mr. Alexander,
at Catanzaro; of his long stay at the <i>osteria</i> of the Golden Fig; of the
coming of two other Englishmen, one of whom proved to be the father of Mr.
Alexander, and of their departure next day. Then she proceeded to recount how
the young Englishman proposed to her, how she accepted him, and how she did not
learn till her marriage-day that her husband&rsquo;s full name was John
Alexander Clare. She made no mention of her father&rsquo;s discovery by means
of the peephole in the ceiling, but simply said, &ldquo;I knew before my
marriage that my husband&rsquo;s father, on the occasion of his visit, had
given him six thousand pounds in English money.&rdquo; Then she went on to tell
of the departure of her husband and herself for America, of the death of their
child; and of their subsequent separation, which she made out to have been a
matter of mutual arrangement; and wound up by saying, &ldquo;From that day to
this I have heard no tidings of my husband.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Neither, I&rsquo;ll wager, have you ever made any effort to find out who
the father was that could afford to give his son six thousand pounds in order
to get rid of him,&rdquo; remarked the Captain when she had come to the end of
her narrative.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No. What business was it of mine?&rdquo; demanded Vanna with a stare.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, that&rsquo;s just the point which you have never thought it worth
your while to test. Yet, who can say that it might not have proved to be very
much your business indeed?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then to himself he added: &ldquo;This seems to me a little matter which may be
worth inquiring into. But, good gracious! to think that there should be such
imbeciles in the world as this niece of mine!&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br />
THE CAPTAIN TAKES A LITTLE JOURNEY</h2>

<p>
The more Captain Verinder turned over in his mind the chief points of the story
told him by his niece, the more convinced he became that it was indeed, as he
had remarked to himself at the time, a matter worth inquiring into.
</p>

<p>
The Captain, when once he had made up his mind to any particular course of
action, was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet. His first
proceeding was to seek out a certain billiard-room acquaintance of the name of
Tring&mdash;a man who had got through two fortunes in his time and was now
reduced to earning a scanty livelihood by literary hackwork at the British
Museum. Having given him the particulars of the information he required, the
Captain met him by appointment a couple of days later.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The only person I can find,&rdquo; said Tring, &ldquo;of the name
specified by you that seems likely to answer to your requirements, is a certain
Sir Gilbert Clare, of Withington Chase, Hertfordshire, the representative of
one of the oldest titles in the kingdom.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Captain Verinder, having taken a note of the name and address in his
pocket-book and paid the other for his trouble, went his way. His next step,
the following morning, was to call on Giovanna with a request for the loan of
ten pounds.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis not for myself I ask it,&rdquo; he said with one of the
grandiloquent airs in which he sometimes indulged. &ldquo;It will be expended
to the last farthing in your service, my dear. I refrain from saying more at
present, save that in the course of a few days I hope to be the bearer of news
that will&mdash;well, that will astonish you very considerably.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Vanna raised no objection to lending her uncle the amount he asked for,
although by this time she had seen enough of him to feel pretty sure that she
would never see a shilling of it back.
</p>

<p>
In the course of the following day Captain Verinder booked himself by train to
Mapleford, which station he had ascertained to be the nearest to the point he
was bound for. His object was to try to discover whether the John Alexander
Clare whom his niece had married so many years before was in any way related
to, or connected with, Sir Gilbert Clare of Withington Chase.
</p>

<p>
The Captain having located himself at the best hotel, and partaken of a dinner
such as had been altogether beyond his means for a long time past, proceeded to
take a quiet stroll about the little town, which, however, had nothing of
interest to offer for his inspection. Later on he found his way into the
coffee-room of the hotel, which place, as he had expected it would, drew to
itself in the course of the evening a round dozen or more of the better class
of tradespeople and others, all of whom, it was evident, were in the habit of
frequently meeting there. Here he found no difficulty in ascertaining
everything about Sir Gilbert that it concerned him to know. Thus, he learnt
that Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s son by his first marriage had left England, after a
quarrel with his father, more than twenty years before, and that, a few years
later, news had come to hand that he had lost his life through some accident
abroad, only, nobody seemed to know either the nature of the accident in
question, or where it had happened. Further, the Captain learnt that the second
Lady Clare and her three sons were all dead, and that Sir Gilbert, a broken,
childless old man of seventy-four, was living at the Chase in a seclusion that
was rarely broken by any visitor from the outside world.
</p>

<p>
It was on a Friday that the Captain went down to Mapleford, and the following
Monday saw him back in town. He had stayed in the country over Sunday in order
that he might be present at morning service at the church, just beyond the
precincts of the Chase, which Sir Gilbert made a point of attending, and where
several generations of his progenitors were buried.
</p>

<p>
The Captain wanted to see for himself what kind of man Sir Gilbert was. The
latter arrived in due course, alone and on foot, and from the place where he
sat Verinder had an unimpeded view of him. When service was over the Captain
took a stroll round the church, pausing to look at every monument and to read
every inscription commemorative of dead and gone members of the Clare family.
One inscription, and one only, had any special interest for him. It was that
which recorded the death of &ldquo;John Alexander Clare, eldest son of Sir
Gilbert Clare, who was accidentally killed abroad&rdquo; on such and such a
date. &ldquo;I would wager a hundred pound note to a fiver&mdash;if I had
one,&rdquo; said the Captain with emphasis, &ldquo;that this tablet refers to
Vanna&rsquo;s husband and to no one else. It&rsquo;s altogether out of the
question that there should have been two John Alexander Clares living at the
same time. And to think that the young man has been dead for seventeen years
and that his widow has known nothing about it? What a fortunate thing it is for
her that she has got a man of the world like me at her back! From this day
forward her interests and mine are identical.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A jubilant man was Captain Verinder when he went back to London next day.
</p>

<p>
About midday on Tuesday he called on Giovanna at the boarding-house&mdash;one
largely frequented by foreigners&mdash;at which she had located herself for the
time being. That the news of which he was the bearer was a great surprise to
her hardly needs to be stated. It was both a surprise and a shock, for although
she had never really cared for Alec as a wife should care for her husband, and
had left him of her own accord and under most cruel circumstances, through all
the years which had intervened since then his image had been often in her
thoughts, but it was as a man still living and in the prime of life that he had
dwelt in her memory. Consequently, to be told suddenly that he had met with a
violent death seventeen years before, which pointed to a time almost
immediately after her desertion of him, was enough to thrill her through every
fibre of her being.
</p>

<p>
Well, whatever uncertainty she might heretofore have felt with regard to her
husband&rsquo;s fate had no longer any room for existence. She had been a widow
all these years without knowing it.
</p>

<p>
Before long the Captain went on to speak of Sir Gilbert, and to detail all that
he had heard in reference to him. He had always been rather clever as an
amateur sketcher, and could catch a likeness better than most people, and he
now took pencil and paper and with a few bold strokes drew an outline portrait
of the baronet. Pushing it across the table to Vanna, he said: &ldquo;Does that
in any way resemble the English <i>milor</i> who travelled all the way to
Catanzaro to see the Mr. John Alexander who became your husband a little
later?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, that is the man,&rdquo; said Vanna quietly when she had examined
the sketch.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah; I thought as much,&rdquo; remarked her uncle drily.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now that you have found out all this about Sir Gilbert Clare, in
what way does it, or can it, affect me?&rdquo; queried Vanna presently.
</p>

<p>
The Captain regarded her with a pitying smile, as he might a child who had
asked him some utterly preposterous question.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Cannot you see that the fact of your father-in-law being a rich and
childless man may be made&mdash;I say <i>made</i>&mdash;to affect your fortunes
very materially&mdash;very materially indeed? That is,&rdquo; he added a moment
after, &ldquo;if you only know how to put the knowledge thus acquired to a
practical use.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Giovanna shook her head. It was evident that she could not in the least
comprehend what her uncle was driving at.
</p>

<p>
The Captain&rsquo;s shoulders went up nearly to his ears. &ldquo;What a very
fortunate thing it is, my dear, that at such an important crisis of your life
you have by your side a thorough man of the world like myself&mdash;and one so
completely devoted to your interests! Were you my own child I could not
entertain a greater regard and affection for you than I do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Vanna sat grandly unmoved, her statuesque features betraying no slightest trace
of emotion.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As cold as a marble goddess,&rdquo; muttered the Captain under his
breath as he produced his cigar case, for he was a man who regarded smoking as
one of the necessaries of existence.
</p>

<p>
For a little space he smoked in silence; then all at once he said, as if it
were an echo of some thought he had been revolving in his mind: &ldquo;What a
pity, what an enormous pity it is, that your child did not live till
now!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A sudden spasm, gone almost as soon as it had come, contracted the muscles of
Vanna&rsquo;s face; her teeth bit hard into her underlip; but never a word
answered she.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said the Captain a few minutes later; &ldquo;put on your
things and let us go for a stroll in the Park. It&rsquo;s a lovely afternoon,
and there will be no end of swells in the Row.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Nothing loth was Giovanna to comply. As yet she had seen hardly anything of
London, and what she had seen had not impressed her over favourably. It had
been one of the dreams of her life to see Hyde Park in the height of the
season, and now her dream was about to be fulfilled. In ten minutes she was
ready to set out.
</p>

<p>
The Captain chartered a hansom&mdash;it was the first time his niece had been
in one&mdash;telling the driver to take his time and go by way of Regent Street
and Piccadilly. Here at length was London as Vanna had imagined it to be.
</p>

<p>
As the Captain had prophesied, the Row was crowded. They strolled about for a
while in the warm sunshine, and then found a couple of chairs whence they could
take in the varied features of the passing show at their leisure. A proud man
was Captain Verinder that day. In all that gay and fashionable throng there
were not, in his opinion, more than three or four women who in point of looks
were fit to be matched with the one by his side&mdash;that is to say (to
compare one thing with another), if a rose may be considered to be in the
perfection of its beauty when it is fully blown, and not when it is merely a
blushing bud of undeveloped possibilities. Although nearing her fortieth
birthday, Giovanna&mdash;unlike the majority of her countrywomen, who age
early&mdash;was remarkably young-looking for her years. But then she was
English on her mother&rsquo;s side, and that may have had something to do with
the matter. She was wearing a charming half-mourning costume, with bonnet to
match, which she had bought since her arrival in London. Many were the glances
of admiration of which she was the recipient, many the heads that were turned
for a second look at her tall figure, so stately and yet so graceful, with her
pale classic features, clear-cut as some antique gem, as she threaded her way
through the crowd with the proud composed air of one &ldquo;to the manner
born.&rdquo; Well might Captain Verinder feel proud of his charge.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you see that <i>blasé</i>-looking man driving that pair of splendid
chestnuts?&rdquo; he said to Vanna a few minutes after they had sat down.
&ldquo;He is Lord Elvaston, one of the greatest <i>roués</i> about town. He
used to know me well enough before he came into his fortune a score of years
ago, when he was not above borrowing a five-pound note from anybody who would
lend him one. Now, of course, he passes me as if he had never set eyes on me in
his life. But such is the way of the world, more especially of the world of
fashion.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then a few minutes later, &ldquo;Note that painted woman in the too palpable
wig being driven slowly past in her yellow chariot. That is Lady Anne
Baxendale. Her father was only a country rector on three hundred a year. The
rectory grounds adjoined those of the house where I was born. Your mother, when
a girl, and little Nan Cotsmore were great friends. I&rsquo;ve seen them play
skipping-rope by the hour together.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But Verinder had another motive in view in thus introducing his niece to one of
the most striking spectacles which the metropolis has to offer for the
delectation of the strangers within its gates. He wanted to excite in her bosom
a feeling which should be compounded in about equal measure of envy and
discontent&mdash;envy of those who, although, for the passing hour, she seemed
as one of themselves, were yet as far removed from her by their wealth and
position as if she and they were inhabitants of two totally different spheres
(which, indeed, in one sense, they were); and discontent with the humble and
prosaic surroundings of her own obscure existence. If he had read Giovanna
aright, it seemed to him that it ought not to be a difficult matter to foment
within her the very undesirable sentiments in question.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Are you sorry, my dear, that I brought you here this afternoon?&rdquo;
he asked, after a longer pause than common.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sorry! oh no, how could I be? It is a beautiful sight. Nay, it is more
than beautiful, it is magnificent. This is London as I used to dream of
it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But never, I&rsquo;ll wager, with any thought that it might possibly one
day become a reality to you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A reality, you mean, as far as it can become such to one who, like
myself, is a mere looker-on.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When I spoke of its becoming a reality to you, I did not mean merely as
a spectator, but as an actor in the show&mdash;a recognised actor in it and
acknowledged as one of themselves by the &lsquo;smartest&rsquo; people
here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Giovanna turned two deep wondering eyes on the Captain.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You talk in riddles, Uncle,&rdquo; she said quietly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You seem to forget, my dear&mdash;or rather, perhaps, I ought to say
that you fail sufficiently to realise in your thoughts&mdash;the position which
is, or ought to be, yours by right of your marriage with the late John
Alexander Clare. You are the widow of the heir of Withington Chase, the
daughter-in-law of a wealthy baronet of ancient family. As such, your proper
position is there&mdash;there, as one of the glittering throng passing and
repassing before our eyes. You ought to be riding in your own brougham or
barouche, with your own coachman and footman. You ought to be wearing the
family diamonds&mdash;who has so much right to them as you?&mdash;and where is
there another woman who would show them off to better advantage? You ought to
have your own little establishment in town, with your own servants&mdash;say, a
flat of six or seven rooms somewhere in Belgravia, where you could invite your
old uncle to come and see you as often as you might feel inclined for his
company. I repeat, that all these things ought of right to be yours.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Giovanna&rsquo;s nostrils dilated, a hard cold glitter came into her eyes, her
bosom began to rise and fall more quickly than it was wont to do; there was a
chord in her somewhat lymphatic nature which responded to her uncle&rsquo;s
words. Her own diamonds, her own carriage, her own establishment in London,
and, above all, to be transformed from a nobody into a Somebody, and to have
the great world of rank and fashion recognise her as one of themselves! Oh, it
was too much! The vision was too dazzling. A low cry, half of pain, half of
pleasure, broke from her. The Captain was watching her out of a corner of his
eye. But presently a chill struck her and her face blanched a little. Turning
to Verinder, she said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But you seem to have forgotten, Uncle, that Sir Gilbert Clare does not
so much as know of my existence&mdash;nay, the chances are that he was not even
aware that his son was ever married.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I mean him to be made aware both of one fact and the other before he
is very much older,&rdquo; responded the Captain with a sinister smile.
&ldquo;Ah! a spot or two of rain. We had better be moving.&rdquo; Then, as they
rose: &ldquo;There is only one course open to us, Vanna <i>mia</i>,&rdquo; he
whispered meaningly, &ldquo;and that is, to <i>find</i> Sir Gilbert an
heir.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br />
CONSPIRATORS THREE</h2>

<p>
When Captain Verinder enunciated the startling statement with which the last
chapter concludes, he had already conceived a certain scheme in his brain,
which, in the course of next day, he took the first steps towards reducing to
practice, but without saying a word to his niece of his intentions.
</p>

<p>
Many years before, Giovanna&rsquo;s only brother, Luigi Rispani, had come to
London by way of advancing his fortunes. He was energetic and persevering, with
a gift for languages, and after a time he obtained the post of foreign
correspondent in a city house of business. A little later he married a
country-woman of his own, and then, after a few years, both he and his wife
died, leaving one son behind them who was named after his father. This son was
now about twenty years old, a dark-eyed, good-looking, quick-witted young
fellow, but having within him the germs of certain scampish propensities,
which, up till now, had only been able to develop themselves after a weak and
tentative fashion. Luigi earned his living in part as drawing-master to a
number of cheap suburban boarding-schools, and in part, when his other duties
were over for the day, by acting as check-taker at one of the West End
theatres.
</p>

<p>
The Captain and the elder Rispani had been on fairly intimate terms, and after
the latter&rsquo;s death he had never altogether lost sight of the lad.
Sometimes, when he had been more than usually lucky at billiards, he would look
up young Luigi and treat him to a dinner of four or five courses at some
foreign restaurant in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square, and at parting
press a couple of half-crowns into his unreluctant palm. Verinder, who by long
habit had become a tolerably shrewd reader of character, had long ago summed up
in his mind the most salient characteristics of Luigi Rispani, and he now said
to himself, with a pleasant sense of elation: &ldquo;Here is the very tool I
need ready to my hand. If I were to search London round I could not find one
that would suit my purpose better.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This evening he sought out Luigi at the theatre where the young man was
engaged, and after shaking hands with him, said: &ldquo;I wish to see you most
particularly. Come to my den after you have finished here and I will tell you
what I want you for.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi went straight from the theatre to his uncle&rsquo;s rooms. (As long as he
could remember he had been used to calling the Captain &ldquo;uncle&rdquo;).
The ghostly light of dawn was in the eastern sky before the two separated. The
nature of the business discussed by them will be made clear by a conversation
which took place next day between the Captain and his niece.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have not forgotten our talk in the Park the day before
yesterday?&rdquo; said the former.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There was much in it which I am not likely readily to forget. All the
same, you said certain things which, the more I think of them, the more
extravagant and incapable of ever being realised they seem to me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is just what I am here to-day to endeavour to disprove,&rdquo;
remarked the Captain in his dryest tones. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t object to my
smoking, I know. Thanks.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As soon as he had selected and lighted a cigar, he resumed:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You already know my views as to the position which, in my opinion, you
ought to occupy as daughter-in-law to Sir Gilbert Clare of Withington Chase.
That you have an undoubted claim on the old baronet I think very few people
would be found to dispute, and the question we have now to consider is the most
desirable mode of urging that claim upon his notice in order that the utmost
possible advantage may accrue to you therefrom. As you justly remarked the
other day, the probability is that Sir Gilbert was never made aware of his
son&rsquo;s marriage, and, consequently, cannot have the remotest suspicion
that the young man left a widow to mourn his loss. Now, from all I heard of the
baronet when I was in the country last week, I take him to be a hardfisted,
penurious curmudgeon, who, to judge from his style of living, must be laying by
several thousands a year&mdash;though, why he should care to do so, goodness
only knows, seeing that he has nobody he cares about to leave his savings
to&mdash;the next heir being a half-cousin with whom he has been at outs for
the last thirty years. Now, it seems to me, taking into account the kind of man
he is, that if you were to introduce yourself to his notice merely on the
ground of being the widow of his son&mdash;who died nearly twenty years
ago&mdash;and a person of whom probably he has never heard before, he might
perhaps, without wholly ignoring your claim upon him, not merely satisfy his
conscience, but persuade himself into the belief that he was acting a most
generous part by you, if he were to allow you a paltry hundred, or, at the
most, a couple of hundred pounds a year as long as he lives. But, Giovanna, my
dear, it is more&mdash;much more&mdash;than that that I want to help you to
secure for yourself. I want to see you in the position which would have been
yours at your husband&rsquo;s death had you married John Alexander Clare with
his father&rsquo;s full knowledge and consent. In that case you would
undoubtedly have had a jointure of not less than seven or eight hundred a year,
and I want us two to try whether we cannot see our way to secure something like
an equivalent settlement for you, even after all this length of time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Vanna was staring straight before her with an introspective expression in her
midnight orbs. When the silence had lasted some time, she said very quietly:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are working out some scheme in your brain, Uncle, I feel sure of it;
you have something more to tell me&mdash;something to propose. Is it not
so?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He considered the ash of his cigar for a moment or two, then, lifting his eyes
to her face, he said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What a pity&mdash;what a very great pity it is that your boy did not
live to be here to-day!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As before, when he spoke of the loss of her child, an indescribable expression
flitted across Giovanna&rsquo;s face.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is precisely what you said the other day,&rdquo; she remarked,
coldly. &ldquo;Where is the use of referring a second time to a misfortune
which happened so long ago?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Because I cannot help contrasting your position to-day with what it
would have been could you but have taken your boy by the hand, and have said to
Sir Gilbert: &lsquo;You lost your son and heir long years ago: but to-day I
bring you a grandson to take his place. Here is the new heir of Withington
Chase.&rsquo; In that case, how the old man would have welcomed
you!&mdash;nothing would have seemed too good for you, so overjoyed would he
have been. The position which ought to have been yours from the first would
then be accorded you, and you would take your place in society as the
daughter-in-law of Sir Gilbert Clare, and the mother of the next heir. And
then, a little later, my Vanna, you would marry again. Oh, yes, you would!
Marry money&mdash;and perhaps a title to boot. Why not? You are one of the
handsomest women in London, or else I don&rsquo;t know a handsome woman when I
see one!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Vanna rose abruptly from her chair, and then sat down again. For once she was
profoundly moved.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Uncle, this is the merest folly!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Why talk
of impossibilities? Let us keep to realities. I thought you had something to
propose&mdash;something, perhaps, that would&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So I have, my dear; so I have something to propose,&rdquo; responded the
Captain, with a chuckle. &ldquo;What I said to you the other day was,
&lsquo;There is only one course open to us, and that is to find Sir Gilbert an
heir.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well?&rdquo; demanded Vanna with wide-open eyes. &ldquo;I failed to
understand your meaning then and I am not a bit the wiser now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Listen then. Although, owing to circumstances to which I need not
further refer, we are not in a position to go before Sir Gilbert and produce
the real heir, is that any reason why we should not find a substitute who would
answer both his purpose and ours just as well as the genuine article?&rdquo;
His cunning eyes were watching her eagerly.
</p>

<p>
Vanna&rsquo;s face expressed a growing wonder, but it was a wonder largely
compounded of bewilderment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>Ecoutez</i>,&rdquo; resumed her uncle. &ldquo;Let us assume for the
moment that you agree with me what a very desirable thing it would be to
provide Sir Gilbert with an heir, even though it would, of necessity, have to
be a fictitious one. Being, then, so far in accord, naturally the first
question would be, &lsquo;But where are we to find the heir in
question&mdash;or rather, someone by whom he could be personated?&rsquo; To
which I should reply that I am prepared at any moment to lay my finger on the
one person out of all the hundreds and thousands of people in this big city
best suited to our purpose. That person is none other than your own nephew
(whom I believe you have never yet set eyes on), the son of your only brother,
Luigi Rispani.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sheer amazement kept Giovanna silent.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have already seen Luigi and sounded him in the matter,&rdquo; resumed
the Captain. &ldquo;He fully agrees with me that the idea is a most admirable
one, and one which, if carried out in all its details with that care and
foresight which I should not fail to bestow on it, could not prove otherwise
than brilliantly successful. In short, Luigi places himself unreservedly in my
hands. So now, my dear Vanna, it only remains for you to follow your
nephew&rsquo;s excellent example.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is not needful that we should recount in detail what further passed between
uncle and niece either at this or subsequent interviews. Enough to say that
when once she had been talked over into giving her consent, and had thoroughly
mastered the details of the scheme as proposed to be carried out by her uncle,
she entered fully into the affair, and seemed to have thrown whatever moral
scruples might at one time have feebly held her back completely to the winds.
But before all this came about Luigi Rispani and his aunt had been brought
together. Although English blood on the female side ran in the veins of both,
they might have been pure Italians for anything in their looks which proclaimed
the contrary. In point of fact, there was a very marked family likeness between
the two, so much so, indeed, that the Captain could not help saying to himself
with a chuckle, &ldquo;Nobody seeing them together, would take them for other
than mother and son.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At length all the details of the scheme were so far elaborated and agreed upon
by our three conspirators that Verinder felt the time had come for him to make
his first important move, which was, to seek an interview with Sir Gilbert
Clare, or, as he preferred to express it, to &ldquo;beard the lion in his
den.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br />
HOW SIR GILBERT RECEIVED THE NEWS</h2>

<p>
It is to be hoped that the reader has not quite forgotten the existence of
Everard Lisle.
</p>

<p>
After Ethel Thursby&rsquo;s refusal of him on her eighteenth birthday he went
back with a sad heart to his duties at Withington Chase. There he had rooms in
the house of Mr. Kinaby, the land steward, an old red brick house situated a
little way outside the precincts of the park. Mr. Kinaby&rsquo;s health had
been failing for some time, and Everard was gradually taking over the greater
part of his duties. Every morning he went to the Chase to see to Sir
Gilbert&rsquo;s correspondence and take his instructions in reference to the
estate and other matters. But he had still other duties to attend to. In
addition to being a numismatist of some note and a collector of curios, Sir
Gilbert of late years had developed into an antiquarian and archæologist, and
for some time past had been engaged in putting together the framework of what
he intended ultimately to elaborate into an exhaustive history of the
&ldquo;hundred&rdquo; of the county in which the Chase was situated, as natives
of which his ancestors for three centuries back had played more or less
conspicuous parts. In furtherance of this labour of love, for such it was to
him, he found Everard very useful in the way of hunting up authorities, making
extracts and transcribing his notes into a calligraphy which it would be
possible for a compositor to set up&mdash;when, at some as yet unknown date,
the great work should be sufficiently advanced to be sent to
press&mdash;without having to tear his hair in the process.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert, whom advancing years had tended to render more of a recluse than
ever, had gradually, and by a process of which he himself was scarcely
conscious, begun to entertain a great liking (in his frigid, undemonstrative
way) for this frank-eyed, clear-headed, straightforward young man, in whom he
could detect no faintest trace of sycophancy, and who knew so well how to
retain the full measure of his own self-respect without in any way grating
against the <i>amour-propre</i> of his employer. Lisle had evolved a happy
faculty of managing the lonely cantankerous old man, for whom he often felt a
profound pity, as no one before had ever succeeded in managing him. Thus it had
come to pass that a week never went by without Everard being asked to dine
once, and frequently oftener, at the Chase. On these occasions, when dinner was
over, the old man and the young one would wind up the evening by playing a few
sober games of chess or backgammon, at both of which Sir Gilbert was an adept.
By the time the turret clock struck ten, Everard would be strolling back
through the park in the direction of his rooms, with no company save a cigar
and his own thoughts. At such seasons, with the fresh night air blowing about
him, with the stars raining down sweet influences upon him, and with the huge
ghost-like trees to sentinel him on his way, whither ought a young man&rsquo;s
thoughts to wing their flight save to the one fair being, fairer to him than
all the world beside, who holds captive his heart, a willing prisoner!
</p>

<p>
But, in Everard&rsquo;s case, she who still held his heart captive did so all
unwittingly. She had rejected his proffered love and all was at an end between
them. He could never hope to win her for his wife, but that seemed to him no
reason, however little such a course might recommend itself to his cooler
judgment, why he should not go on loving her just as he had done all along, In
any case, he did go on loving her, nor did it seem possible to him that a time
should ever come when he could do otherwise. He knew that in all human
probability the day was not far distant when he should hear the news of her
marriage with another, and he tried to school himself by anticipation, so that
when the shock should come, he might be enabled to bear it with manly
equanimity.
</p>

<p>
On a certain morning, as Sir Gilbert Clare and Everard Lisle were engaged
together in the library at Withington Chase, a servant entered carrying a
highly-glazed card on a salver. &ldquo;I have shown the gentleman into the
morning-room, sir,&rdquo; said the man as he presented the card.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert took it and adjusted his <i>pince-nez</i>. &ldquo;Captain
Verinder,&rdquo; he read aloud. &ldquo;Have no recollection of anyone of that
name. Um-um. I suppose I must go and see what he wants me for.&rdquo; Then, to
the man, &ldquo;Tell Captain Verinder I will be with him immediately.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The Captain had come down from town by an early train and had made his way on
foot from the railway station to the Chase. He had not seen anything of the old
mansion on the occasion of his previous visit, and as he drew near, approaching
it by way of the drive, he could not help being much impressed, not merely by
its size and the noble simplicity of its façade, but by the old-time air of
stately, if somewhat faded, dignity which seemed as integral a part of it as
the ivy which clung round its gables and chimneys, or the patches of
many-coloured lichen with which time had encrusted its high-pitched roof. Nor
was this impression lessened when, in response to his summons, a servant in
livery opened wide the great double doors, and having taken his card, ushered
him through the big echoing hall, hung with trophies of war and the chase, into
a charming room furnished in the Empire style&mdash;although, to be sure, the
gilding was tarnished and the coverings of chairs and lounges considerably the
worse for wear&mdash;which looked out through its long windows on a gay
parterre of flowers, and was shut in with a sort of sweet privacy by a
semi-circular hedge of laurel and box. And here Sir Gilbert found his visitor
some three minutes later.
</p>

<p>
The Captain, it may be remembered, had only seen the baronet once before, on
that Sunday morning when he took account of him in his high-backed pew at
church. Now that he beheld him close at hand, he could not help saying to
himself, &ldquo;What a grand wreck of a man!&mdash;and what a splendid fellow
he must have been in his prime!&rdquo; And indeed, although Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s
one-time height of six feet two inches was now slightly curtailed owing to the
burden of his years, he still towered above most people with whom he came in
contact, as though he were descended from some heroic race of old, while his
shaggy brows, his white drooping moustache, his high thin nose and his eyes
still luminous with a sort of untamed fire, lent to his aspect a something of
leonine majesty.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Captain Verinder, I presume,&rdquo; said Sir Gilbert as he advanced,
holding the other&rsquo;s card between his thumb and forefinger. The Captain
bowed. &ldquo;You have&mdash;a&mdash;um&mdash;the advantage of me, sir. But
pray be seated.&rdquo; His keen critical eyes were taking Verinder in from head
to foot as he spoke. It was a scrutiny which, despite his coolness and his
habitual indifference to the opinion of others, somewhat disconcerted the
latter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have taken the liberty of intruding upon you, Sir Gilbert,&rdquo; he
began, as he drew forward a chair and gave a little preliminary cough behind
his hand, &ldquo;in order that I may have an opportunity of laying before you
certain information which has only quite recently come into my possession, but
which, I feel sure, when you have been made aware of it, you will agree with me
is of the greatest possible importance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert opened his eyes a little wider than usual. &ldquo;Pray proceed,
sir,&rdquo; he said stiffly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The information to which I refer bears especially on certain incidents
in the life of your late son and heir, Mr. John Alexander Clare.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
On the instant Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s figure became as rigid as a ramrod. His lips
opened and then shut again without a sound.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Unless my information is at fault,&rdquo; resumed the Captain,
&ldquo;the last occasion on which you and your son met was when, accompanied by
another gentleman, you stopped for a few hours at Catanzaro in Calabria, at
which place Mr. Clare was then residing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert contented himself with bowing a grave assent. His face just then
was a puzzle.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Shortly afterwards Mr. Clare emigrated to the United States, and there,
between two and three years later, he unfortunately met with his death through
an accident.&rdquo; Here the Captain paused and looked questionably at Sir
Gilbert.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your information, Mr.&mdash;er&mdash;Captain Verinder, is quite correct
as far as it goes,&rdquo; said the latter as if in response to the look.
&ldquo;Still, I fail to see in what way&mdash;er&mdash;in
short&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why I, a stranger, have had the impertinence to come here and talk to
you about matters which, as you doubtless think, can be no possible concern of
mine,&rdquo; interposed Verinder coolly. &ldquo;That is the precise point, Sir
Gilbert, as to which I now propose to enlighten you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Drawing his chair a few inches closer to that of Sir Gilbert he resumed:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have merely recapitulated certain facts already known to you in order
that I might thereby be enabled to lead up to certain other facts which, as I
have every reason to believe, have never been brought under your
cognisance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He paused for a moment as if to allow his next words to gather force thereby.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sir, is it within your knowledge that when your son left Italy for
America he took with him&mdash;a wife?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At these words Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s jaw dropped, a curious glaze came over his
eyes and his fingers began to twitch spasmodically. The Captain sprang to his
feet; he was on the point of ringing for help, but a gesture on the part of the
baronet restrained him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I shall be better in a minute or two,&rdquo; he said in a hoarse
whisper. Verinder crossed to the window. Two or three minutes passed, then a
hollow changed voice said: &ldquo;What proof have you that your most strange
statement is true?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The most convincing of all proofs, Sir Gilbert&mdash;a living one. Your
son&rsquo;s wife&mdash;or widow, as I ought rather to term her&mdash;is in
London at this moment.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Alive?&mdash;and I have known nothing of her existence all these years!
It is incredible, sir&mdash;incredible. I am being made the victim of some vile
conspiracy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Conspiracy, indeed! Nothing of the kind, sir, I give you my
word&mdash;the word of an officer and a gentleman&mdash;hem! I condescend to
overlook your words, Sir Gilbert, in consideration of the singularity of the
circumstances, otherwise&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The rest of the sentence was drowned in a cough. He said no more, but twisted
one end of his moustache viciously, and scowled at the chandelier.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is incredible,&rdquo; Sir Gilbert kept murmuring under his breath
without heeding Verinder. The latter waited patiently. One half his tale, and
that the more amazing half, had yet to be told. At length Sir Gilbert seemed to
pull himself together. Turning on his visitor a face which seemed even more
sternly set than usual, he said: &ldquo;Assuming for the moment, sir, the
accuracy of what you have just told me&mdash;which, mind you, at present I am
by no means prepared to admit&mdash;will you be good enough to inform me who
and what the&mdash;the person was with whom my son was so foolishly weak as to
contract a secret marriage.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was a question for which the Captain had prepared himself, and he answered
it on the moment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The lady in question was born in Italy, her father being a native of
that country, and her mother an Englishwoman. Signor Rispani was a scion of an
impoverished patrician family which can boast of I know not how many
quarterings with other families as noble as itself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This latter statement, it may be remarked, was a deliberate invention on the
Captain&rsquo;s part. He had calculated that it would not be without its effect
on the baronet, as also that the latter, in all probability, had never heard
the name of Rispani, or, if he had heard it during his brief sojourn at
Catanzaro, that he had long ago forgotten it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Um&mdash;um. And the young woman&rsquo;s mother&mdash;what of her? You
say she was an Englishwoman.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Her mother, Sir Gilbert Clare, was my sister,&rdquo; replied the Captain
as he laid his hand over the region of his heart and bent his head, while his
look said as plainly as words, &ldquo;After that statement, it would be nothing
less than an impertinence on your part to inquire further.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert bowed with his most courtly air. &ldquo;Thank you very much,
Captain Verinder,&rdquo; he said. Then, after stroking his chin for a few
seconds, he went on: &ldquo;May I ask, sir, whether your visit here to-day is
with the knowledge and sanction of your niece&mdash;that is to say of
the&mdash;the lady whom you allege to be the widow of my son?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Had my visit not been undertaken at her express desire, it would not
have taken place at all.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Um. Then will it be thought presumptuous on my part to ask by what
particular motive your niece is actuated in asking you, after a silence which
has lasted nearly a score of years, to bring under my notice certain facts
hitherto, I admit, unknown to me, but which, for anything which has yet been
advanced to the contrary, might just as well have been left in the oblivion to
which, apparently, they have for so long a time been consigned.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There was a veiled insolence in this request, or so it seemed to Verinder,
which sent an angry flush mounting to the very roots of his dyed hair. It was
only by a supreme effort that he succeeded in keeping back the retort that rose
to his lips. Not till he had drawn several breaths did he trust himself to
reply. Then he said: &ldquo;Should you condescend, Sir Gilbert, to grant my
niece an interview, you will find her amply prepared to furnish you with such
an explanation of her long silence as, I venture to think, you will find it
impossible to cavil at. But the one great reason which has induced her, at what
may be called the eleventh hour, to rake certain facts out of oblivion, as you
have so expressively termed it, and bring them before you, is, because it seems
to her an imperative duty that you should no longer be left in ignorance of the
existence of your grandson&mdash;of the son of your son, the late John
Alexander Clare.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What is that you say?&rdquo; almost shrieked Sir Gilbert. &ldquo;A
grandson! the child of my son Alec&mdash;and alive!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very much alive, Sir Gilbert, if you will allow me to say so,&rdquo;
returned the Captain, with something between a grin and a sneer. &ldquo;And as
fine, and handsome, and clever a young man as you would find in a day&rsquo;s
march.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert lay back in his chair, his chin drooping on his breast and his eyes
closed. His face was of a ghastly pallor, his lips moved inaudibly. In the
shock of Verinder&rsquo;s news he had forgotten the man&rsquo;s presence. An
invisible hand had snatched him away. He was there in body but for the time his
spirit was otherwhere.
</p>

<p>
The Captain was biting his nails and regarding him furtively. &ldquo;How will
he take it?&rdquo; he asked himself. &ldquo;I have a presentiment that my
little scheme will result in a brilliant success. For all Sir Gilbert looks as
strong as some gnarled old monarch of the woods, who can say whether he&rsquo;s
sound at the core? Looks are deceptive things, and at his age he might go off
at a day&rsquo;s notice&mdash;nay, without any notice at all. It was nothing
less than a stroke of genius to represent Vanna&rsquo;s father as belonging to
the old Italian nobility. It touched him in a weak spot. Vanna must on no
account forget that she is no longer an innkeeper&rsquo;s daughter, but a
person of much greater consequence. Well, I will give her credit for one thing;
as far as looks and bearing go, she might be a princess born, or the daughter
of a duke. Ah! who comes now?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The question was elicited by a discreet tap at the door, which was followed, an
instant later, by the entrance of a servant.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If you please, Sir Gilbert,&rdquo; said the man, &ldquo;Lady Nelthorpe
has called and would like to see you. Her ladyship wished me to say that she
won&rsquo;t detain you more than five minutes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The sound of the man&rsquo;s voice served to break Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s waking
trance. He opened his eyes, gave a little start, and grasping an arm of his
chair with either hand, he drew himself into an upright position. Next moment
he was himself again.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Repeat your message,&rdquo; he said to the man in his usual curt,
imperious tones; and when that had been done, he said: &ldquo;Tell her ladyship
that I will be with her in three minutes,&rdquo; adding, <i>sotto voce</i>,
&ldquo;Plague take the woman! she never calls on me except when she wants to
cozen me out of a cheque for one or other of her preposterous projects.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then his eyes turned to Verinder, who had drawn his chair somewhat aside on the
entrance of the servant, and as he did so, the expression of his face changed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pardon me,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;if for the moment I had forgotten your
presence. I am getting into years,&rdquo; he added with a faint sigh,
&ldquo;and at times&mdash;only at times, mind you&mdash;my memory fails me
somewhat. The news you have brought me, Captain&mdash;er&mdash;er&mdash;Dear
me, how annoying!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Verinder,&rdquo; suggested the other.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To be sure, to be sure. The news you have brought me, Captain Verinder,
is of such a surprising kind that I may be pardoned if I find myself unable all
at once to realise it as something within the bounds of possibility.
It&mdash;it seems like an incident culled from some romance.&rdquo; Here he
rose to his feet. There was a strange yearning look in his eyes as he turned
and faced the Captain. &ldquo;Do you mean to assure me, sir, on your word as a
man of honour,&rdquo; he said in a voice the deep impressiveness of which was
not without a touch of pathos, &ldquo;that you are prepared to produce before
me a young man whom you will vouch for as being the offspring of my son John
Alexander Clare.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Laying a hand over his heart, the Captain, who had also risen, said with grave
solemnity: &ldquo;On my word of honour, Sir Gilbert Clare, that is what I am
prepared to do. Your grandson shall be produced before you whensoever and
wheresoever may be most convenient to you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert took a turn or two in silence. Many memories were at work within
him. &ldquo;No, I will not see the young man just yet. Bring his mother first
and let me see and question her. There are several points that will have to be
cleared up to my satisfaction before&mdash;before&mdash;&mdash; But I need say
no more at present.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Will you be good enough, Sir Gilbert, to name a time for your interview
with my niece?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To-morrow at eleven, if that will suit you and her.&rdquo; Then he added
under his breath: &ldquo;Ah, if my faithful, shrewd old Page were only here to
help me to investigate this business! The longer I live the more I miss
him.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br />
SIR GILBERT AND GIOVANNA</h2>

<p>
Punctually at eleven o&rsquo;clock next forenoon Captain Verinder, accompanied
by his niece, alighted from the fly which had conveyed them from the railway
station, at the foot of the flight of semi-circular steps leading to the
portico which sheltered the main entrance to the mansion of Withington Chase.
</p>

<p>
So elated had the Captain been by the result of his interview with Sir Gilbert,
that, after detailing to his niece on his return all that had passed between
them, he had insisted that she, he and Luigi should all dine together in a
private room at a certain popular restaurant (of course at Vanna&rsquo;s
expense), when he did not fail to toast Sir Gilbert in a bumper of Clicquot.
&ldquo;Here&rsquo;s to your grandsire, my boy,&rdquo; he said to Luigi as he
drained his glass; then, having refilled it, he added: &ldquo;And here&rsquo;s
to the coming lord of Withington Chase, and may he never forget all that his
old uncle has done for him!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A little later he remarked: &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think it will be long, my boy,
before you come into your inheritance. The old man&rsquo;s breaking up,
that&rsquo;s plainly to be seen. I shouldn&rsquo;t be surprised if the next
winter tries him severely. He coughed several times during our interview, and a
very hollow cough it was.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And when he is dead and gone, shall I be Sir Luigi Clare?&rdquo; asked
the young man.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sir Luigi Clare!&rdquo; echoed the Captain. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a
point, now, which I had completely overlooked, while flattering myself that I
had forgotten nothing. You will come into the title of course on Sir
Gilbert&rsquo;s death. But Sir Luigi Clare will never do. It&rsquo;s altogether
too outlandish. We must re-christen you, and that at once.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why not make English of the name by turning Luigi into Lewis?&rdquo;
demanded Giovanna.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The very thing!&rdquo; replied the Captain. &ldquo;Which goes to prove
that two heads are better than one&mdash;especially, my dear, when one of them
happens to belong to your sex. Now I come to think, among other inscriptions in
the little church at the Chase was one to the memory of a certain Colonel Lewis
Clare who fell in some battle or other a long time ago. Now, what more
natural,&rdquo; he went on with a meaning look at Luigi, &ldquo;than that your
<i>father</i>, instead of naming you after himself, should have preferred to
call you after his brave ancestor? Yes, Lewis Clare will do very well
indeed&mdash;Sir Lewis that will be later on.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
Although Giovanna&rsquo;s only visible betrayal of the fact was by a touch of
unwonted pallor in her cheeks, she was the prey of a dozen conflicting emotions
as the doors of Withington Chase were flung wide and she and her uncle crossed
the threshold. &ldquo;And this was my husband&rsquo;s home when a boy,&rdquo;
was her first thought as her gaze wandered round the entrance hall. &ldquo;How
little I suspected such a thing! There must have been some powerful motive at
work to cause him to quit such a roof and to change his name and marry an
innkeeper&rsquo;s daughter and seek a new home thousands of miles away. What
was that motive, I wonder?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Will you come this way, please,&rdquo; said the trained voice of the man
in livery a second later, and with that they were presently shown into the same
morning-room into which the Captain had been ushered the day before.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now, my dear, the crucial moment is at hand,&rdquo; said the Captain
to Vanna as soon as they were alone. &ldquo;I hope you have forgotten none of
the points in which I have so carefully coached you up.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think there is much fear of that. I never forget anything
which it is essential that I should remember.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;One last caution, however. Take your time in answering Sir
Gilbert&rsquo;s questions, and, above all things, don&rsquo;t get
flurried.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did you ever know me to get flurried, Uncle Verinder?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, &rsquo;pon my word, I don&rsquo;t think I ever did. But then I have
known you such a very short while.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At this juncture the door opened and Sir Gilbert entered the room.
</p>

<p>
The Captain and Vanna both rose as he came slowly forward, his eyes fixed
scrutinisingly on his daughter-in-law. Her stately presence and the classic
beauty of her features impressed him at the first glance, and therewith came a
sudden <i>bouleversement</i> of all his preconceived notions of what she would
be like. On the spot he acknowledged to himself that he had done her an
injustice in his thoughts. After favouring Verinder with a curt nod of
recognition, he went up to Giovanna and held out his hand with an air of
old-fashioned courtesy.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Am I to presume, madam, that I see before me the widow of my late son,
John Alexander Clare?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That was my husband&rsquo;s full name, Sir Gilbert&mdash;the name he was
married in&mdash;although, for reasons of his own, he chose to be known to the
world simply as Mr. John Alexander.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To be sure&mdash;to be sure.&rdquo; The rich full contralto of her voice
sounded pleasantly in his ears. &ldquo;That was a fact well-known to me at the
time. But pray be seated.&rdquo; A wave of his hand included Verinder in the
invitation.
</p>

<p>
He had dropped Giovanna&rsquo;s hand, and there had been a sudden change in his
tone as he spoke the last words. The fact was that he had caught the Captain
smiling and rubbing one hand within the other with an air of supreme
satisfaction, although the other had certainly not intended that he should do
anything of the kind, and therewith he had chilled under a sudden breath of
suspicion. &ldquo;What, after all, if I am being victimised by a couple of
schemers!&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;And yet that any woman with such a
face as that should lend herself&mdash;&mdash; No, no&mdash;I cannot believe
it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Both the others could see that some change had come over him, but were at a
loss to guess the cause of it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And where was it, madam, if I may be allowed to ask, that you first made
the acquaintance of my son?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At Catanzaro, Sir Gilbert.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So&mdash;so. Alec&rsquo;s long stay in that, to me, detestable hole of a
place is now explained.&rdquo; This was said half to himself. &ldquo;And where,
madam, were you and my son united in the bonds of matrimony?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We were married at Malta, at the English church there.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, then you are a Protestant!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Giovanna gravely inclined her head. &ldquo;My father was a Roman Catholic, but
my mother was an Englishwoman and a Protestant. My only brother was brought up
in the faith of his father, I in that of my mother.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So much the better&mdash;so much the better,&rdquo; ejaculated Sir
Gilbert, quite unaware that the words were spoken aloud.
</p>

<p>
It was a fact that Giovanna had been married at the English church at Valetta,
but a prior ceremony had been gone through at Catanzaro, at which a Romish
priest had been the celebrant, for Giuseppe Rispani was too good a Catholic, or
had the reputation of being one, not to insist upon his daughter being married
in accordance with the rites and ceremonies of his own church. That being done,
he had raised no objection to accompanying the young couple as far as Malta (to
him, indeed, it was a pleasure trip with all expenses paid), there to give away
the bride when the ceremony was gone through for the second time. After that
Rispani had bidden his daughter goodbye and gone back home, first, however,
borrowing a couple of hundred pounds from his English son-in-law in order, as
he averred, that he might have the means of carrying out certain much needed
alterations and improvements in the <i>osteria</i> of the Golden Fig. It is to
be feared, however, that the amount in question never got any further than his
own pocket.
</p>

<p>
After the departure of Rispani the newly-wedded couple had made the best of
their way to the United States.
</p>

<p>
To return.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In that case, madam,&rdquo; resumed the baronet after a brief pause,
&ldquo;you have doubtless been at pains to preserve your marriage
certificate.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Giovanna had preserved it, had, in fact, brought it with her this morning. She
now produced it, a creased and faded-looking document, from the satchel
suspended from her waist-belt, opened it and handed it to Sir Gilbert; who,
having adjusted his <i>pince-nez</i> and drawn his chair up to the centre
table, smoothed out the certificate upon it and proceeded to read it slowly and
carefully from beginning to end, his lips shaping each word silently as he
spoke it to himself. It purported to be, and was a duly certified copy of the
entry in the register of the Protestant church at Valetta of the marriage
solemnised on the date specified between John Alexander Clare and Giovanna
Rispani. It would have been idle to dispute its genuineness, even had there
been any inclination, which was far from being the case, on Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s
part to do so.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Madam, the document seems to me in every respect satisfactory,&rdquo; he
said gravely as he refolded it and handed it back to Giovanna with a bow.
</p>

<p>
In return she put into his hands a framed photograph of herself and her
husband, taken within a few days of their marriage. &ldquo;Possibly, Sir
Gilbert, this may not be without some interest for you,&rdquo; she said in her
quiet, measured tones.
</p>

<p>
The old man took the photograph and carried it to the window. Scarcely was his
back turned before the Captain flashed a look at Vanna which said,
&ldquo;Everything, so far, going on first-rate.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
One, two, three minutes were ticked off by the clock on the chimney-piece
before Sir Gilbert came back to his chair. His hand trembled a little as he
returned the photograph to Giovanna. &ldquo;Yes, that is Alec to the
life,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Poor boy! poor boy!&rdquo; A deep sigh broke from
him as he resumed his seat.
</p>

<p>
For a little space no one spoke.
</p>

<p>
It was Sir Gilbert who broke the silence. &ldquo;Unless I am misinformed,
madam, you and your husband found your way to the United States no long time
after your marriage?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We did, Sir Gilbert. And here a little point occurs to me about which it
may be as well to enlighten you. Up to the morning of our marriage I had never
known my husband by any other name than John Alexander. The only explanation
proffered by him after the ceremony was over was, that he had deemed it best,
for certain private reasons, to temporarily drop his surname. As to the nature
of his reasons, he never enlightened me, and, indeed, so little curious was I
to learn them that, as far as I now remember, the subject was never again
broached between us, and after our arrival in America we were known simply as
Mr. and Mrs. Alexander.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite right, quite right,&rdquo; said Sir Gilbert. &ldquo;My son, for
family reasons, chose, right up to the time of his death, to keep his surname
in abeyance. Well, and what happened after your arrival in the States?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We settled in a place called Barrytown in one of the Eastern States,
where John (I always called my husband John, Sir Gilbert) thought he saw an
opening for the profitable investment of his capital. But he had had no
training, and in all business relations was little better than a child compared
with the shrewd Yankees in whose midst he had chosen to locate himself. The
result was what might have been expected. Instead of making money, at the end
of two years he found himself about four thousand pounds poorer than when he
had started in business.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That was burning his fingers with a vengeance,&rdquo; interpolated the
Captain, who had so far maintained a diplomatic silence.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert glared at him for an instant and then turned his shoulder a couple
of inches more towards him. &ldquo;Proceed, madam, pray proceed,&rdquo; he said
blandly to Giovanna.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By that time our child was born and my health had given way. The doctors
told John that the climate of the Eastern States was too inclement for me, and
that if I stayed there another winter he would risk losing me. Thereupon he
decided to break up our home and go further inland in search at once of a
climate that would be likely to agree with me, and of an opening for what was
left of his capital which promised better results than his first venture had
brought him. Meanwhile I was to go back to Italy, of course taking my child
with me, and strive to recruit my health in my native air. As soon as he found
himself prospering and had settled where our new home was to be, he would send
for me, or fetch me to join him. Well, sir, we parted, my husband seeing me on
board ship at New York, little thinking that we should never see each other
again. Two letters from him reached me after my arrival at home, in the second
of which he told me that he was going to penetrate still further west, or
south, I forget which. After that came a silence which has remained unbroken
till the present day.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As Giovanna ended, her head sank forward a little and, as if involuntarily, the
fingers of her right hand sought and pressed the golden hoop which still graced
the third finger of her left hand.
</p>

<p>
The Captain had been on thorns for the last few minutes for fear lest she
should trip, or contradict herself over some point of the narrative which he
had so carefully elaborated for her. Now he began to breathe more freely. They
were by no means out of the wood yet, but everything had gone so smoothly up
till now that it was surely not unreasonable to hope their good fortune would
attend them to the end.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you never made any effort to trace your husband?&rdquo; said Sir
Gilbert after a pause.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sir Gilbert!&rdquo; exclaimed Giovanna in a tone of genuine amazement.
&ldquo;Please to consider the circumstances of the case. Month after month went
by, and every morning on opening my eyes, my first words were, &lsquo;Surely I
shall have a letter to-day.&rsquo; But none came. Not till a year had gone by
did I give up all hope. Whether my husband was alive or dead, I knew not. What
was I to do? America is a big country, and even if I had gone back to New York,
I altogether fail to see how it would have been possible for me to trace him
after the lapse of so long a time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are quite right, madam. My question was a foolish one. When the year
had gone by, what then? Did you never make any attempt to seek out your
husband&rsquo;s relatives?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Never, Sir Gilbert. It was a matter I did not feel myself at liberty to
pry into. Seeing that my husband had never spoken to me about his friends and
connections, a certain pride&mdash;shall I call it?&mdash;withheld me from
trying to penetrate a secret which he had not seen fit to share with me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At length, however, you saw cause to think differently.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I was about to explain, Sir Gilbert,&rdquo; said Giovanna with a touch
of hauteur which became her well. &ldquo;Time went on till my son was twelve
years old, and then my father died (I had lost my mother many years before),
after which event I determined to come to England, where my only brother had
been some time settled. I wanted my son to become acquainted with his
father&rsquo;s country, and to train him up to become as much like an
Englishman as possible. Besides, as time went on it became requisite that he
should do something for his living, the whole of my income not amounting to
more than a hundred pounds of English money a year. Not to weary you, Gilbert,
I will merely add that my son is now, and has been for some time past, earning
his living in London as a drawing-master.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As a drawing-master?&rdquo; ejaculated Sir Gilbert as if to himself.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was quite by accident that my uncle here discovered that my late
husband was your eldest son, Sir Gilbert; but after the discovery had been made
it became a matter of anxious thought with us whether we should, or should not,
proceed any further in the affair. At length we decided that, as a matter of
simple justice to you, we were bound to acquaint you with the fact that you had
a grandson living of whose existence you had heretofore been unaware, leaving
it for you to make whatever use of the knowledge you might deem best.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>Brava! bravissima!</i>&rdquo; ejaculated the Captain under his breath
as Giovanna came to an end. &ldquo;I could not have done it better myself. Not
a hitch nor a slip anywhere. What will the old boy do now?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
What the &ldquo;old boy&rdquo; did was to take a few silent turns about the
room with his hands behind his back, his eyes bent on the carpet, and his head
sunk between his shoulders. It was his invariable practice when mentally
puzzled or perturbed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; he said at length, coming to a halt and planting himself
on the hearthrug with his back towards the grate, &ldquo;nothing could have
been more straightforward, or perspicacious than the narrative with which you
have just favoured me, and I have no hesitation in saying that to me it seems
to bear the stamp of absolute truth. Singularly enough, it happens that I am in
a position to enlighten you and set your mind at rest for ever as to the fate
of your husband. Poor Alec was killed by the explosion of a steamboat at a date
which, I doubt not, will prove on investigation to have been within a few
months of the parting between you and him. No wonder, my dear lady, that you
looked in vain for any more letters from him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Sir Gilbert,&rdquo; ejaculated Giovanna, &ldquo;what an awful fate
was his! My poor John! My poor husband!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She covered her face with her hands and bent her head over the end of the couch
on which she was seated. Sir Gilbert turned his back and took up first one
ornament off the mantel-piece and then another. The Captain tried to look
sympathetic, but failed signally. No long time passed before Giovanna sat up
and quietly wiped her eyes. Sir Gilbert had felt sure that she was not the kind
of woman to make a scene, or go into hysterics, and he secretly commended her
good sense. He now turned and cleared his voice. During the last minute or two
he had made up his mind to a certain course.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear madam,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;I trust you will do me the favour
of bringing your son to the Chase to-morrow forenoon and introducing him to
me.&rdquo; He was careful not to say &ldquo;my grandson.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Giovanna&rsquo;s heart went up with a bound. &ldquo;I will do so with the
greatest pleasure, Sir Gilbert,&rdquo; she replied in her usual composed tones,
but her cheeks flushed a little and a sudden light leapt to her eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There remains one point, however,&rdquo; resumed Sir Gilbert,
&ldquo;about which it may be as well to say a few words, so that, in time to
come, no misapprehension in the matter may exist on the part of anyone
concerned.&rdquo; Again he cleared his voice. &ldquo;When my son left England
it was by my request. He was deeply involved in debt&mdash;not for the first or
second time&mdash;and he applied to me, as he had done before, to extricate him
from his difficulties. This I agreed to do on condition that he would go abroad
and stay there till he should have my permission to return. He agreed to the
condition and went. At the end of two years he wrote me to the effect that he
was desirous of emigrating and pushing his fortunes in the United States, and
that if I would pay over to him the sum of six thousand pounds he would
sanction the cutting off of the family entail. It was an offer which, after
consideration, I decided to accept. I had three other sons then living, and
from what I knew of Alec it seemed clear to me that after my death he would
simply make ducks and drakes of the property. Accordingly, I went out to
Catanzaro, taking my lawyer with me. The six thousand pounds was paid over to
my son, and in return he signed certain documents, by the provisions of which
he cut himself off from all succession to the family estates. Now, I have only
spoken of this fact at so much length because I wish it to be clearly
understood that no right of succession to the Clare estates any longer exists,
and that it is open to me to will every acre of land and every shilling of
which I may die possessed, to whomsoever I may choose to constitute my
heirs.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br />
THE FALSE HEIR</h2>

<p>
Sir Gilbert Clare&rsquo;s deliberate announcement, evidently not made without a
purpose, that the family estates were no longer entailed, was one which carried
dismay to the heart of Captain Verinder. His face fell on the instant, and for
a little while the ruddy colour faded out of his cheeks. Although aware that
the baronet&rsquo;s eyes were glancing keenly from him to Giovanna, and then
back, he could not for the life of him help showing that the blow had struck
home.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert smiled grimly to himself.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As I thought, this fellow is at the bottom of the business,&rdquo; he
murmured, but this time not aloud. &ldquo;It is he who has found me out and
induced his niece to lay her case before me, evidently in the expectation of
being able to feather his nest out of her, or me, or both of us. Well, we shall
see. As regards his niece, I am more than ever inclined to believe in her. The
story she told me was remarkably clear and straightforward. But <i>festina
lente</i> must still be my motto.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then he rose. &ldquo;And now, my dear madam,&rdquo; he said, addressing himself
pointedly to Giovanna and wholly ignoring the Captain, &ldquo;I must ask you to
excuse me till to-morrow, when I shall expect to see you here, accompanied by
your son, at the same hour as to-day. I would not have quitted you so abruptly
but that I have a couple of my tenant farmers waiting all this time to see me
about some repairs. But you must not leave the Chase without partaking of some
refreshment. Pardon me if I insist. I cannot sit down with you myself, I am
sorry to say, for I am under the strictest dietetic regimen. They are terrible
tyrants, these doctors. Till to-morrow at eleven, then.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Therewith he shook hands cordially with Giovanna, but the Captain he merely
favoured with a curt nod, as it might be a nod of dismissal to one of his
dependents; and, indeed, he had already made up his mind that he had seen quite
enough of Captain Verinder.
</p>

<p>
Presently a servant appeared with a liberally appointed luncheon tray, at sight
of which the Captain brightened visibly, for he was one of those men to whom
the good things of the table never appeal in vain.
</p>

<p>
It was not till they were jogging back to the station in their fly, which had
been kept waiting for them, that Giovanna said: &ldquo;I am not sure that I
quite got at the meaning of Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s speech about what he called the
entail. Does it mean that&mdash;&mdash; But perhaps you had better tell me what
it does mean.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The Captain drew down the corners of his mouth. &ldquo;Oh, there&rsquo;s no
possible mistake about his meaning. It seems that your husband was so
unspeakably foolish as, in return for the sum of six thousand pound, to deprive
himself and his heirs of what otherwise would have been their undoubted
birthright. Thus the estate of Withington Chase, and other estates into the
bargain, for anything I know to the contrary, instead of descending through the
law of entail to Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s grandson (whom we hope to have the
pleasure of introducing to him to-morrow), have, as the result of that act,
become the baronet&rsquo;s sole and personal property, to sell, or give away,
or do what the dickens he likes with. I wish with all my heart that John
Alexander Clare had been at the bottom of the Red Sea before putting his hand
to any such iniquitous document.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then, if Sir Gilbert chooses to adopt Luigi as his grandson it does not
follow that he will come into the property?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It certainly does not follow that he will; but neither does it follow
that he won&rsquo;t. Everything hinges on how Sir Gilbert takes to him. If
Luigi plays his cards skilfully, there&rsquo;s no reason why he should not come
in for everything when the old gentleman dies. On the other hand, if he plays
them badly, he may be left without a shilling.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And the title?&rdquo; queried Giovanna.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, the title can&rsquo;t be cut off as the entail has been. That
descends to the next heir, whoever he may be, and nothing can deprive him of
it. But where would be the good of the title, I should like to know, without
the means to keep it up? It would be a white elephant&mdash;worse than useless.
Everything depends on Luigi.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He seems to me a rather clever young man.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes, he&rsquo;s clever enough in his way,&rdquo; said the Captain
with a short laugh. &ldquo;The question is whether he&rsquo;s not a little bit
too clever. There lies our danger.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This was rather beyond Giovanna; but, as their fly drew up next minute at the
station, nothing more was said; and as there were several other passengers in
the compartment by which they travelled up to town, all further private
conversation was deferred till they reached Giovanna&rsquo;s rooms, where they
found Luigi impatiently awaiting their arrival.
</p>

<p>
The young Italian was a rank coward both morally and physically, and when told
that he would have to face Sir Gilbert Clare on the morrow in his assumed
<i>rôle</i> of grandson to the baronet, his cheeks blanched and a nervous
trembling took possession of him, which was not allayed till the Captain had
administered to him a tolerably stiff dose of brandy.
</p>

<p>
As already stated, Luigi was a fairly good-looking young man. He was tall and
slender, with a pale olive complexion and clear cut features of an almost
purely Greek type. His eyes were large, black and expressive, and the knowledge
of how to make the most of them had come to him by intuition, as it does to the
majority of his race. Jet black, soft and silky were his hair and moustache. He
was very proud of his long tapering hands, and his carefully trimmed nails.
Some of his friends said they were the hands of an artist, others, less
complimentary, averred that he had the digits of a pickpocket. Both statements
went beyond the mark, as the generality of extreme statements do, for although
Luigi Rispani was a fairly clever drawing-master, he was entirely lacking in
the creative faculty, and although he had no moral scruples whatever in lending
himself to a scheme for defrauding Sir Gilbert Clare, nothing less than hard
compulsion&mdash;a twinge of starvation, for instance&mdash;would have induced
him to insert his hand into another man&rsquo;s pocket and abstract therefrom a
watch or purse. In the opinion of some people a transaction of the latter kind
would have been much more venial than the one to which he had given his assent,
but such was not Luigi Rispani&rsquo;s way of thinking, and such is not the way
of thinking of thousands of others.
</p>

<p>
Our three conspirators did not separate till a late hour, for, on the strength
of his coming good fortune, Luigi had already thrown up his post at the
theatre. As a matter of course, the Captain was spokesman-in-chief. He it was
who thought out every detail and strove to foresee and provide against every
contingency which might unexpectedly crop up at the morrow&rsquo;s interview.
The others had little to do beyond listening and assenting and trying to fix in
their memory, so that they might be available at the right moment, the
different points enumerated by him.
</p>

<p>
In matters of business Captain Verinder was punctuality itself, and our little
party of three pulled up at the door of Withington Chase as the turret clock
was striking eleven. Having been ushered into the morning room as before, they
were left to themselves for a few minutes. Then the footman reappeared with a
request that &ldquo;the lady and the young gentleman&rdquo; would be good
enough to follow him. Before quitting the room he rather ostentatiously placed
a couple of newspapers on the centre table.
</p>

<p>
Captain Verinder was left alone; he realised the fact unpleasantly. Starting to
his feet, he began to pace the room with anything but placid strides. His face
turned a purplish red, he shook his clenched hands at an imaginary foe, and
anathematised Sir Gilbert in tones not loud but deep. He was quite aware that
the baronet had conceived an unaccountable dislike for him, but he had not
thought it would take a form of such active hostility as had now evinced
itself. It was more than a slight&mdash;it was an insult&mdash;as he fumingly
told himself: but all the same, it was one which he was not in a position to
resent.
</p>

<p>
After all, as he assured himself when he had in some measure calmed down, it
was really a matter of little moment, even if Sir Gilbert should continue to
ignore him; he might feel sore at the time, but he would soon get over that.
The great point was that the scheme he had so carefully elaborated was on the
high road to success; the rest, as far as he was concerned, was a trifling
matter indeed. Let but Luigi and Vanna attain to the positions he had
designated them for, and henceforth with him&mdash;Augustus Verinder&mdash;all
would go well. Farewell, then, to his existence of semi-genteel pauperism, and
to his long struggle against a fate which had so persistently turned a cold
shoulder to him, and would have none of his wooing! For the rest of his days he
would be able to live as a gentleman ought to live.
</p>

<p>
On leaving the morning-room, Giovanna and Luigi were conducted to the library,
where they found Sir Gilbert awaiting them. The baronet received them with that
frigid ceremoniousness to which Giovanna was becoming accustomed by this time,
but which did not tend to put Luigi more at his ease. But the mere fact of Sir
Gilbert betraying no outward signs of perturbation afforded no gauge by which
to measure the depth of the emotions at work below. All his life it had been
natural to him to mask his feelings, and at his age it was not to be expected
that he should alter. In reality, he was profoundly moved&mdash;a fact which
increased, rather than diminished, the ingrained austerity of his manner, and
deepened the vertical line between his shaggy eyebrows.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Madam, I wish you a very good day,&rdquo; he said, as he took
Giovanna&rsquo;s hand for a moment and bent over it. &ldquo;You are punctuality
itself&mdash;a commendable virtue in your sex! but one, unless they are
somewhat belied, more honoured by them in the breach than the
observance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s banter, on the very rare occasions on which he condescended
to indulge in it, was of a somewhat ponderous and old-fashioned kind. Not that
he was in any bantering mood to-day&mdash;far from it; his only object was, by
means of it, the more effectually to conceal the inward tremor which had seized
him now the moment had come which was to give him a grandson to take the place
of the son whom he had banished long years before.
</p>

<p>
For the moment Giovanna found nothing to say in reply. For the first time she
seemed to realise the enormity of the fraud to which she had lent herself, and
the shame of it. But it was too late to go back even had she been willing to do
so&mdash;which was doubtful: for it is no uncommon experience for a person to
recognise to the full the blackness of any wrong-doing in which he or she may
be engaged, and yet not to falter, or swerve for a moment from the line of
action they have laid down for themselves.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And this, madam, is the grandson whom you have brought from the kingdom
of Nowhere to make me a present of,&rdquo; continued Sir Gilbert as he faced
Luigi.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This, sir, is your grandson, Lewis Clare,&rdquo; replied Giovanna in
quiet measured tones.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lewis Clare!&mdash;why Lewis?&rdquo; demanded the old man, turning
quickly on her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was the name his father chose for him. Was there not&mdash;pardon the
question&mdash;a certain Colonel Lewis Clare, who lived a great number of years
ago and who fell in battle?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The baronet nodded.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was after him that my husband named the boy,&rdquo; added Giovanna,
her black eyes looking Sir Gilbert unflinchingly in the face.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He might have done worse&mdash;he might have done very much worse. It is
a name to be proud of, madam.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then he again faced Luigi, eyeing him critically and keenly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So, sir, I am given to understand that you have been brought up in
England, consequently I presume that you speak the English language as well as
I do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Scarcely that, I am afraid, sir,&rdquo; answered Luigi with a glint of
his white teeth; &ldquo;although I pride myself on being more of an Englishman
than an Italian.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then you belie your looks,&rdquo; muttered the old man as he turned
abruptly away. He was bitterly disappointed. His secret hope had been to find
another Alec, in any case as far as looks were concerned; for of late years the
memory of his eldest son (through a reactionary process by no means uncommon
when one whom we have treated ill or unjustly is lost to us for ever) had
become very dear to him. But in this olive-skinned, black-eyed stripling, with
his facile smile and gleaming teeth, he could trace no single trait or feature
which served to recall his dead son. Voice, looks, manner, all were radically
different; there was no shadow of resemblance anywhere.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Still, he is my grandson, and for Alec&rsquo;s sake&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
he murmured brokenly under his breath. &ldquo;It would be altogether unjust to
blame the boy, or to treat him in any way differently for what, after all, is
no fault of his.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He had turned to the table and was making a pretence of searching among the
papers and books with which it was encumbered for something which he apparently
failed to find. Behind his back Giovanna and Luigi exchanged glances of
perplexity and dismay. Drawing himself up with a sort of half-shake, as if
trying to free himself from some harassing thought, and with a sigh meant for
himself alone, Sir Gilbert again faced round.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pardon my remissness,&rdquo; he said with a little gesture of annoyance,
on perceiving that both his visitors were still standing, &ldquo;but it is not
every day that one is presented with a grandson. Pray be seated,&rdquo; he
added, and not till they had complied did he find a chair for himself.
</p>

<p>
He was evidently nonplussed what to say or do next. Although his disappointment
was so extreme, and although he felt drawn towards Luigi by no frailest thread
of affinity or kinship, he was sternly determined in his own mind that the
fullest justice should be done to him, and that his position as the heir of
Withington Chase should receive the amplest recognition both at his hands and
those of the world at large. Perhaps&mdash;and who could say to the
contrary?&mdash;liking would come in time. Perhaps, although it seemed hard to
believe, the boy might gradually win his way to his grandfather&rsquo;s heart
and become unspeakably dear to him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your mother, young sir, tells me that for some time past you have been
earning your living as a drawing-master,&rdquo; resumed Sir Gilbert when the
silence had become painful to all three. He could not, just yet, bring himself
to address his grandson after any more familiar or affectionate style.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is so, sir, and a very poor living I made of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah&mdash;ha!&rdquo; interjected Sir Gilbert, but whether by way of
expressing approval, or disapproval, his hearers could not tell.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You see, sir, there are so many drawing-masters not merely with more
experience than I, but with more natural ability to begin with.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Come now, that is well said, and becoming in a young fellow of your age:
although, on the other hand, it is not perhaps advisable&mdash;more especially
nowadays when everybody seems to make a point of blowing his or her special
trumpet as loudly as possible&mdash;to underestimate yourself or treat yourself
too diffidently. But tell me now, what you can do, or what you think you could
do if the opportunity were afforded you. You have tastes, gifts, qualifications
of some kind, I suppose?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If so, sir, they and I have hardly made acquaintance as yet. Both money
and leisure have been such scarce commodities with me, and I have had to work
so hard for my living that I suppose I hardly know myself as I really am, or
perhaps I ought to say, as I should have been had the circumstances of my life
been different.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There is good sense in what you say. Your modesty becomes you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Thanks to the Captain&rsquo;s coaching, it was evident that Luigi had already
succeeded in creating a favourable impression.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have had no opportunity of learning to ride, or shoot, I
suppose?&rdquo; queried Sir Gilbert.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;None whatever, sir.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Um&mdash;that&rsquo;s a pity! What about the classics? Have you any
knowledge of Latin, or Greek?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi shook his head.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not the slightest, sir. Of course I know Italian as well as I know
English, or better. French, too, I speak with some degree of fluency; but
beyond that I am afraid you will find me nothing better than a rank
duffer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert pricked up his ears.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hope you are not addicted to the use of slang, sir, as your last
phrase would seem to imply,&rdquo; he said severely. &ldquo;To me there are few
things more detestable. Pray let me never hear any more of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi was wise enough to refrain from replying. He simply coloured up and did
his best to look ashamed.
</p>

<p>
Presently the baronet rose. It was a signal to which the others at once
responded.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To-day is Thursday,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Come to me again at noon on
Monday next. I have much to think of, many things to consider, but by that time
I shall probably have arrived at some decision with regard to certain matters
which materially concern all now present. Till then, goodbye.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As he held Giovanna&rsquo;s hand for a moment he said, &ldquo;I am not aware
there is any necessity for Captain Verinder&rsquo;s presence here again.
Um&mdash;um&mdash;it is immensely kind of him to have interested himself as he
has, but I should be sorry to put him to any further trouble in the
affair.&rdquo; With his right hand grasping that of Luigi, he placed his left
in kindly fashion on the young man&rsquo;s shoulder. &ldquo;You and I, in all
probability, will be much better acquainted by-and-by. In any case, I think I
may safely say that the fault will rest with you if we are not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
No faintest suspicion clouded Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s mind that he was clasping the
hand of an impostor.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br />
LUIGI ACKNOWLEDGED</h2>

<p>
As on the previous day, luncheon was provided for the baronet&rsquo;s visitors,
and, as before, they partook of it without his presence.
</p>

<p>
Giovanna, in her clear simple way, related to her uncle all that had
passed&mdash;all except that last speech of Sir Gilbert, which she left to be
told later on.
</p>

<p>
The Captain rubbed his hands gleefully.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All has gone well so far, very well indeed,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;and
now that the worst is over&mdash;by which I mean now that Luigi has been
introduced to the old man and accepted by him as his grandson, as, from what
you tell me, seems undoubtedly to be the case&mdash;now that the most difficult
part of our task has been successfully accomplished, I don&rsquo;t mind saying
that I shall sleep more soundly to-night than I have for the last week or
more.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It seems to me that Sir Gilbert favoured me with a precious cool
reception,&rdquo; said Luigi, in an aggrieved tone; &ldquo;in fact it was
enough to freeze one. And those eyes of his seemed to go right through me; I
was never so nervous in my life. I wouldn&rsquo;t go through such a quarter of
an hour again for a good deal.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There will be no call for you to do so,&rdquo; replied the Captain.
&ldquo;As I said before, you have gone through the worst. You know now the kind
of man he is, and must act accordingly. If you only knew
how&rdquo;&mdash;adding, to himself, &ldquo;and were not so self-opinionated
and conceited&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;you might lead Sir Gilbert anywhere with your
little finger. In the case of such a man, you have only to fall in with his
humours, or make believe to fall in with them, and you may do anything in
reason with him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If I had but your head on my shoulders, uncle!&rdquo; exclaimed Luigi,
with a smile that had a spice of mockery in it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Or my brains in your numbskull,&rdquo; retorted the Captain. &ldquo;Oh,
the chance&mdash;the golden chance that is now yours! One can but hope that you
will know how to make the best of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It seemed to Giovanna that the time had now come for making her uncle
acquainted with what Sir Gilbert had said about him. The Captain pulled a wry
face for a moment, and then broke into one of his short harsh laughs.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What a cantankerous old shaver he is!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;I was
sure from the first that he had taken a dislike to me.&rdquo; Then laying a
hand on his niece&rsquo;s arm, he added in a voice which had become suddenly
grave: &ldquo;It matters not a grain of salt in what light Sir Gilbert chooses
to regard me, so long as you and Luigi&mdash;especially the boy&mdash;contrive
to keep in his good graces. That is the only thing of any real
consequence.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For the next few days Sir Gilbert felt thoroughly unsettled and out of sorts.
His ordinary avocations seemed to have lost all interest for him; he was unable
to fix his attention on anything outside the special current of his thoughts
for more than a few minutes at a time. He shut himself up in his own room, a
small apartment which opened out of the library, and even Everard Lisle was
only admitted to the briefest possible audience each forenoon. His mental
attitude at this time was a puzzle to himself. A wonderful thing had come to
pass. One which, had an inkling of it been permitted him beforehand, he should
have assured himself could not fail to fill his few remaining days with a
happiness undreamt of, and almost too deep to find expression in words. A gift,
the most precious of any he could have asked for (seeing that we cannot bring
back our lost ones from the tomb), had been vouchsafed to him, yet, strange to
say, he felt little or none of that elation which would have seemed the natural
outcome of such a state of affairs. Why was this, and to what cause was it
attributable? He tried to look forward to the presence of his newly-found
grandson as to something that would crown his life with a blessing, and to
mentally picture their daily life together in time to come, but he derived no
pleasure from the process; neither did the future, now that he looked at it
with fresh eyes, as it were, take to itself any added brightness from the fact
that a son of his son would succeed him when the time should have come for him
to pass into the Silent Land.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is it that my heart is dead?&rdquo; he sadly asked himself, &ldquo;or is
it because I am so old and have gone through so much, that only the ghost of
either joy or sorrow will ever keep me company again? Or is it,&rdquo; he went
on, &ldquo;because in this youth who has so suddenly intruded himself into my
life I can discern nothing that serves to recall his father to memory, nor any
likeness, however vague, to any of my pictured ancestors in the long
gallery&mdash;who are his ancestors also&mdash;that I seem in no way drawn
towards him? I cannot tell why it is so. I only know that it is.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In one respect, however, he derived a certain amount of mordant satisfaction
from the knowledge that he would now be followed by an heir in the direct line
of descent. His detested kinsman, Colonel Eustace Clare, who, he felt sure,
never missed a day without hoping it would bring the tidings of his death,
would now, at what might be termed the eleventh hour, be baulked of his chance
of succession to the title, even as the cutting off of the entail in years gone
by had deprived him of all prospect of ever succeeding to the estates.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Monday at noon brought Giovanna and Luigi again to the Chase. Verinder had kept
them company as far as Mapleford station, where they all alighted. It had been
arranged that he should await, either their return, or the receipt of some
message from them, at the railway hotel, it being impossible to say how long
Sir Gilbert might choose to detain them. The Captain&rsquo;s impatience would
not admit of his quietly awaiting their return in London.
</p>

<p>
If Sir Gilbert received his guests without any particular display of cordiality
he yet greeted them with a grave and kindly courtesy which went far towards
putting them at their ease. For the time the more brusque and imperious traits
of his character failed to assert themselves: indeed, no stranger seeing him on
this occasion only, would have as much as suspected their existence. To-day he
kept the others company at luncheon, although all he partook of was a biscuit
and a glass of Madeira. By special invitation Everard Lisle made a fourth at
table.
</p>

<p>
When once Sir Gilbert had made up his mind to acknowledge Giovanna as his
daughter-in-law, and Luigi as his grandson, he was not a man to stick at half
measures. The acknowledgment should be full and complete, and Everard Lisle was
the person he chose to whom first to communicate his intentions, with which
purpose in view he invited him to dine at the Chase on Sunday. It was as they
sat together after dinner that Sir Gilbert broke his news.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For the present I shall have the boy to live with me,&rdquo; he said.
&ldquo;I want us to become better acquainted. My daughter-in-law, if she
chooses to do so, can take up her residence at Maylings, the family
dower-house, although not used as such in my time, which has stood empty since
old Miss Hopkins&rsquo;s death three years ago. Of course the news that my
grandson and his mother have been received and acknowledged by me will very
soon get noised abroad, and as you are likely, owing to your being at the Chase
so much, to be appealed to on the point by a number of people, I want you to be
in a position to confirm the accuracy of the report and to give it the stamp of
verity. That all sorts of ridiculous stories will get about, originating in the
fact of my grandson&rsquo;s and daughter-in-law&rsquo;s existence not having
been made public till now, I do not doubt, but with any, or all, such
inventions you need have nothing to do. We have simply to deal with the two or
three plain facts of the case.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Thus it fell out that Everard Lisle was already prepared for the meeting on
Monday. The baronet introduced him simply as &ldquo;My secretary, Mr.
Lisle.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As Luigi did not proffer his hand, Everard contented himself by bowing
slightly. But Sir Gilbert did not fail to notice the omission.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Where is your hand, sir?&rdquo; he demanded of his pseudo grandson with
a drawing together of his shaggy brows. &ldquo;Let me tell you that, young as
Mr. Lisle is, I hold him in the highest esteem and regard.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi smilingly hastened to repair his oversight. He was quick-witted enough in
some things. &ldquo;A favourite, evidently,&rdquo; he said to himself with an
almost imperceptible shrug. &ldquo;I suppose it will be to my interest to keep
in with this fellow for the present, but when it comes to my turn he shall very
soon be presented with the order of his going.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It seemed to Lisle that the best thing he could do would be to draw young Clare
into talk over luncheon and leave Sir Gilbert and Mrs. Clare to get on together
as best they could. Luigi responded readily enough to Everard&rsquo;s advances,
all he asked just then being to be left alone by his &ldquo;grandfather,&rdquo;
whom he still regarded with secret fear and trembling, the enormity of the
fraud of which he had been guilty impressing itself far more unpleasantly on
his consciousness when in the presence of the baronet than at any other time.
Both the young men were careful to confine their talk to the merest
generalities. Both of them were on their guard, neither of them could tell yet
what his future relations towards the other might develop into.
</p>

<p>
As for the baronet, he proceeded to mount one of his antiquarian hobbies (it
may have been of set purpose, and in order to save both Giovanna and himself
the awkwardness of having to make talk about nothing in particular) and ambled
on, apparently to the content of both himself and his listener. Nothing more
was required of Mrs. Clare than to look interested and to interject an
occasional &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; or &ldquo;No,&rdquo; or &ldquo;Indeed,&rdquo; at
the proper moment, all of which she did to perfection, although three-fourths
of Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s monologue was clearly beyond her comprehension.
</p>

<p>
When luncheon was over, the baronet, turning to Everard, said: &ldquo;Mr.
Lisle, I want you to be good enough to conduct Mrs. Clare and my grandson over
the house and grounds, and to show them everything worth seeing. Mrs. Burton
will place herself at your disposal as far as the house is concerned, and you
can impound Shotover to show you over the gardens, and so forth. For myself, I
am sorry that the infirmities of age should have so far prevailed over me as to
preclude me from undertaking a task which otherwise would have been one of
unmixed pleasure. You will find me in the library when you have finished your
peregrination: but there is no need whatever for you to hurry
yourselves.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br />
SIR GILBERT&rsquo;S DECISION</h2>

<p>
The Mrs. Burton referred to by Sir Gilbert was housekeeper at the Chase, having
held that position since the death of the second Lady Clare. She was a widow,
middle-aged, thin, prim, and as upright as a dart, and was still able to pride
herself on the slimness of her figure. Her manners pertained to what might be
termed the severely genteel school. She was careful to impress upon everyone
with whom she was brought into contact that she was &ldquo;a lady by
birth,&rdquo; but it was a statement which she evidently intended people to
accept unfortified by any particulars of her parentage and early history, with
regard to which, indeed, it was noticed that she was studiously reticent. Her
peculiarities notwithstanding, she made an excellent housekeeper, and the
baronet valued her accordingly.
</p>

<p>
It had not been often in the course of her uneventful existence that anyone had
succeeded in more than faintly stirring the chilly shallows of Mrs.
Burton&rsquo;s gentility, but this morning she had been more nearly startled
out of her propriety than had happened to her since her advent at Withington
Chase.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert had sent for her immediately after breakfast, and without a word of
preface, and with no more apparent concern than if he were giving his orders
about dinner, had said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mrs. Burton, I am expecting two people to luncheon to-day whom you have
never yet seen, and probably never as much as heard of. They are my
daughter-in-law and my grandson. After luncheon I should like them to be shown
by you over the house. Mr. Lisle will accompany them in my place. So if you
will kindly hold yourself in readiness and meanwhile give orders for the
shutters of the unused rooms to be thrown open, and for an article or two of
furniture here and there to be uncovered, I shall feel obliged.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Burton had issued the requisite orders and had then shut herself up in her
room to think over the astounding news which had just been told her, while
endeavouring to regain her much-disturbed equanimity. She was one of those
women who seem to have a special faculty for ferreting out every particular, or
incident of consequence in the career of anyone in whom they are interested,
and she had flattered herself that there was no fact of any moment in the life
of Sir Gilbert with which she was not already acquainted. To-day, however, he
had proved to her how egregiously she had been mistaken. A daughter-in-law and
a grandson, and she, Felicia Burton, not to have known of their existence! She
felt as if Sir Gilbert had put a grievous personal affront upon her.
</p>

<p>
But she was her usual prim, precise, close-lipped self when in her dress of
black satin, a heavy gold chain round her neck, her faded hair crowned with a
tasteful lace cap, and carrying a bunch of highly polished keys, she proceeded
to show the little party over what might be termed the state apartments of the
old mansion, not one of which had been entered by Sir Gilbert since his second
wife&rsquo;s death. From room to room they went in leisurely fashion&mdash;the
large drawing-room, the small ditto, &ldquo;my lady&rsquo;s boudoir,&rdquo; the
state dining-room, and so on, taking each in turn; and then upstairs, where a
couple of the &ldquo;best bedrooms&rdquo; invited inspection&mdash;each and all
being denuded of carpets and curtains, and of everything except its own special
suite of furniture. Still, no great exercise of the imagination was needed to
picture what those spacious and stately apartments must at one time have looked
like, nor what they might very easily be made to look like again. Last of all
they came to the picture-gallery, where the housekeeper, with an elaborate
courtesy and a thin acid smile, took her leave.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What a rummy old card!&rdquo; was Luigi&rsquo;s outspoken comment almost
before her back was turned.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lewis, how can you speak of her in that way?&rdquo; exclaimed Giovanna.
&ldquo;To me she has something of the air of a broken-down duchess.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As if you had ever seen a broken-down duchess, mother!&rdquo; retorted
the young man flippantly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mrs. Burton is a lady by birth&mdash;at least, so she gives everyone to
understand,&rdquo; remarked Everard drily. &ldquo;And now, Mr. Clare, here we
are among the painted effigies of your ancestors. I have already made the
acquaintance of most of them, as far as it is possible for a man still in the
flesh to do so. Would you like me to introduce you to any of them?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;N&mdash;no, I think not. Fact is, I don&rsquo;t care a rap about the
whole boiling of &rsquo;em.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Idiot!&rdquo; hissed Giovanna in his ear. Then turning to Everard with a
smile, she said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid my son is falling into an absurd habit&mdash;sadly too
common among the young men of to-day&mdash;of depreciating things which they
really understand and care about, although they won&rsquo;t admit it. One day I
must show you some of Lewis&rsquo;s drawings and water-colours. He has done
nothing in oils as yet, I believe. I fancy they will rather surprise
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What rubbish you talk, mother!&rdquo; exclaimed Luigi.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By the way,&rdquo; continued Mrs. Clare without heeding him, &ldquo;if
among these portraits there is one of my son&rsquo;s namesake, the Colonel
Lewis Clare who was killed in battle, I should certainly like to have it
pointed out to me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi yawned openly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am sorry not to be able to gratify your wish,&rdquo; responded Lisle.
&ldquo;No portrait of Colonel Clare is known to be in existence.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
From the gallery they made their way by a side door into the grounds, where
Shotover, the gardener, was awaiting them.
</p>

<p>
Among other things at the Chase which had suffered from neglect since Lady
Clare&rsquo;s death, owing to Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s penurious style of living,
were the gardens and glass-houses, for whereas Shotover had formerly had four
able-bodied assistants under him, himself and a youth had now to attend to
everything. As a consequence, many things had to be left undone, or only half
done, much to the old fellow&rsquo;s disgust: To-day, however, a whisper had
reached him that the young gentleman whom he was presently to show over the
grounds was none other than his master&rsquo;s grandson and heir&mdash;although
where he had so suddenly sprung from nobody seemed to know&mdash;and he
determined to turn the opportunity to account in the way of pointing out the
difference between past and present as far as his department was concerned, in
the hope that his doing so might be the means before long of bringing about a
more desirable state of affairs.
</p>

<p>
It was by no means displeasing to Luigi to be addressed by Shotover in such
deferential terms, and to be appealed to almost as if he were already master of
everything he saw around him. In return he put on a very gracious and affable
demeanour, which secretly tickled Lisle even while it annoyed him, and agreed
with Shotover that matters were in a very bad way indeed, and that he would not
fail to bear in mind all that he had seen and heard while they had been
together. He had already decided in his own mind upon several alterations and
improvements originating in certain hints skilfully thrown out by the old man.
</p>

<p>
But all his new-found sense of self-importance vanished the moment he found
himself back in Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s presence. He could not have told himself
why it should be so, but the fact was that under the baronet&rsquo;s keen and
penetrating gaze he seemed to shrink and wither, to have, as it were, every rag
of self-deception stripped off him and made to recognise himself for the sorry
scamp and swindler that he was. Small wonder that he felt he would rather be
anywhere than in the company of his &ldquo;grandfather.&rdquo; Had he had to
deal with almost any other kind of man he would have tried to curry favour by
fawning and flattery, but something told him that in the present case such a
course would be about the worst he could adopt. He tried to console himself
with the hope that when he should have seen more of Sir Gilbert, and so have
become more accustomed to his presence, this very disagreeable feeling would
gradually wear itself away.
</p>

<p>
Lisle having some outdoor business to attend to left the others at the door of
the library and went his way. Mrs. Clare&rsquo;s stately beauty had not failed
to impress him. He had found her somewhat reserved, and, while listening with
apparent interest to all he had to say, originating few remarks of her own. He
had, however, judged this reticence to be natural to her and not merely put on
as a cloak for the occasion; and, in so thinking, he was not very wide of the
mark, for at no time had Giovanna been a talkative woman, and now that she
found herself in a sphere so new and strange it seemed to her that, for the
present at all events, her wisest course was to listen to everyone and say as
little as possible in return, and by so doing afford others no opportunity of
gauging the depths of her ignorance.
</p>

<p>
Lisle found himself somewhat at sea when it came to a question of summing up
Luigi. Sir Gilbert had furnished him with no information as to how and where
the young man had been brought up, and, in lack of some such data, he felt as
if he were floundering in the dark. Lewis Clare spoke English with the ease and
fluency of one to the manner born, even to the point, judging from certain of
his remarks, of being an adept in slang. That he was not a gentleman in himself
was certain, and it was equally certain that he lacked the indefinable
<i>cachet</i> of one who has been in the habit of mixing in good society. Yet
it would be perhaps scarcely correct to call, him vulgar, using the term in its
commoner acceptation. &ldquo;None the less, he&rsquo;s a conceited, ignorant
young puppy,&rdquo; concluded Lisle, &ldquo;and the chances are that, with a
free hand given him, he will develop by-and-by into something still more
objectionable. Where has he sprung from, I wonder? and for what reason, has he
been kept in the background all these years? Can it have been that Sir Gilbert
himself had no knowledge till lately of the existence of such a
descendant?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But these were vain questions, as Everard Lisle was well aware.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now,&rdquo; said Sir Gilbert after he had put a few questions,
chiefly to Giovanna, on her and Luigi&rsquo;s return from their
round&mdash;&ldquo;and now the time has come for me to enlighten you with
regard to my intentions&mdash;that is to say, as far as they have reference to
the present state of affairs. In what way I may see fit in time to come to
change, modify, or even to wholly cancel the arrangements I now propose to make
it is of course impossible for me even to conjecture. As for you, young
sir,&rdquo; turning to Luigi, &ldquo;you will, for the present, take up your
quarters here. There are certain acquirements to which you have hitherto had no
opportunity of devoting yourself, but without at least a smattering of which no
gentleman&rsquo;s education can be considered complete. You are not too old to
learn, and I shall look to you to do your utmost, under proper tuition and
surveillance, to remedy the defects in question. I shall, of course, make you a
certain money allowance, the amount of which I have not yet determined, but I
tell you at once that although it will, in my opinion, be amply sufficient to
meet the unavoidable <i>menus frais</i> of a person in your position, it will
not admit of your launching into any extravagances or unnecessary expenses. And
now one word of caution. See to it that on no account you allow yourself to
become involved in debt. That is one of the few things I should find it
difficult to overlook.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Poor Luigi felt as if his heart were on the point of sinking into his boots.
</p>

<p>
Without waiting for a word in reply the baronet turned to Giovanna.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What I have to propose, my dear madam, for your acceptance as the widow
of my eldest son, is an allowance of four hundred pounds per annum to be paid
you quarterly in advance. I am also in a position to place at your service, of
course rent-free, a certain house known as Maylings, which belongs to me and is
at the present time unoccupied. It is old-fashioned, but roomy and comfortable,
and stands in its own plot of ground at the north-east corner of the park.
Should you decide upon occupying it, I shall at once issue instructions to have
it fitted up out of the spare furniture at the Chase. What say you, madam, what
say you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is not needful to record what Giovanna said. It was brief, but to the
purpose. The baronet, who hated wordiness, although a little given to indulge
in it himself on occasion, was evidently well pleased at the way she expressed
herself. It was a matter of course that she should accept Maylings as her
future home, although with certain unspoken reservations which, however,
concerned no one but herself.
</p>

<p>
Luigi and she stayed to dinner, the hour for which at the Chase was the
primitive one of five. Before leaving it was arranged that they should return
on the Thursday following, Luigi to remain <i>en permanence</i>, and Giovanna
to make the Chase her home till Maylings should be ready to receive her. Sir
Gilbert did not fail to present her with a cheque for her first quarter&rsquo;s
allowance. To Luigi he gave one for fifty pounds, together with a note to his
tailor, in order that the young man might be enabled to furnish himself with an
outfit such as became the grandson of Sir Gilbert Clare and the heir of
Withington Chase. His last words as he held Luigi&rsquo;s hand for a moment at
parting were&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My boy, as you behave to me, so will you find that I shall behave to
you.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br />
AFFAIRS AT ST. OSWYTH&rsquo;S</h2>

<p>
Leaving Giovanna and Luigi to establish themselves in their new home and
accustom themselves, so far as they may be able, to that changed condition of
life to which the success of Captain Verinder&rsquo;s nefarious scheme has
elevated them, we will hie back awhile to St. Oswyth&rsquo;s and ascertain how
fortune has been dealing with our friends in that pleasant little town since we
parted from them last.
</p>

<p>
When Mrs. Lisle, in one of her letters, informed her son that, owing to the
loss of the greater part of their fortune the Miss Thursbys had been compelled
to give up Vale View House and remove to an inexpensive cottage in the suburbs,
she stated no more than the simple fact. Through the rascality of their agent,
whose misdeeds had not been brought to light till he was beyond the reach of
earthly reckoning, the sisters had lost the greater part of their property past
all hope of recovery. All they had left was a somewhat fluctuating income,
derivable from railway stock, which brought them in about two hundred a year.
To this would be added the rental derivable from Vale View, which was their own
property, as soon as a tenant should be found for it; for the present, however,
it was standing empty. A matter of something over a hundred pounds had accrued
to them from the sale of their surplus furniture and such other things as they
no longer had a use for. More than all, they had felt the parting from Flossie,
their gentle, steady-going old pony, but they had the consolation of knowing
that in Mrs. Rudd it had found a mistress who would treat it with no less
kindness than they had done.
</p>

<p>
It had been generally supposed among their friends and acquaintances, in view
of their simple and unostentatious mode of life, that the sisters must have a
few snug thousands&mdash;the result of their savings through a long course of
years&mdash;put away somewhere: but such a supposition was wholly at variance
with fact. In the belief that their income was as safe as the Bank of England,
the sisters had never deemed it necessary to put by any portion of it, but had
disbursed every shilling of whatever surplus was left in secret charity.
</p>

<p>
It was a matter of course that Tamsin should cling to them in their fallen
fortunes, and accompany them to their new home. For the future she, and a young
maid-servant, would be the only domestics whom they would be able to keep. But
Tamsin, although heretofore her position had merely been that of maid to the
sisters, had had the advantage of a sound bringing-up at home, and in days gone
by had often lamented that sundry of her domestic acquirements had no scope for
their exercise. Now, however, she would be able to prove both her skill as a
cook and her deftness as parlourmaid, and all the housewifely gifts on which
she secretly prided herself would have an opportunity of being brought into
play. At length she felt that she was in her proper element.
</p>

<p>
As for the sisters, their sudden reverse of fortune was powerless to sour them
or change them in any way. They remained just the same sweet and gracious
ladies they had always been; and if such a thing were possible, they were
beloved and respected more than ever by all who had the happiness of counting
them among their friends. Their chief regret arose from the fact that they were
no longer in a position to dispense their charities on the same scale as
before.
</p>

<p>
The cottage to which they had removed&mdash;known as Rose Mount&mdash;made a
pleasant little home, and its seven or eight rooms were amply sufficient for
their changed needs. It stood on a sunny slope fronting the south, where
flowers of a score different kinds&mdash;especially the one from which the
cottage took its name&mdash;grew and blossomed to perfection. The thick hedge
of evergreens which divided it from the highroad imparted to it that air of
privacy and seclusion which the sisters loved.
</p>

<p>
With Ethel, meanwhile, affairs had by no means been at a standstill.
</p>

<p>
Day succeeded day till they had merged into weeks after Launce Keymer&rsquo;s
sudden departure from St. Oswyth&rsquo;s, and still Ethel looked in vain for a
letter or a message of some kind from him. She had no knowledge of his
whereabouts, and however extreme her desire might be to communicate with him,
she felt that only as a last resource could she prevail upon herself to ask for
information from her lover&rsquo;s father. For one thing, she was by no means
sure that Launce had broken the news of their engagement to Mr. Keymer senior.
There had certainly been nothing in the note which the brewer wrote to Miss
Thursby to indicate that such was the case. She was powerless to move.
</p>

<p>
Her aunts, even while in the midst of their own more personal anxieties, did
not fail to sympathise with her over a state of affairs which was as much a
puzzle to them as it was to her. Equally with Ethel, they felt that it was out
of the question that they should ask the elder Mr. Keymer for an explanation of
his son&rsquo;s silence, more especially now that their drop from affluence to
comparative penury was a fact known to everybody. Could it be possible, they
asked each other, that the fact in question had any bearing on Launce
Keymer&rsquo;s mysterious silence? Had he merely engaged himself to Ethel in
the expectation that, as her aunts&rsquo; heiress, he would secure a rich wife
for himself? and now, when he found his expectations dashed to the ground, was
he so incredibly base as to want to break faith with her? These were questions
which, although the sisters could not help putting, they shrank from any
endeavour to find an answer to them. It was a hard matter at all times for them
to think ill of anyone, and they recoiled especially from doing so in the
present case. Not for the world would they have whispered a word to Ethel which
would have seemed to cast the faintest shadow of suspicion on her lover&rsquo;s
truth and constancy.
</p>

<p>
As the reader will have already surmised, the news that the ladies of Vale View
had undoubtedly lost the greater part of their money was not long in being
conveyed to the elder Keymer by his cousin, Mr. Tuttle, clerk to Mr. Linaway
the lawyer, the latter, as it may be remembered, having been employed by the
sisters to draw up their wills and look after their business matters generally.
To Mr. Linaway they had gone the day following the receipt of the letter which
Launce Keymer had been allowed to read on that memorable evening when he was
received at Vale View as Ethel&rsquo;s acknowledged lover.
</p>

<p>
Keymer senior had at once communicated with his son, and as they were both
agreed that the affair, as between the latter and Ethel, must at once be nipped
in the bud, it had been deemed advisable that Launce should stay where he was
for the present. As far as was known, the sisters had not spoken of the
engagement to anyone, and by-and-by he would be able to come back and brazen
out the affair with impunity.
</p>

<p>
But there was one person who had by no means forgiven Launce Keymer&rsquo;s
treachery towards her, and had made up her mind to be revenged upon him in one
way or another. The person in question was Miss Hetty Blair, the pretty
governess at Dulminster, whose workbox Keymer had rifled of the letters he
himself had written her.
</p>

<p>
On discovering her loss Hetty had at once leaped to the very natural conclusion
that her whilom lover had deserted her, and repossessed himself of his letters
in consequence of his having forsaken her for someone else. The question that
at once put itself to her was, as to the means by which it would be possible to
find out who that someone was. Jealousy, and a determination to be revenged on
her perfidious lover, worked very powerfully within her. She was by no means
the kind of young woman to sit down helplessly under so foul a wrong and
content herself with bemoaning her fate and shedding an infinitude of tears.
She had really loved Keymer, and the blow he had aimed at her was such as she
could neither forgive nor forget, and not till she should have succeeded in
returning it with interest would she rest satisfied.
</p>

<p>
Her first step, despite her mother&rsquo;s protests, was to quit Dulminster and
take lodgings in St. Oswyth&rsquo;s in a back street within a stone&rsquo;s
throw of Keymer&rsquo;s home. She was not long ascertaining that Launce had
left the town only a couple of days after his theft of the letters, but that no
one, unless it were his father, knew either where he had gone, or the business
which had taken him away. Neither did all Hetty&rsquo;s inquiries,
perseveringly as she conducted them, tend to enlighten her on the one point
about which she was more anxious than any other. If Launce were engaged to any
young lady at St. Oswyth&rsquo;s, no one there seemed to know of it. That at
various times he had flirted more or less desperately with half a score of
damsels was not open to dispute; but there matters had ended, and not even the
whisper of an engagement reached Hetty from anywhere.
</p>

<p>
In such a state of affairs it was only natural that she should ask herself
whether Keymer, unknown to his friends and acquaintances, might not have left
home on purpose to marry someone at a distance, and might not, at that very
time, be on his bridal tour. It was a tormenting thought, and one of which
Hetty could by no means disabuse her mind.
</p>

<p>
Anyone less persevering or less determined to leave no stone unturned in the
task she had set herself would have gone back home disheartened, and have done
her utmost to forget that anyone so unspeakably mean as Launce Keymer had
proved himself to be should ever have beguiled her into loving him. But Miss
Hetty was made of different stuff. She knew that Keymer could not stay away for
ever. It might be months, perhaps even a year, before he returned. But that he
would return she felt little doubt, and should he then bring with him a
wife&mdash;well, in that case, let him look to himself! Meanwhile she would
stay on where she was.
</p>

<p>
It was as well for the success of her purpose that she decided to do so. Among
others whose acquaintance she had succeeded in making since her arrival at St.
Oswyth&rsquo;s was the nursery governess at Mr. Keymer&rsquo;s (for the
brewer&rsquo;s youngest child by his second marriage was as yet but seven years
old), who, like herself, belonged to Dulminster, a fact which Hetty put forward
as a sort of bond to draw them together. The result was that they met
frequently when Miss Doris Lane was out with her youthful charge, and had many
confidential gossips together in which, however, Hetty&rsquo;s part was more
that of listener than talker. Thus by degrees she learnt more about Launce and
his &ldquo;carryings on&rdquo; than she had ever known before, and it was by no
means a flattering portrait which the governess sketched for her. Still, all
this in no way served to advance the object Hetty had in view, seeing that
Doris, no more than others, was in a position to point to any young lady as
being Launce Keymer&rsquo;s <i>fiancée</i>, although in their talks together
Hetty recurred again and again to that particular topic.
</p>

<p>
At length Doris said one day with a touch of impatience:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why are you for ever asking me whether I am sure Mr. Launce is not
engaged to somebody? It&rsquo;s enough to make one fancy that you are fishing
for him yourself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then Hetty took a sudden resolution. From what she had seen of Doris she
thought she might be trusted, and in any case the time had come when it seemed
better to risk telling her secret, if by so doing anything could be gained,
rather than go on from day to day in utter ignorance of that which she was
burning to discover.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is not because I am fishing for Launce Keymer,&rdquo; she said,
&ldquo;but because till a few weeks ago he was my promised husband, and because
it ended in his treating me like the scoundrel he is, that I want to know
whether he has flung me aside in order that he may engage himself to someone
else.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Doris gasped and opened her eyes to their widest extent, and for a few moments
could find nothing to say.
</p>

<p>
Then presently Hetty went on to tell of the loss of her letters and the means
by which it had been accomplished. This sent Doris&rsquo;s indignation up to
boiling-point, which thereupon proceeded to vent itself in certain expressions
which, as referring to himself, Launce Keymer would scarcely have cared to
listen to.
</p>

<p>
Miss Lane&rsquo;s sympathy and outspoken indignation were sweet to Hetty, who
had often longed for a confidant to whom she could open her mind. &ldquo;And
yet now I&rsquo;ve told her, she can help me no more than she could
before,&rdquo; she said to herself with a sigh. But in so saying she was
mistaken, as was presently to be proved.
</p>

<p>
A sudden thought seemed to strike Doris.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How stupid I must be,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;not to have recollected
before (though, mind you, even now I don&rsquo;t know that it&rsquo;s a matter
of any consequence), that Mary Deane, the housemaid, when she was brushing and
arranging some clothes which Mr. Launce had left behind him, found the photo of
a young lady in one of the pockets of his overcoat. Mary dropped it in my room
as she was dusting, and then told me all about it, and went and put it back
where she had found it. Now do you think&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Here Doris stopped and looked inquiringly at Hetty.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It does not matter what I think,&rdquo; replied the latter, &ldquo;but
you will be doing me a very great service indeed if you can obtain possession
of the likeness and entrust it to me for one day. The next it shall be given
back to you safe and sound. Will you do this for me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Doris would have done more than that had more been required of her, so worked
upon had her feelings been by the tale told her by the other. At their next
meeting the likeness was produced and handed over to Hetty.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a sweet face, don&rsquo;t you think?&rdquo; asked Doris, as
Hetty stood gazing at the photograph with bent brows.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a beautiful face,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;and if Launce
Keymer gave me up because he had the chance of winning this girl for his wife,
I can hardly wonder at it. But he need not have robbed me of my letters.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She bit her lip in an effort to keep back the tears which had sprung to her
eyes.
</p>

<p>
On turning the portrait over she saw that it bore the name of a local
photographer. This was so far fortunate for the purpose she had in view,
although had it borne a London or even a Paris address she would have carried
out her scheme in exactly the same way.
</p>

<p>
Turning to Doris she said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I will leave you now and meet you again in half an hour, when I will
give you back the likeness.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In the course of the afternoon of next day Miss Blair knocked at the door of
Rose Mount and asked to see Miss Ethel Thursby. She had experienced no
difficulty in obtaining the latter&rsquo;s name and address from the
photographer who had taken the likeness. Hetty having been shown into the tiny
drawing-room by Tamsin, was presently joined by Ethel, who could not help
wondering as to the nature of the business which had caused her to be sought
out by a perfect stranger.
</p>

<p>
Her visitor did not leave her long in doubt.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My name is Hetty Blair,&rdquo; she began, &ldquo;my home is at
Dulminster, and I earn my living as a daily governess. And now, Miss Thursby,
will you please to pardon the question I am about to ask you, which is: Do you
happen to be acquainted with a person of the name of Mr. Launce Keymer?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
On the instant a lovely flush suffused Ethel&rsquo;s cheeks, which was not
mitigated by the fact that Miss Blair was looking at her with parted lips and
eagerly anxious eyes. She felt indignant with herself at having been surprised
into a display of so much emotion and perhaps a little indignant with her
questioner. She had not failed to notice that Miss Blair employed the word
&ldquo;person&rdquo; in her mention of Keymer.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The gentleman you speak of is my friend,&rdquo; she replied with a touch
of hauteur, &ldquo;although I am at a loss to know in what way that fact
concerns you, or why&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have presumed to come here and question you about him. That you will
learn presently. Mr. Launce Keymer being, as you say, your friend, did he ever
take you so far into his confidence as to tell you that he had engaged himself
by a solemn promise to marry someone else?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The colour vanished from Ethel&rsquo;s face, leaving it of a deathlike pallor.
There was a little space of silence which to both the girls was fraught with
pain. Then Ethel said faintly:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, Mr. Keymer never told me that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I thought not,&rdquo; answered Hetty, quietly. &ldquo;Miss Thursby, I am
the someone&mdash;I, humble Hetty Blair, nursery governess, whom Launce Keymer
promised to make his wife.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I cannot believe it,&rdquo; came from Ethel, but her words lacked the
accent of conviction.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It <i>is</i> hard to believe, is it not, that any man should be such a
villain? But, for all that, it&rsquo;s the simple truth, as I can prove in a
way which even you will find it impossible to dispute. If you will allow me, I
will sit down, for the truth is I shake like an aspen.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pray pardon my forgetfulness,&rdquo; said Ethel, and with that she
seated herself on a sofa a little distance away.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think he must have been fond of me at one time, or he would never have
written me the letters he did,&rdquo; resumed Hetty presently. Ethel&rsquo;s
eyes were fixed intently on her. She sat leaning a little forward, her hands
with tightly interlocked fingers resting on her lap. At the word
&ldquo;letters&rdquo; she could not repress a start.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Though I began to suspect latterly,&rdquo; continued Hetty, &ldquo;that
he was no longer quite as fond of me as he used to be, I did not doubt his
love, and, least of all, did I think he would behave to me as only a scoundrel
could behave. I had a number of letters from him at different times&mdash;eight
in all. He used to go over to Dulminster twice a week to see me. He knew where
I kept the letters&mdash;in a little workbox which stood on the sideboard in my
mother&rsquo;s parlour where we used to sit together. Well, one afternoon, when
he knew I was from home, he came to the house, and having sent my mother out on
an errand, while she was gone, he broke open my workbox and stole my
letters&mdash;that is to say, his letters to me; and from that day to this I
have never set eyes on him, nor heard from him in any way. And the man who did
that was Mr. Launce Keymer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel sat as one bereft of speech. It was as if the tides of her physical life
had been arrested in full flow and sent surging back to overwhelm heart and
brain alike, only to be released a few moments later and let go madly on their
way. As yet but one coherent thought could frame itself in her mind: &ldquo;And
this is the man whose promised wife I am!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then she became conscious that Hetty was speaking again.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I told you just now, Miss Thursby, that I had eight letters in all from
him, but there were only six in the workbox when he rifled it. The remaining
two were in a drawer in my bedroom. I have brought them with me to-day for you
to read if you would like to do so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not for worlds!&rdquo; gasped Ethel.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are quite welcome to do so. You would then see for yourself how he
used to write of me as his &lsquo;darling Hetty,&rsquo; and his &lsquo;sweet
little wife that is to be.&rsquo; What wretches some men are, to be
sure!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel found herself automatically counting her heart beats&mdash;&ldquo;one,
two&mdash;one, two&mdash;one, two.&rdquo; She was faint and dizzy.
</p>

<p>
Hetty was regarding her with eyes that were blurred with tears.
</p>

<p>
After a little, Ethel&rsquo;s dizziness passed. Bending her gaze on Hetty, she
said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But what induced you to seek <i>me</i> out&mdash;that is to say, me
rather than anyone else&mdash;and tell me all this about Mr. Keymer?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was because I found out by accident that he was in the habit of
carrying your likeness about with him, and I knew he was not the kind of man to
do that unless&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel held up her hand. &ldquo;That is enough,&rdquo; she said softly.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br />
FATHER AND SON</h2>

<p>
&ldquo;He is unworthy of either your love or mine,&rdquo; were Ethel&rsquo;s
parting words to Hetty as they stood together in the porch at Rose Mount. With
that she drew the other to her and kissed her, and then Hetty went her way with
a full heart.
</p>

<p>
Next day she went back home to Dulminster and recommenced the round of her
daily duties, to all outward seeming as if nothing had happened to her. But for
her the romance of life was over. In the darkened chamber of her heart she
mourned alone over the corpse of her dead love. Some day, in all probability,
she would marry; for although her lover had proved false to her, she had no
intention of fading into an old maid with no prospect before her beyond that of
teaching one generation of children after another. She looked forward to having
a home of her own, and a husband to work for her; but, for all that, she did
not fail to tell herself that although she would never marry anyone whom she
did not like, and even love after a fashion, yet that she could never care for
another as she had cared for the man whose vows had been written in water. With
the memory of him was associated all the glamour and romance of her young life,
which, once gone, can return never more.
</p>

<p>
On the morning of the day following that of Hetty Blair&rsquo;s call at Rose
Mount, Mr. Keymer senior found among his letters one superscribed to his son.
Its only postmark was that of St. Oswyth&rsquo;s. The brewer turned it over
more than once, and re-read the address with growing curiosity. &ldquo;Quite a
young lady&rsquo;s hand; my first wife used to write almost exactly like
it,&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;It must be from <i>her</i>&mdash;nay, I&rsquo;m
sure it is. In that case I shall be perfectly justified in opening it. The
little affair as between Miss Ethel Thursby and my son is one which concerns me
as much as, if not more than, it does Launce himself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Without more ado he took his penknife, slit open the envelope, and extracted
the enclosure. &ldquo;Ah, as I thought. Dated from Rose Mount, that little
white cottage on the Shackleford Road where I am told the spinsters have gone
to reside since their come-down in the world; and signed &lsquo;Ethel
Thursby.&rsquo; I rather expected the young lady would have written long before
now. Reproaching him for his silence and all that sort of thing, I don&rsquo;t
doubt. Well, well, poor girl, one can&rsquo;t wonder at it. I wish, for all our
sakes, that matters had turned out differently. But Providence orders things
after its own fashion, and we can but submit.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
With that he lay back in his chair and settled his spectacles on his nose. His
face was a study as he read.
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;If&mdash;remembering what passed between you and me only a few hours
before you left St. Oswyth&rsquo;s&mdash;I were to begin by stating that during
the weeks which followed your departure I did not look and expect to hear from
you, nor fail to wonder at your unaccountable silence, I should be asserting
that which was not the fact.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I <i>did</i> look and expect to hear from you, and was wholly at a loss
to understand why I failed to do so. Now, I am no longer at a loss. The motive
by which you have all along been actuated has at length been made clear to me.
The scales have been plucked from before my eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;From what I now know of you, it is impossible for me any longer to doubt
that when you asked me to become your wife, it was not because you cared for me
for myself, but because you looked forward to my one day becoming the heiress
of my dear aunts. When, however, on the evening of my birthday, you gathered
from a certain letter which you were allowed to read that my aunts had lost the
greater part of their fortune, you at once made up your mind to snap the chain
by which you had bound yourself to me such a little while before. The readiest
way of effecting this, as it seemed to you, was to abruptly quit St.
Oswyth&rsquo;s a few hours later without informing me of the place for which
you were bound, and to maintain an unbroken silence from that time forward.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I congratulate you on the success which has crowned your efforts.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But there remains another point connected with the affair about which it
is due to myself that I should say something, although it is one the
particulars of which you doubtless hoped could by no possibility reach me.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When you first induced me to promise to become your wife you begged of
me to keep our engagement a secret from everyone till you should give me leave
to speak of it. It was a request to which I weakly acceded, although I was made
very unhappy thereby. Not that I had the faintest notion of the base advantage
which you proposed to take of my silence. But I am ignorant no longer. You were
afraid that if the fact of our engagement were made public it might reach the
ears of one to whom you were already bound by a solemn promise of marriage. It
was not that you cared in the least about your promise; your fear was lest
certain compromising letters written by you from time to time might be brought
up in judgment against you, and not till an opportunity should offer itself for
you to regain possession of them were you willing that your engagement to me
should become known.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The wished-for opportunity came at last, and you, who doubtless would be
highly indignant if anyone were to speak of you as other than a gentleman and a
man of honour&mdash;you condescended to break open and rifle the workbox of her
into whose ear, only a few hours before, you had been whispering false vows of
love and constancy! But you had your reward; you got back your letters; you had
no longer anything to fear, or so you flattered yourself. You hurried back to
me and told me smilingly that the need for keeping our engagement a secret no
longer existed. I have taken the trouble of writing to you at so much length in
order to prove to you that the full measure of your baseness is known to me.
How utterly mean and despicable you have become in my eyes, in what utter
loathing and contempt I hold you, I leave you to imagine for yourself&mdash;and
you could scarcely imagine anything that exceeds the reality.
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;E<small>THEL</small> T<small>HURSBY</small>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The hot colour mounted to Mr. Keymer&rsquo;s face as he read the concluding
lines of Ethel&rsquo;s epistle. He had always regarded himself as a man of
honour and of the strictest integrity in his dealings with others, as one
careful never to overpass that thin line which in but too many instances is all
that divides trade morality from that other commodity, often hardly to be
distinguished from it, of which the law takes cognisance; but there was that in
some of Miss Thursby&rsquo;s phrases which stung him to the quick, not merely
on Launce&rsquo;s account, but on his own. When, acting on the information
imparted to him that the Miss Thursbys had willed all they possessed to their
niece, he had urged his son to endeavour to secure the heiress for his wife;
and when, on its being subsequently shown that she was an heiress no longer, he
had given a helping hand in the rupture of the engagement&mdash;it had seemed
to him that he had only acted as any sensible man of the world, who had his
son&rsquo;s welfare at heart, would have acted. All at once, however, a fresh
and entirely different light had been thrown on his action in the affair, and,
for the first time, he seemed to see it in its true colours and to recognise it
for the despicable and dishonourable piece of business it really was. The
brewer was not used to blushing for himself, or his actions, and the sensation
was by no means a pleasant one.
</p>

<p>
But before long all such unpleasant personal considerations became, to a great
extent, merged in a feeling of annoyed wonder, originating in certain
statements in the letter which seemed clearly to implicate his son in some more
or less discreditable transactions with some other female, of which he, his
father, knew absolutely nothing. Of what folly had Launce been guilty?
</p>

<p>
Without more ado he at once despatched a brief telegram to his son, who was
still sojourning with his uncle in Cornwall: &ldquo;Return by first train
without fail.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Indeed, now that Miss Thursby had rejected Launce of her own accord, there was
no valid reason why he should not at once come back home. The engagement had
never been made public; neither Miss Thursby nor her aunts would, for their own
sakes, care to speak of it, and the whole episode might be regarded as over and
done with by all concerned. In so far Miss Thursby&rsquo;s stinging epistle had
served to put an end to a state of affairs the climax of which, in any case,
could hardly have been devoid of unpleasant features of some kind.
</p>

<p>
Launce Keymer did not reach home till the afternoon of next day He had been
away on a fishing expedition when the telegram arrived and, as a consequence,
had missed the last through train to London. He had not found the journey a
pleasant one, his father&rsquo;s curt telegram having served to utterly unnerve
him. What had happened to cause him to be so peremptorily summoned?
</p>

<p>
Launce took a cab at the station and drove straight to his father&rsquo;s
office. The brewer was alone.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Anything the matter, dad? All well at home, I hope?&rdquo; queried
Launce as he extended a hand which his father made believe not to see.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There&rsquo;s a great deal the matter; more, perhaps, than you will find
it easy to explain away,&rdquo; responded the brewer gruffly. &ldquo;Take that
chair and read this.&rdquo; As he spoke he took Ethel&rsquo;s letter from under
a paperweight at his elbow and tossed it across the table to his son.
</p>

<p>
Launce read it to the end without a word. When he had done, he refolded it
slowly, and then lifted his eyes and looked at his father, who was grimly
watching him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself?&rdquo; demanded the
latter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nothing much, except to confess that I have made a precious idiot of
myself,&rdquo; replied Launce with an uneasy laugh. &ldquo;Now that matters
have come to this pass, I need scarcely say that any questions you may choose
to put to me shall be answered truthfully and to the best of my ability.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And so by degrees, and by way of answers to his father&rsquo;s interrogatories,
the story of Hetty Blair was told.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your conduct has indeed been that of an idiot&mdash;no milder term is
applicable to it,&rdquo; remarked the brewer when he had brought his string of
questions to an end. &ldquo;That you have been headstrong and extravagant, I
have long known&mdash;known it to my cost&mdash;but that you should have
displayed such an utter lack of common sense in your dealings with this
governessing girl, is what I should have found it impossible to believe had not
facts, coupled with your own confession, proved to me how utterly mistaken I
was. I have lost every atom of confidence in you, and from
to-day&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It does not follow, because a man has made an egregious ass of himself
once, that he must necessarily do so a second time,&rdquo; broke in Launce, a
little sullenly. &ldquo;Indeed, after the lesson I have just had read me, it
would be absurd to suppose that I should ever commit myself in a similar way
again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not in the same way, perhaps, but in some other way equally as
reprehensible. It is only wise men who profit by experience. Fools never learn.
In which of the two categories do you assume to class yourself?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Launce bit his lip, but refrained from replying.
</p>

<p>
Launce Keymer had scarcely been twenty-four hours at home before the nursemaid,
Doris King, who was under promise to do so, had intimated the fact by letter to
Miss Hetty Blair. Other notes followed, in which Hetty was informed that her
former lover was going about just as he had been in the habit of doing before
he left home, as gay, as smiling, and apparently as free from care as ever he
had been. And so, indeed, he was, for Launce never dreamt that Hetty either
could or would trouble him further. When all was said and done, he looked upon
it that he had escaped handsomely out of both his entanglements, and as the
particulars in neither case had come to the knowledge of the little world in
which he habitually lived and moved, it seemed to him that he was perfectly at
liberty to revert to that pleasant, social, <i>dégagé</i> mode of life to which
all his inclinations tended, and of which unlimited and irresponsible
flirtation formed an essential factor.
</p>

<p>
Ethel Thursby had said to Hetty: &ldquo;The service you have done me is greater
than you know. Not only have you shown me the kind of man Launce Keymer is, but
you have opened my eyes to something else. When he asked me to become his wife
it was in the belief that I should one day inherit my aunts&rsquo; money, but
within a few hours of his discovery that they had lost nearly all they were
worth and that, consequently, there was no prospect of my inheriting anything,
he left home suddenly and without coming to bid me goodbye, and from then till
now no word of any kind has reached me from him. The reason of his silence is
now made plain to me. He intends me to understand by it that he wishes our
engagement to be considered as at an end&mdash;and so, indeed, from this hour
it is.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
These words recurred to Hetty again and again, and the oftener she thought them
over the more clearly she saw that, instead of having, as she had hoped and
intended, inflicted on her former lover an injury from which he would not
readily recover, she had unwittingly rendered him an essential service by
causing Miss Thursby of her own accord to break off an engagement towards the
rupture of which he himself had already taken the first steps. The reflection
was a mortifying one, and Hetty ground her sharp white teeth in impotent anger
as often as it forced itself upon her. Then, one day, she bethought herself
that two of Launce Keymer&rsquo;s letters were still in her possession, which,
as breathing a more ardent attachment and being studded with more terms of
endearment, she had chosen from the others to place under her pillow at night
and help to bring her happy dreams. &ldquo;If I have failed to make him suffer
in the way I intended,&rdquo; she said to herself; &ldquo;that is all the more
reason why I should make him suffer in some other way.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Hetty had flirted with more than one would-be lover before Launce Keymer
appeared on the scene and carried all before him. The one she had been most
inclined to favour was a young solicitor&rsquo;s clerk, Ambrose Lydd by name. A
week seldom went by without their passing each other in the street, and in the
glances he cast on her Hetty read clearly enough that he was still no less
infatuated with her than he had ever been. To him she now wrote a brief note,
asking him to call upon her at her home the first evening he should find
himself disengaged.
</p>

<p>
Three days later Mr. Keymer senior was waited upon by Ambrose Lydd, whose
employer had granted him a few hours&rsquo; leave of absence. The brewer, who
was always affable and easy of access to possible customers, having glanced at
his visitor&rsquo;s card, which showed him nothing but the other&rsquo;s name,
requested him to be seated, and then looked blandly and inquiringly at him; but
scarcely had the young solicitor&rsquo;s clerk opened his lips before Mr.
Keymer&rsquo;s expression changed in a most remarkable degree.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am here to-day, Mr. Keymer, as representing the interests of a certain
young lady, by name Miss Hetty Blair. It is a name, sir, that probably is not
wholly strange to you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The brewer considered before answering. He was unable to see that anything
would be gained by his denial of any knowledge of the name, while, on the other
hand, there was a possibility that his doing so might lead to his detection in
a fib, which would be decidedly unpleasant. Besides, he was anxious to learn
what lay in the background.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Really, sir, it is too much to expect that I should charge my memory
with every name that may be casually mentioned in my presence,&rdquo; was his
cautious reply. &ldquo;But, assuming that I may at some time or other have
heard the name, what then?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Merely this, sir: that the lady in question, who resides at Dulminster,
was, till some six or seven weeks ago, engaged to be married to your son, Mr.
Launce Keymer, a fact of which you are possibly aware.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am most certainly unaware of anything of the kind, for the very good
reason that no such engagement as you speak of ever existed.&rdquo; There was
an angry sparkle in his eyes, but his tone was as dry and deliberate as ever.
&ldquo;That there may have been some silly harmless flirtation between the two,
of a kind common enough among young people, I am willing to admit; but nothing
more than that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was very much more than a harmless flirtation, Mr. Keymer, as your
son, were he here, would scarcely have the effrontery to deny. It was a formal
engagement, duly sanctioned by Miss Blair&rsquo;s mother, at whose house your
son was a frequent visitor, and by whom he was looked upon as her
daughter&rsquo;s future husband.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If some old woman chooses to make an ass of herself, that&rsquo;s no
concern of mine. I repeat, that the affair, as between my son and Miss Blair,
was nothing more than a silly flirtation.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If that were the case, Mr. Keymer, why should your son have been so
terribly anxious to get back certain letters addressed by him to Miss Blair,
that he resorted to the extreme step of breaking open her workbox, an act
which, had the lady been of a vindictive disposition, might have landed him in
a very serious predicament indeed?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The brewer shrugged his shoulders. &ldquo;That is a question for my son to
answer. And let me tell you, sir, that I am not in the habit of discussing his,
or anybody&rsquo;s affairs with strangers; which reminds me that I am still in
the dark as to the nature of the business which brought you here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very few words will serve to enlighten you. When your son robbed Miss
Blair of her letters he was doubtless under the impression that he had regained
possession of all that he had ever written to her. Such, however, was not the
case. Miss Blair still retains two letters, both of them couched in language
with which it would be impossible to find fault on the score of its ambiguity;
in point of fact, they breathe a most fervent devotion, and abound with terms
of endearment such as none but accepted lovers are privileged to make use of.
Now, sir, there can be little doubt that if Miss Blair chose to enter an action
for breach of promise against your son, the letters in question would of
themselves go far towards securing her a verdict with heavy damages. But, while
determined that the wrong which has been inflicted on her shall not go
unpunished, she has no wish to proceed to extremities, unless driven thereto.
What, therefore, she has empowered me to do, is to offer to give up the two
letters in return for a cheque, signed by you, for three hundred
guineas.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What!&rdquo; shrieked the brewer, as he sprang to his feet, a patch of
purple mantling in either cheek. &ldquo;Three hundred guineas for a couple of
worthless scrawls! What do you take me for? Get out of my office this instant
and never let me set eyes on your ugly face again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ambrose Lydd did not offer to stir.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I beg to remark, Mr. Keymer, that I am usually considered to be rather
good-looking,&rdquo; he said with a quaint smile; &ldquo;but in moments of
excitement I am aware that we are liable to say things which we afterwards see
reason to regret. But to come back to business. The letters in question, sir,
if read in open court, as they undoubtedly will be if my client&rsquo;s very
reasonable offer is met by a refusal, will prove to be anything rather than
worthless scrawls. I have brought copies of them with me for your perusal. Here
they are, sir; read them through carefully, after which, I venture to assert
that your opinion as to their worthlessness will be considerably
modified.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Speaking thus, the solicitor&rsquo;s clerk produced the copies he had brought
with him, and rising, laid them on the brewer&rsquo;s blotting-pad.
</p>

<p>
Without a word more Mr. Keymer went back to his chair, his face still
corrugated with a frown. He was annoyed with himself at having been surprised
into a display of temper. Ambrose Lydd watched him keenly while he read the
copies, but his features betrayed nothing. When he had come to the end of the
second letter, looking Lydd steadily in the face, he said: &ldquo;Sir, I find
that my son is a more egregious ass than I believed him to be. Leave these
documents with me, and let me have your address. You shall hear from me in the
course of the week.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A few days later Miss Hetty Blair had the satisfaction of opening an account
with the Dulminster Banking Company, who placed to her credit a cheque for
three hundred guineas which bore the signature of Robert Keymer.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br />
ETHEL&rsquo;S CONFESSION</h2>

<p>
It scarcely needs to be stated that Ethel Thursby&rsquo;s letter to Launce
Keymer was written with the full knowledge and sanction of her aunts. When the
particulars of her interview with Hetty Blair were told them, they could but
hold up their hands in horrified amazement. Their worst fears, never even
hinted at to Ethel, had been more than realised; there could no longer be any
doubt as to the nature of the motives by which Keymer had been influenced. His
treatment of Ethel had been bad enough, but his treatment of Hetty Blair
revealed a depth of depravity which caused the gentle hearts of the sisters at
once to shiver with affright and glow with thankfulness when they called to
mind their darling&rsquo;s narrow escape from being united for life to such a
man.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I little thought I should live to see the day when I could truthfully
say, &lsquo;I am glad our money has been taken from us,&rsquo;&rdquo; remarked
Miss Matilda. &ldquo;But, here and now, I can say it. To the loss of our money
we owe it that Ethel is not by this time Mr. Launce Keymer&rsquo;s wife. It was
one of those blessings in disguise at which we are prone to cavil because we
fail at the time to recognise them for what they really are.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But we ought not to forget what we owe to Miss Blair in the
matter,&rdquo; suggested Miss Jane with that touch of deference due from her as
second sister for the time being. &ldquo;Her revelation would of itself have
more than supplied cause enough for breaking off the match.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Truly so, sister, if it had reached our ears in time; but we have no
proof that it would have done so. Had Mr. Keymer not left home, he would
probably have found means to defeat her object, and, in addition, would most
likely have pressed for the marriage to take place as early as possible.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In any case, we can never be sufficiently thankful that matters have
fallen out as they have. I declare my nerves are all a-tingle at the thought of
what Ethel has escaped.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And I have dropped my stitch six times since she told us&mdash;a thing
which never happened to me before.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I was brought up in the belief that when men were bad&mdash;of course I
mean very bad indeed&mdash;their wicked qualities rarely failed to make
themselves apparent in their looks, or their manner, or&mdash;or in some other
way, so that people of even ordinary discernment could be on their guard
against them and not credit them with virtues they could lay no claim to. But
Mr. Keymer had always such a pleasant, smiling, indeed, I might almost say
fascinating way with him, that it seems difficult to connect him in one&rsquo;s
thoughts with the actions of which we are now assured he was guilty.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Miss Jane spoke a little plaintively, like one who had lost another of the few
illusions which advancing years had left her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid, sister,&rdquo; answered Miss Matilda, &ldquo;that this
notion of bad people having, as it were, the trade-mark of their evil natures
stamped upon them for everybody to see, like many other of the traditions which
one picks up in childhood, fails utterly when put to the proof. Mr. Keymer had
certainly very pleasant manners and could make himself most agreeable. Yet we
have it on Shakespeare&rsquo;s authority that a man &lsquo;may smile, and
smile, and yet be a villain.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel had not been present while the foregoing conversation took place. After
imparting to her aunts everything told her by Miss Blair, she had gone to her
own room to write the letter which, a little later, was received and opened by
Mr. Keymer in his son&rsquo;s absence.
</p>

<p>
She now came back with the letter open in her hand, and going up to Miss
Matilda, said: &ldquo;Here is what I have written, dear aunt. Please to read it
and tell me whether it is quite what you would like me to say.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Miss Matilda took the letter in silence, and when she had read it passed it on
to her sister. Miss Jane having read it, also in silence, returned it to her
sister, who then cleared her voice and drew herself up a little more stiffly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear child,&rdquo; she said to Ethel, &ldquo;after a careful perusal
of your epistle, I fail to see the slightest necessity for adding to it, or
altering it by so much as a single word. It is severe, but not unduly so
considering the circumstances which have given rise to it, and you seem to me
to have nowhere overstepped that impalpable boundary which, be the nature of
her communication whatever it may, no gentlewoman who respects herself can
afford to ignore.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Here Miss Matilda paused and looked inquiringly at Miss Jane. &ldquo;I am in
full accord, sister, with all that you have said,&rdquo; remarked the latter in
reply to the look. &ldquo;Considering the peculiar difficulties with which the
dear girl had to contend, it seems to me that she has expressed herself quite
admirably.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite admirably,&rdquo; echoed Miss Matilda. &ldquo;Lucidity without
verbosity should be the characteristic of all epistolary communications, and I
am pleased to find that in this instance, as in so many others, our dear niece
has not failed to profit by our teaching.&rdquo; Then to Ethel she said:
&ldquo;You had better post the letter yourself, dear, and then no eyes but your
own will have cognisance of the address.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This Ethel deferred doing till later in the day, when another errand would take
her into the town. For the present she laid the letter aside and quietly
resumed the sewing on which she had been engaged when Miss Blair knocked at the
door. She was a shade paler than common, but perfectly composed, as, indeed,
she had been when telling the sisters Hetty&rsquo;s news. They now glanced at
her and then at each other.
</p>

<p>
Not for the world would either of the sisters have been willing that their dear
girl should imagine their hearts did not bleed for her in her trouble, and yet
they felt that her very quietude imposed upon them a certain restraint in the
expression of the sympathy they were longing to give vent to. Miss Jane, who
was the more romantic of the two and still retained a vivid recollection of
several of the heroines of the Rosa Matilda school of fiction on which her
fancy had been nourished when a young woman scarcely out of her teens, would
have held it to be no more than appropriate if, at the close of her interview
with Miss Blair, Ethel had rushed into the sitting-room, her hair unbound and
disordered and a frenzied glare in her eyes, and after a few incoherent
exclamations, had either swooned right away, or gone off into violent
hysterics. All Miss Jane&rsquo;s heroines had been addicted either to swooning
or hysterics at the tragic crises of their lives, and that Ethel had failed to
follow so proper an example was just a trifle disappointing.
</p>

<p>
To Miss Matilda it seemed that the sooner Ethel was encouraged to open her
heart and seek from others that sympathy which, when we know it to be genuine,
rarely fails to carry with it some measure of comfort, the better it would be
for her. &ldquo;And yet,&rdquo; she added to herself by way of afterthought,
&ldquo;it is not expected of the patient that he should probe his own wounds;
it rests with others to do that. Just as likely as not, the dear girl wonders
and feels hurt because neither my sister nor I by as much as a word have led
her on to unbosom herself to us. She is evidently waiting for me to speak, and
yet how to begin, or what to say, I know not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She let her hands drop on her lap with a faint sigh. Her thimble fell unheeded
on the floor. She was sitting by one of the two open windows and her gaze
strayed out into the sunlit garden, while there came into her face a look of
such perplexity and distress that Ethel, glancing up from her seat by the other
window and seeing it, felt a sudden gush of pity and remorse.
</p>

<p>
Dropping her work, she rose and crossing quickly to the other window, drew a
footstool close up to her aunt and sat down on it. Then taking one of Miss
Matilda&rsquo;s still pretty hands, she held it closely.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dear aunt,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I know that both you and Aunt Jane
must think me a strange, cold, heartless girl because I seem so little affected
by what has been told me to-day. And yet I feel it, although not perhaps in the
way you think I ought to do. That, however, I cannot help. I am very much
afraid that I shall shock you when I assure you that the breaking off of my
engagement to Mr. Keymer comes as a positive relief to me. But you have taught
me that the truth should never be hidden, and that is the truth. Now that I
look back, it seems to me as if I could never have really cared for him as I
have heard and read of other girls caring for those to whom they were engaged.
Almost from the first moment of giving him my promise something whispered to me
that I had made a mistake. I would have recalled it if I could, but I was too
much of a coward to do so. I told myself that I was fickle and inconstant and
did not know my own mind, and that love would grow and increase as time went
on. Whether it would or no, I cannot tell. I was certainly pained by Mr.
Keymer&rsquo;s unaccountable silence. None of us like to feel ourselves
neglected, and that was how I felt. And yet, while looking every day for a
letter, my heart always gave a little bound when the postman, on his last
round, failed to bring me one, and I knew that I was safe till the morrow. For
all along a consciousness was working within me against which I vainly strove,
that should a letter come, pressing that an early date might be fixed for my
marriage, I should shrink from the prospect with something akin to terror, and
what would then have happened I cannot tell. Now the necessity is one that will
never have to be faced.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She paused and again pressed Miss Matilda&rsquo;s hand to her cheek.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now, dear aunt,&rdquo; she resumed, &ldquo;you will perhaps
understand better than ever before what a strange, inconsistent creature I am,
brimful of contradictions which sway me this way and that and make me a puzzle
to myself. Well, I have had my&mdash;my love experience, if I may call it
so.&rdquo; An involuntary sigh fluttered from her lips. &ldquo;And, dear
aunts&mdash;both of you,&rdquo; she went on after an almost imperceptible
pause, &ldquo;I pray you to believe me when I say that it has left no wound
behind it which time will not quickly heal. From to-day I shall be once more
your own Ethel and no one shall ever come between us again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was one of those sweet, high-flown promises which young people make with
every intention of keeping them, but which, five times out six, after-events
laugh to scorn.
</p>

<p>
Ethel rose without a word more, and having pressed a tender kiss on Miss
Matilda&rsquo;s faded cheek, would have gone, but the spinster detained her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear child,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;my sister and I cannot but feel
gratified at your having chosen to open your heart to us in the way you have;
but, indeed, it was not likely that the Ethel we have known and loved from
childhood should be otherwise than open and straightforward as the day. As long
as you live you will have cause to feel thankful that you have escaped becoming
the wife of Mr. Launce Keymer, whose name from this hour shall be banished from
our lips. And now, dear one, run away and keep your flowers company for
half-an-hour before tea is brought in. The day has been a most trying one for
you and the fresh air will do you good.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Before leaving the room Ethel crossed to Miss Jane and kissed her as she had
her sister. &ldquo;Heaven bless you, sweet one!&rdquo; said the spinster
fervently. Then, in a low voice, she added: &ldquo;When I was as young as you
are now <i>I</i> loved some one who deserted me for another. At the time I
thought my heart would have broken&mdash;but it did not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel quitted the room like one walking in her sleep.
</p>

<p>
Aunt Jane, a love-lorn maiden of eighteen! It was a picture which so took her
imagination that for the time she forgot all about herself and her own affairs.
No thought that perhaps in years gone by, before she, Ethel, was born, Cupid
might have winged one of his shafts at the heart of either of her aunts had
ever entered her mind, or that they might have loved, and rejoiced, and
suffered in the way so many of their sex are fated to do. To her, her aunts had
always been the same sweet, faded, but wholly lovable middle-aged ladies they
were to-day. Of late years the silver threads among their hair, and the fine
lines marked by Time&rsquo;s etching needle on their placid expanse of brow and
around the corners of their eyes might have become a little more observable;
but that was all. And to think that behind Aunt Jane&rsquo;s calm exterior, and
a soft serenity of manner which was like that of some gracious autumnal day,
lay hidden the embers&mdash;long since extinct, it was true&mdash;of one of
those too common love episodes (tragedies they might in many instances be
termed) which culminate on one side in vows foresworn, and on the other in a
heartache so extreme that till the soft hand of time brings some relief, death
itself seems the only possible cure! Aunt Jane had gone through all this. How
strange and wonderful it seemed!
</p>

<p>
On her way upstairs she had paused at the landing window, scarcely knowing that
she did so, so deep in thought was she, and there Tamsin, coming out of one of
the upper rooms, presently found her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Youth and daydreams go together,&rdquo; said the old woman. &ldquo;Age
has no daydreams, and all its pictures belong to the long ago.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel, who had heard no footsteps, started at the sound of her voice.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I was not daydreaming&mdash;quite the contrary,&rdquo; she returned.
&ldquo;I was thinking about something which was told me a few minutes
ago&mdash;something the like of which I had never imagined.&rdquo; Then, with a
low sigh, she added: &ldquo;Day-dreams and I have parted company for a long,
long time to come, maybe for ever.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What wicked words are those from one who is in love and engaged to be
married! Fie upon you, child!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I am not in love, indeed I am not, Tamsin! Nor have I ever been; I
only fancied I was; but my eyes have been opened. And I am no longer engaged to
be married.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sakes alive! dearie! What has happened?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A great deal has happened&mdash;much that seems almost too incredible
for belief. All is over between Mr. Keymer and me. I have heard that about him
to-day which at once puts an end to our engagement&mdash;and I have already
written to tell him so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, Heaven be praised for that!&rdquo; ejaculated Tamsin fervently.
&ldquo;You know I never liked him, and that I mistrusted him from the first
moment I set eyes on him. Glad I am that all is over between you! It was not my
place to speak when I knew you had given him your promise, but times and again
I said sadly to myself, &lsquo;Surely, surely my rosebud was never intended for
such a man as Mr. Launce Keymer!&rsquo; Not once, but twenty times have I
prayed on my bended knees that something might happen to stop your marriage.
And now you tell me that my prayer has been answered. Oh, child, child! not for
years has my old heart been gladdened as you have gladdened it this day.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Next moment Ethel&rsquo;s arms were round Tamsin&rsquo;s neck, and she was
crying softly on her shoulder. Her full heart could hold no more.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br />
TAMSIN SPEAKS HER MIND</h2>

<p>
And so the days and weeks went by, and by general consent Launce Keymer&rsquo;s
name was never mentioned at Rose Mount.
</p>

<p>
It was not owing to any lack of invitations that Ethel scarcely went anywhere
that summer, but simply because of late she had lost all desire to do so. It is
true that the Lovibonds and the Delaports and one or two other families at
whose houses she had heretofore been a welcome visitor, nowadays saw fit to
omit her name from the lists of those invited to their garden-parties and other
festivities, but the major part of her friends were guilty of no such
forgetfulness. To them her changed fortunes (for she could no longer be
regarded as the heiress she once had been) made no apparent difference, and it
was entirely her own fault that they saw so little of her.
</p>

<p>
But although Ethel chose to go scarcely anywhere, she was not without friends
of her own age who came to seek her out in her self-imposed solitude and retail
to her the very latest items of local gossip, consisting, as is usual in such
cases, of a pretty equal admixture of fact and fiction. Thus it was that she
came to learn of the violent quarrel which had taken place between Mr. Launce
Keymer and his father, and of how the latter had cut down his son&rsquo;s
allowance of three hundred a year to a pound a week. As a matter of course, a
dozen different versions were afloat as to the origin of the quarrel, but, in
reality, the facts of the case seemed to be known to no one except the two
people concerned. Almost immediately afterwards Launce had left the town, and
among all his intimates there was not one who professed to know where he had
gone, or what had become of him.
</p>

<p>
All this was recounted to Ethel as a piece of news which would be likely to
interest her as one who had known Launce Keymer and had met him several times
in society in the course of the previous summer and winter. There was no
faintest suspicion in the narrator&rsquo;s mind, so carefully had the secret of
Ethel&rsquo;s brief engagement been kept, that for the latter her news might
have an interest very different from any that she imagined.
</p>

<p>
When Ethel assured Miss Matilda that the wound from which she was suffering was
one which time would quickly heal, she stated no more than she felt to be the
fact. Between her and the man whose wife she had promised to become, everything
was at an end; and although the relief was great&mdash;greater perhaps than she
was aware of&mdash;she yet felt as if there was a void in her inner life which
had never been there before. Her heart was empty. The doors of the temple were
shut and the flame of the altar, which, truth to tell, had been of the frailest
and feeblest, had been blown suddenly out. But Ethel turned away from brooding
over the past and set her face resolutely towards the future.
</p>

<p>
And so the summer wore on until the crown of it was turned and autumn was
drawing on apace. It was Tamsin, whose eyes were ever keen where her darling
was concerned, who was the first to notice that the wild-rose tints of
Ethel&rsquo;s cheeks were paling to the delicate ivory of the lily. She watched
her closely for several days without saying a word to anyone. At length she
made up her mind to speak. It was Miss Jane&rsquo;s month, and to her she went.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The child will just end by moping herself into a decline,&rdquo; said
the sturdy dame after a few preliminary remarks. &ldquo;Look at her
cheeks&mdash;not a morsel of colour left in &rsquo;em, but just as if it had
all been washed out. And then, her appetite! I&rsquo;ve watched her at
meal-times, and she hardly eats more than enough to keep a canary alive. And
when did she sing last, pray, without being asked&mdash;she that used to be as
merry as a thrush about the house and needed no asking at all? And her laugh
that used to do one&rsquo;s heart good to hear&mdash;that&rsquo;s dead and
buried. Whoever hears it nowadays?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But what is to be done, Tamsin?&rdquo; pleaded Miss Jane, thoroughly
frightened by the picture the old woman had drawn. &ldquo;Where is a remedy to
be found?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is hardly for me to say, Miss Jane. But if Miss Ethel were a niece
of mine, I&rsquo;m pretty clear what I would do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what would that be, Tamsin? You know that my sister and I are always
pleased to listen to your suggestions.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should take her right away to the seaside, or to some place where
she&rsquo;s never been before. It&rsquo;s change the girl wants. At her age
they all need it. It&rsquo;s only when folk get elderly that they grow loth to
leave their own chimney-corner. Young birds always want to try their wings; and
to young folk it always seems as if there must be something better on the far
side of the hill than on the side their eyes are used to.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But the expense,&rdquo; faltered Miss Jane. &ldquo;My sister and I have
very little money by us, and our next dividends will not be due till the new
year. And at the seaside one is robbed so terribly&mdash;at least, that is what
<i>we</i> term it&mdash;although <i>they</i>, no doubt, call it by a different
name.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Tamsin was running her fingers along the bottom of her apron in a sort of
diffident way altogether unusual with her. &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s only a question
of expense, Miss Jane, that can soon be got over,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;As it
happens, I&rsquo;ve a matter of sixty pounds put away in the savings bank, not
a penny of which will ever be the least bit of use to me&mdash;having neither
chick nor child to leave it to. Take it, Miss Jane; it has been saved up out of
the wages paid me by you and your sister. Take it and give the poor child the
holiday she needs so sorely.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Rarely had Jane Thursby looked more distressed and perturbed than she did just
then, and yet in her cheeks there was a delicate flush which for the passing
moment made her seem almost a girl again. &ldquo;How dare you, Tamsin, even to
hint at such a thing!&rdquo; she exclaimed in a voice which she vainly strove
to render severe.
</p>

<p>
Then her lips began to tremble and a moisture shone in her eyes. Turning
suddenly and laying a hand on each of Tamsin&rsquo;s shoulders, she said with a
quaver in her voice: &ldquo;You foolish but generous-hearted creature, cannot
you see&mdash;cannot you understand how impossible it is that my sister and I
should accept any such offer?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, Miss Jane, with all deference to you, I can neither see nor
understand why it should be so. The money was yours to begin with, and if you
don&rsquo;t have it before, it will come back to you when I&rsquo;m dead and
gone. I arranged that with Lawyer Tullock half a year agone. It&rsquo;s only a
trifle, I know, but it&rsquo;s enough to pay for a month or two at the seaside;
and to what better use could it be put, I should like to know, than in helping
to bring back the roses to Miss Ethel&rsquo;s cheeks. So do you and Miss
Matilda just put your pride in your pocket and take it with an old
woman&rsquo;s blessing!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh no, we cannot, we cannot&mdash;God bless you all the same!&rdquo;
cried Miss Jane. &ldquo;Of course I shall at once consult my sister, but I feel
quite sure that in such a matter her sentiments will thoroughly coincide with
my own.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Two vivid spots of red flamed out in Tamsin&rsquo;s cheeks. &ldquo;And can you
and Miss Matilda reconcile it to your consciences to sit down with folded hands
and watch the poor child grow thinner and paler with every day that breaks,
when the means by which health and strength might be given back to her are
within your reach?&rdquo; demanded the old woman in accents such as Miss Jane
had never before heard from her lips. &ldquo;Can you doubt the child was lent
you so as to bring a sunshine into your lives which, but for her, you would
never have known? And can you doubt that one day an account will be demanded of
you by the Lender? When that day comes, what will your answer be?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Without a word more Tamsin turned on her heel and flinging her apron up to her
face, a sure sign that she was deeply moved, walked slowly out of the room,
leaving Miss Jane like one petrified.
</p>

<p>
Miss Matilda happened to be from home at the time, but she had not been five
minutes in the house before her sister was pouring into her ears an account of
the morning&rsquo;s interview.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nothing could justify Tamsin in speaking to you as she did,&rdquo; said
Miss Matilda with a highly offended air, when Miss Jane had come to an end.
&ldquo;It was most reprehensible on her part. She knows that she is privileged
and she presumes on the fact. I agree with you that it is quite out of the
question that we should accept her offer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But what if the dear girl is really pining and losing her appetite, as
Tamsin states?&rdquo; queried Miss Jane.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Even in that case, it is impossible that we should make use of her
money. Some other way must be found. But let us first satisfy ourselves that
Tamsin is not alarming herself and us unnecessarily.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Accordingly for the next two days the sisters kept silent but unobtrusive watch
over Ethel, a fact wholly unsuspected by her.
</p>

<p>
On the forenoon of the third day, Ethel being out of earshot in the garden,
said Miss Jane to her sister: &ldquo;I am greatly afraid that Tamsin was fully
justified in what she said to me about the dear girl. Her appetite has
certainly failed her, she moves languidly about the house, and has lost all, or
nearly all, that sunny vivacity and liveliness of disposition which used to be
one of her greatest charms. We must have been very blind, sister, not to have
noticed all this for ourselves.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It certainly seems strange that we failed to do so,&rdquo; returned Miss
Matilda. &ldquo;But the change in her has been so gradual as to be all but
imperceptible, especially to us who are in the habit of seeing her from hour to
hour every day of our lives. And besides&rdquo;&mdash;with a
sigh&mdash;&ldquo;we have had so many things of late to engage our attention
and occupy our thoughts. Still, I admit that it ought not to have been left for
Tamsin to see and point out the change.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now that we have satisfied ourselves that there is a change, the
question remains, what steps ought we, or can we, take in order to remedy
it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Tamsin&rsquo;s offer is not to be thought of. On that point my mind is
made up. We must devise some other plan. Let us think.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Whenever Miss Matilda made use of this formula her sister knew that it was
intended to apply to the speaker alone, for it was tacitly admitted between the
sisters that Miss Matilda was the stronger-minded of the two, and that in all
matters of doubt or difficulty her decision should be accepted as final. And
Miss Jane was quite content that it should be so. Her knowledge of her own
deficiencies awoke no slightest feeling of bitterness in her breast; rather
indeed, was she proud of having a sister whose powers of mind and force of
character were so superior to her own.
</p>

<p>
So now, during the silence that ensued, she cheerfully left it to her sister to
mentally evolve a way out of the difficulty in which they found themselves,
never for a moment doubting that she would succeed in doing so.
</p>

<p>
Ten minutes might have gone by when Miss Matilda, looking up from her work and
pausing with her needle in mid-air, said: &ldquo;I see one way, and only one,
out of our difficulty.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes?&rdquo; remarked her sister tentatively.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And that is to obtain a loan of fifty pounds on the security of our
mother&rsquo;s jewellery (which is good, but old-fashioned), and the silver tea
and coffee service given us by Uncle Henry on our twenty-first birthday.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;O Mattie, what a desecration!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Jane, her underlip
beginning to quiver as it always did when she was much moved.
&ldquo;Desecration! I fail to understand you, sister.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In having to pawn dear mamma&rsquo;s jewels.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No such idea entered my mind. What I said was, that we should endeavour
to obtain a loan on them in conjunction with the service. It seemed to me that
Mr. Daykin, the banker, who has known us ever since we came to St.
Oswyth&rsquo;s, would perhaps not object to advance the sum I have named on my
frankly explaining to him the purpose for which we require it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That of course would make all the difference. And certainly Mr. Daykin
has always treated us very nicely; besides which, he looks the personification
of benevolence.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So did that elderly man who called at Vale View last year with a forged
letter of introduction and obtained twenty pounds from us, and yet turned out
to be nothing but a common impostor. I merely recall the fact as a proof that
it is not safe to rely upon looks alone as an index of character. But that has
nothing to do with Mr. Daykin, whom I believe to be a thoroughly good and
kind-hearted man.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Still, it will not be a pleasant errand on which to go to him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That cannot be helped. In this life duty and inclination by no means
always go hand in hand.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When do you purpose calling on him?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Some time in the course of to-morrow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Of course I shall accompany you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Thank you all the same, sister, but I think I should prefer to go alone.
Five minutes will suffice for all I have to say to Mr. Daykin, and less than
that for his answer. I shall take the jewels with me and one or two pieces of
the service, just enough to enable him to estimate the value of the
whole.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Miss Jane felt inwardly relieved at the thought of not having to face the
banker on such an errand, while reproaching herself for not insisting that it
was her bounden duty to accompany her sister.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br />
LADY PELL</h2>

<p>
As soon as luncheon was over next day Miss Matilda prepared to set out on her
self-imposed errand. Miss Jane had again offered to go with her and her offer
had again been declined. A parcel had been made of the jewellery and one or two
pieces of plate, which Tamsin would carry for her mistress as far as the door
of Mr. Daykin&rsquo;s bank, but neither she nor Ethel was aware of what the
contents consisted.
</p>

<p>
Miss Matilda, with rather a sad heart it must be confessed, was in the act of
putting on her outdoor things when from the window of her room she saw a
pair-horse brougham draw up at the garden-gate, from the box of which a
powdered footman presently alighted, and after speaking to someone inside the
carriage, opened the gate and entered the tiny demesne. A few seconds later the
cottage resounded with a rat-a-tat loud enough to have awakened the seven
sleepers. The door was opened by Tamsin, while Miss Matilda ceased her
preparations pending the explanation of an incident so strange and unusual.
</p>

<p>
Presently Miss Jane in person burst into the room in what for her was a state
of unwonted excitement.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lady Pell&mdash;here&rsquo;s her card&mdash;is desirous of an interview
with one, or both of the Misses Thursby on a matter of business, and the
footman is waiting at the door for an answer,&rdquo; she exclaimed in a breath.
&ldquo;I never heard her name before&mdash;did you, sister? and what can the
business be she wants to see us about?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is a question I am no more able to answer than you are,&rdquo;
responded Miss Matilda, who was not so readily flustered as Miss Jane;
&ldquo;but a few minutes will doubtless serve to enlighten us. Will you send
word by the man that both of us are at home and shall be pleased to see her
ladyship. I will follow you downstairs in a couple of minutes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
When, three minutes later, Lady Pell entered the little sitting-room the
sisters saw before them a woman considerably taller than either of themselves;
thin, but not unusually so, and carrying herself with an uprightness that would
have done credit to a grenadier. In age she might be anything between sixty and
seventy. She had Roman features of a pronounced type which time had served to
accentuate, so that it was now difficult to realise that she had ever been
accounted handsome. There had always been a certain masculine element about
her, more seeming, perhaps, than real, which was not lessened by a faint
suspicion of a moustache which, in certain lights, could be seen to shade her
upper lip. She was richly but soberly dressed, as became a person who in her
day had filled the distinguished position of London&rsquo;s Lady Mayoress.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My card will have told you who I am,&rdquo; she began, addressing
herself smilingly to Miss Matilda, who was wearing the heavy gold chain which
marked her as occupying for the time the position of elder sister. &ldquo;For
the present I am staying with my friends at Foljambe Court, and my business
here is to see you with reference to Vale View House, which is to let, and
which, I am told, is your property. I was directed in the first instance to a
house agent&rsquo;s in the town, but I prefer to deal with principals whenever
I find it possible to do so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
All this was spoken rapidly in the clear staccato tones of one who was in the
habit of making herself heard in whatsoever company she might be.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Will you not be seated?&rdquo; It was Miss Matilda&rsquo;s soft voice,
in marked contrast to Lady Pell&rsquo;s, which preferred the request.
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell sat down on the nearest chair, while the sisters seated themselves
side by side on the sofa opposite her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s not for myself that I&rsquo;m looking for a house,&rdquo; she
resumed, &ldquo;but for my stepdaughter, Mrs. Loftus, who has been ordered by
her physician to exchange the air of London for seven or eight months of the
year for that of the country. I had a glimpse of Vale View&mdash;there&rsquo;s
not much of it can be seen from the road&mdash;when I was out driving the other
day, and it seemed to me just the kind of place Amelia is in want of. By the
way, I have not yet inquired as to the rent&mdash;a point,&rdquo; she smilingly
added, &ldquo;which is usually regarded as one of paramount importance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The rent is one hundred guineas a year,&rdquo; answered Miss Matilda.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Hum. I fancy that is rather more than Amelia thought of giving. Still, I
don&rsquo;t suppose a few guineas more or less would be allowed to stand in her
way if the place suited her in other respects. I should like to go thoroughly
over it, so as to be in a position to send her a full report. I presume there
is no objection to my doing so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;None whatever, Lady Pell. The keys shall be placed at your disposal
whenever you please.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There&rsquo;s no time like the time present. I&rsquo;ve nothing to do
this afternoon and I&rsquo;ll go at once. By-the-bye, is there anyone that
knows the place who can go with me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The sisters looked at each other in perplexity.
</p>

<p>
On the spur of the moment they could not think of anyone. Why, oh why, had she
not gone to the house agent and done her business through him!
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell was looking from one to the other with an amused smile. She had heard
a good deal from one of her friends about the twins and their little
peculiarities. &ldquo;Who is that very pretty girl I saw busy in the garden
just now?&rdquo; she asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is our niece,&rdquo; responded Miss Jane, speaking for the first
time.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then perhaps she will condescend to act as my cicerone.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The faces of the sisters lighted up.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You could not have a more efficient one,&rdquo; responded Miss Matilda.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have a weakness for young and pretty faces,&rdquo; resumed Lady Pell,
&ldquo;due perhaps to the fact that it is so long since I was young myself and
that at no time was I ever otherwise than plain-looking.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel was at once summoned, introduced to Lady Pell, and told what was required
of her. In a very short time the two were being driven in the brougham in the
direction of Vale View, calling on their way at the house agent&rsquo;s to
obtain possession of the keys.
</p>

<p>
When they got back to Rose Mount, afternoon tea had just been brought in,
whereupon Miss Matilda begged of her ladyship to join them, which she frankly
did. But long before this she and Ethel had become on excellent terms with each
other, for, unlike the sisters, who had been rather overawed by their
visitor&rsquo;s authoritative manner and high-pitched voice, the girl had
hardly been ten minutes in Lady Pell&rsquo;s company before, as by a sort of
instinct, she seemed to divine the existence of the really fine qualities out
of which her character was built up. Lady Pell recognised this and was
proportionally gratified, and from that moment she laid herself out to draw
Ethel to her by a bond which should prove a source of interest and pleasure to
both.
</p>

<p>
By the time tea was over the sisters had discovered that their first and not
altogether flattering estimate of Lady Pell was a quite erroneous one. They too
felt drawn towards her although in a lesser degree, just as Ethel had been.
Behind a magisterial and somewhat repellent exterior, which to many people
caused her to seem a somewhat formidable personage, lay a transparent sincerity
of purpose and a hatred of pretence or cant of any kind, which had an
attraction for, and gradually endeared her to, those of a like disposition to
her own. Then too, she was a well-informed person, with singularly clear and
observant faculties, who, when she chose, could be very good company, and on
the present occasion she did so choose. She had not failed to notice that the
sisters had been repelled, and perhaps somewhat cowed, by her slightly
aggressive manner at their opening interview, and she now set herself to
reverse the mental verdict which they had evidently passed upon her.
</p>

<p>
Most people of Lady Pell&rsquo;s position and standing in society would have
seen in the sisters only a couple of impoverished old maids whose good opinion
could be of no possible consequence to anybody. But her ladyship had a way of
looking at people and things from other than a mere surface and conventional
point of view. From the first the sisters attracted her, and she made up her
mind then and there that she would see more of them. Speaking of them next day
to her hostess at Foljambe Court she said: &ldquo;They are a couple of
gems&mdash;that is the only word I can think of which conveys my impression of
them&mdash;and I shall feel proud to be reckoned among the number of their
friends.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell&rsquo;s first words to Miss Matilda after the return of herself and
Ethel from their inspection of Vale View, were: &ldquo;Well, Miss Thursby, your
niece and I have done what I call a very fair afternoon&rsquo;s work, and if
she is not tired, I must confess that I am. We have been into every nook and
corner of the house&mdash;upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady&rsquo;s
chamber&mdash;and a pretty tramp we found it&mdash;that is to say, I did, for I
am by no means so active as I once was. Then we extended our survey to the
offices and outhouses, the coach-house and stable and, lastly, to the grounds.
Now, as I am one of those people who dislike to lock up their opinions,
especially when, as in the present instance, the opinion happens to be a
favourable one, I will at once admit that I am greatly pleased with the house
and its surroundings. It seems to me the very place to suit my stepdaughter. I
will write her by to-night&rsquo;s post, asking her to run down and look over
it for herself, so that you may shortly expect to see me here again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This was good news for the sisters. The letting of Vale View meant a very
desirable addition to their limited means.
</p>

<p>
Following upon this, as already recounted, came afternoon tea, over which her
ladyship kept them all alive by her vivacious and somewhat quizzical account of
her presentation at court, and of sundry other experiences during the term of
her late husband&rsquo;s year of office as Lord Mayor.
</p>

<p>
Her last words to Ethel before going were: &ldquo;Take notice, my dear, that I
shall call for you at three o&rsquo;clock to-morrow to take you for a drive.
You are looking a little bit peaky, and a long country drive will do you
good.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What excellent company her ladyship is!&rdquo; said Miss Matilda to her
sister as they stood and watched the brougham drive away.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I cannot remember when I laughed so much in so short a time as I have
this afternoon.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And she is so good-natured with it all. Besides, it is quite evident
that she is as quick to see and quiz her own little peculiarities as she is
those of others.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wonder whether she will quiz you and me to her friends, when she gets
back to Foljambe Court.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think it very likely,&rdquo; responded Miss Matilda drily. &ldquo;But
that she will not do it ill-naturedly we may be sure.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was the same evening. The sisters had retired each to her own chamber, and
Miss Jane was in the act of arranging her hair for the night, when Miss
Matilda, in dressing-gown and slippers, appeared suddenly before her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sister,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;what a pair of numskulls you and I must
be to imagine that our only way of raising the sum of fifty pounds was by
obtaining it on the loan of our jewellery and plate!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what other way is there?&rdquo; demanded Miss Jane with a stare.
&ldquo;A way that would have occurred to anyone but two ignorant women who know
nothing about business affairs. We can, I feel sure, and that without the least
difficulty, obtain an advance, not merely of fifty pounds, but of several times
that amount, if required, on the security of the title-deeds of Vale View (our
joint freehold property), which are at present in the custody of Mr.
Linaway.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Mattie, how clever of you to have thought of such a thing! And what
a relief it will be not to have mamma&rsquo;s jewels go out of our own keeping
even for a single day!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Miss Matilda nodded assent. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mind confessing now,&rdquo;
she said, &ldquo;that last night I scarcely slept a wink for thinking of my
coming interview with Mr. Daykin. That I shall sleep soundly to-night I do not
doubt.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
Lady Pell was as good as her word. She called next afternoon in an open
carriage and carried off Ethel for a ten-miles drive. A couple of days later
she was at Rose Mount again, this time accompanied by her stepdaughter, Mrs.
Loftus. They had called for the keys of Vale View. On their return the sisters
had the gratification of being told that Mrs. Loftus had agreed to take the
house, and would enter upon its tenancy almost immediately.
</p>

<p>
If, after the conclusion of the business between them, the sisters imagined
that, in all likelihood, they should see no more of Lady Pell, they were
mistaken. As long as she should remain at Foljambe Court she evidently intended
not to lose sight of them. Seldom did she let more than a couple of days go by
without calling at Rose Mount, and at least twice a week she insisted on taking
Ethel for an afternoon drive. They all grew to like her more than at one time
they would have thought it possible that they should like anyone after so brief
an acquaintance.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile no further steps were taken in the matter of the loan. Thanks to Lady
Pell, Ethel was already looking brighter and better, and when the former
confided to the sisters that her visit would not terminate till the middle of
September, Miss Matilda said to Miss Jane when they were alone: &ldquo;We shall
lose nothing by delaying our holiday till after Lady Pell&rsquo;s departure. A
decided improvement is already discernible in the dear girl&rsquo;s health;
besides which, all the seaside resorts will be much less crowded, and,
consequently, far pleasanter during the latter half of September than they are
now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But all these dispositions came to naught one afternoon when Lady Pell&rsquo;s
visit had still about a week to run. She was sitting with the sisters, Ethel
being out of the room, when she startled them as they had rarely been startled
by saying apropos to nothing that had gone before: &ldquo;My dear friends, if I
may be permitted to call you so, I want you to do me a very great favour, which
is neither more nor less than to allow me to run off with your niece for a
couple of months at the very least.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The sisters gazed at each other in consternation. Neither of them spoke: they
could not.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The fact is,&rdquo; resumed Lady Pell, &ldquo;that my companion, Miss
Beilby, whom you have heard me speak of as being away just now on account of
her health, instead of recovering, as I had hoped she presently would do, has
unfortunately taken a turn for the worse, and goodness only knows when she will
be well enough to come back to me. While at Foljambe Court I don&rsquo;t much
miss her, but as soon as I leave there I shall want someone to replace her for
the time being. Now, that I have taken a great fancy to your niece you must by
this time be well aware, and I think that if she were to come to me for a
couple of months, or longer if you can spare her, the change could scarcely
fail to prove beneficial to her, while, at the same time, you would be
conferring on me a great personal favour. On leaving here I purpose going
direct to a sunny château in France, the home of a very dear friend of mine,
there to stay for some time. Is it asking too much that you should allow your
niece to be my <i>compagnon de voyage?</i>&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As far as the reader is concerned, it will be enough to state that when, about
a week later, Lady Pell left Foljambe Court and St. Oswyth&rsquo;s, she took
Ethel with her.
</p>

<p>
Now, it may be here remarked, Lady Pell was first cousin to Sir Gilbert Clare.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br />
GIOVANNA AT MAYLINGS</h2>

<p>
While the events last recorded were working themselves out at St.
Oswyth&rsquo;s, affairs at Withington Chase had not been at a standstill.
</p>

<p>
Luigi Rispani, now known to the world under his assumed name of Lewis Clare,
had taken up his quarters at the Chase in his position as Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s
grandson, while Giovanna, otherwise Mrs. Care, his supposed mother, was duly
installed at Maylings, the house which the Baronet had had specially fitted up
for her occupancy.
</p>

<p>
Plain to the verge of ugliness as far as its architectural pretensions were
concerned, but roomy and homelike indoors, Maylings, which dated from the era
of the Second George, was far too large a domicile for the limited requirements
of Mrs. Clare; so much so, indeed, that Sir Gilbert contented himself with
having about half its number of rooms furnished and made habitable. Its
situation was somewhat lonely, there being no other house within a quarter of a
mile of it. It stood back from the high road, fronting a huge clump of
evergreens and a small carriage sweep, but from the drawing-room windows in the
rear of the house one looked into a charming old-fashioned flower-garden. To
Giovanna it all seemed very lonely and very dull.
</p>

<p>
One other thing, however, Sir Gilbert did which filled her with unfeigned
pleasure, and that was to make her a present of a horse and brougham. And
within a few days there arrived a grand piano, of which Giovanna at once
determined to avail herself to the utmost. She had been gifted by nature with a
full rich contralto voice, together with a large measure of that musical talent
which seems inherent in the children of the Sunny South; but her life hitherto
had afforded her no opportunity of cultivating either one or the other. Now,
however, her opportunity had come, and the very first time Captain Verinder
came to see her, she requested him to find her a competent teacher, male or
female, she did not care which. Thus it presently came to pass that Signor
Sampi, a grey-haired but clever musician, journeyed twice a week to Maylings,
and in the cultivation of her long-neglected gifts Giovanna found a new
pleasure in life.
</p>

<p>
Not for many a long year had such a sensation been known among the good folk of
Mapleford and its neighbourhood as that with which Sir Gilbert Clare had
provided them, and they did not fail to appreciate it to the full.
</p>

<p>
Giovanna had not been settled at Maylings more than a couple of days, before
one carriage after another of the local gentry began to include it in their
round of afternoon calls, and she found herself the recipient of quite a shower
of visiting cards. Then presently Giovanna found herself under the necessity of
returning at least a portion of the calls. She was a firm believer in first
impressions, and for some of her callers she had conceived an immediate dislike
which caused her silently to determine to see as little of them as possible in
time to come. That, of course, is not the code of English society, which
teaches us to smile our sweetest on those whom we dislike the most. But
Giovanna had always been in the habit of giving way to her impulses, and she
still had much to learn.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert had felt from the first that it would not do for his
daughter-in-law to live entirely alone. She must have some one of suitable age
and character to fill the post of companion to her, whose services should be
remunerated out of his own pocket. Accordingly he made it his business to call
upon Mrs. Merton, the vicar&rsquo;s wife, and enlist her services in his
behalf. It did not take that lady long to find precisely the kind of person Sir
Gilbert wanted, in a certain Mrs. Tew, the widow of a minor canon, who, owing
to some unfortunate speculations on her late husband&rsquo;s part, had found
herself at his death but just removed beyond the verge of penury. Mrs. Tew was
a lively, well-preserved little lady of fifty-five, who had seen something of
the world in her youth, was tolerably well read, and contrived to keep herself
fairly <i>au courant</i> with the chief topics of the day. She had not been
long in her new position before she discovered that one of her principal duties
would be to &ldquo;make talk,&rdquo; both when people called upon Mrs. Clare,
and when the latter returned their visits. No task could have been found more
congenial to the canon&rsquo;s widow. She had always cherished the opinion that
she was gifted with considerable conversational powers, although it was one
which her late husband, who was of a morose, brooding disposition, had not
encouraged her to reduce to practice, either in public or private. Now,
however, that an opportunity was afforded her of compensating herself for the
repression of years, she did not fail to avail herself of it. And as the little
lady had a really pleasant manner, and never seemed at a loss for either ideas
or words, and as no slightest tincture of malice ever tipped her tongue,
everyone with whom she was brought into contact had a good word to say about
her.
</p>

<p>
At no time had Giovanna been a loquacious woman, and it was not likely that she
would willingly allow the people among whom she now mixed to discover how
terribly ignorant she was about many of the subjects on which they talked so
glibly. She had naturally good manners, and had been well trained by her
English mother as long as that mother had lived, besides which she had
excellent taste in dress, all of which told in her favour. But, when it became
a question of something beyond manners and dress, Giovanna knew that, for her
own credit&rsquo;s sake, her part in the social comedy must to all intents and
purposes be a silent one. Her place was to listen to everybody with smiling
courtesy, and to look as if she felt an intelligent interest in all that was
talked about, but to say as little as possible in return; and, above all,
unless driven into a corner, never to originate any proposition of her own.
</p>

<p>
It was precisely here that she found Mrs. Tew so invaluable. That lady proved
herself a person of infinite tact and resource. Whenever there seemed a risk of
Mrs. Clare being drawn into a conversation about matters concerning which, as
the canon&rsquo;s widow surmised, she was probably more or less ignorant, she,
Mrs. Tew, came boldly to her rescue, and by means of some apposite remark or
pertinent question, addressed directly to some other person in the company,
contrived, to attract the current of talk to herself, or else to deflect it
into some less dangerous channel.
</p>

<p>
Giovanna was sufficiently clear-sighted to see through Mrs. Tew&rsquo;s object,
and was proportionately grateful; not being like some of her sex, who would
have been more than annoyed at finding that their paid dependent had taken upon
herself to gauge their ignorance, and had had the impertinence to assume that
their educational acquirements were not on a par with those of the people with
whom, for anything the said dependent was supposed to know to the contrary,
they had been in the habit of mixing from youth upward. But whatever her faults
in other directions might be, Giovanna had no false pride about her, and was
not afflicted with any deficiency of common-sense.
</p>

<p>
Then again, the canon&rsquo;s widow had the tact never to bore Giovanna with
too much, either of her talk or her company, when they two were at home
together. The widow had her own cosy sitting-room, and there, when her presence
was not required elsewhere, what between needlework and novel-reading, she
never found the time hang heavy on her hands. The late canon had objected to
novels on principle as being a species of mental pabulum beneath the
consideration of reasonable beings, as well as entailing results which in many
cases were positively harmful, and as long as he lived his wife had meekly
acquiesced in his dictum. Now, however, that she was her own mistress, she
proceeded to indemnify her starved imagination for its long abstinence.
Fortunately there was a very tolerable library in Mapleford, which for her
proved an inexhaustible mine of intellectual treasures. It mattered not that
numbers of the works on its shelves dated back a quarter of a century or more,
to her they were as new, fresh, and wonderful&mdash;perhaps more so&mdash;as if
they had borne yesterday&rsquo;s imprimatur. And how she revelled in the love
stories, dear little lady that she was! Hers had been a repressed and
unsatisfied existence, and now when she sat, often till long after the rest of
the household was abed, deep in some sweet tale of love and constancy, of
partings and comings together again, she would feel for a little while as if
she were again a girl in her teens with all life&rsquo;s possibilities still
before her. Then, when she had read the last line of the last chapter, she
would shut the book with a sigh and remove her spectacles, and murmur under her
breath, &ldquo;What would dear Stephen say if he knew how I had been occupying
my time? I am afraid he would think me greatly to blame.&rdquo; For all that,
undeterred by any qualms of conscience, she would begin a fresh novel next day
with an unappeased appetite.
</p>

<p>
While Sir Gilbert had been at the pains to provide his daughter-in-law with a
suitable companion, he doubtless expected, if the matter ever crossed his mind,
that she would provide her own maid. But Giovanna, who all her life had been
used to wait on herself, would have been quite satisfied to go on doing the
same for ever had not Captain Verinder impressed upon her that, for a person in
her position, a maid was an absolute necessity. Further than that, he undertook
to supply her with the necessity in question, which he did in the person of
Lucille Fretin, the daughter of one of his many more or less impecunious
foreign acquaintances. It was quite understood between Lucille and the Captain
that she should keep both her eyes and ears open, so as to be in a position to
furnish him with a minute account of everything that went on under the roof at
Maylings, together with any scraps of gossip, or information which might reach
her anent the Chase and its inmates.
</p>

<p>
Captain Verinder, in view of the unaccountable dislike which Sir Gilbert Clare
had conceived for him, kept strictly within the limits of the line of conduct
which he had laid down for himself. The Chase itself he never went near, but on
one evening in each week, when he knew that Giovanna was not dining with the
Baronet, he ran down by the train which reached Mapleford at seven
o&rsquo;clock, driving from the station to Maylings in a fly, and walking back
in time to catch the last up train.
</p>

<p>
When Giovanna, before her arrival at Maylings, put into her uncle&rsquo;s hands
the cheque given her by Sir Gilbert, with a request that he would get it cashed
for her, he made up his mind that ten pounds out of the hundred should find
their way into his own pocket, as representing his modest commission on the
very clever stroke of business which he had just succeeded in bringing to so
fortunate a termination. He would give her further to understand that he should
look forward to being allowed a similar sum out of each quarterly cheque of
which his niece would henceforward be the recipient. But when, without a word
or a hint on his part, Giovanna put into his hands, not ten, but twenty pounds
of the hundred, he determined to wait and see what the next quarter would do
for him; for it seemed not unlikely that he might benefit more by trusting to
her generosity than by putting forward anything in the shape of a definite
claim on his own account.
</p>

<p>
Certainly, forty, or even eighty pounds a year was not a very magnificent sum:
still, it would make an acceptable addition to his limited income; besides
which, he looked forward to squeezing a further allowance out of Luigi. Of
course, when in the not distant future, as he trusted, Luigi should have become
Sir Lewis Clare, with a rent-roll of something like eight thousand a year (for
there was little doubt, unless he should make a consummate ass of himself
meanwhile, that his grandfather would constitute him his heir), then indeed
matters would assume a very different aspect so far as he, Augustus Verinder,
was concerned. Meanwhile it was the day of small things and he must content
himself as best he could to play a waiting game.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br />
&ldquo;MR. LEWIS CLARE&rdquo;</h2>

<p>
Twice in each week, on Sunday and Wednesday, Giovanna dined at the Chase. It
was a standing invitation which included Mrs. Tew, while Everard Lisle made a
frequent fifth at the table. Luigi was there as a matter of course.
</p>

<p>
With his acknowledgment of his grandson and his daughter-in-law a fresh element
had been imported into Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s life; but settled habits had too
strong a hold upon him, and the groove in which he habitually moved had been
trodden by him for too many years to allow of much deviation on his part, even
under circumstances so exceptional as those the evolution of which we have thus
far followed.
</p>

<p>
The fact of Luigi being now domiciled at the Chase in no way influenced or
affected the position of Everard Lisle. Seeing that his grandson could neither
play chess nor backgammon, Sir Gilbert was still as much dependent on Lisle as
before for his after-dinner game, which seemed to have now become one of the
settled institutions of his life.
</p>

<p>
If between Everard and Luigi there was no particular show of cordiality, as
there certainly was not, there was at least a veneer of friendliness which, as
is so often the case, served as a very fair substitute for the real article.
Indeed, Lisle on his part had no desire to be on other than friendly terms with
his employer&rsquo;s grandson; but Luigi would gladly have given a helping
hand, could he have seen his way to do so, in causing the other to be sent
about his business; or have taken steps to poison his grandfather&rsquo;s mind
against him, had he not felt that the game was too dangerous a one to be
entered upon while his own footing at the Chase had about it such elements of
instability. That he was secretly jealous of Everard&rsquo;s influence over Sir
Gilbert and of the latter&rsquo;s undisguised liking for him, hardly needs to
be recorded; but he had wit enough to allow nothing of it to be seen on the
surface; besides which, both his time and his thoughts were just then occupied
with matters which concerned him far more nearly.
</p>

<p>
As may, or may not, be borne in mind by the reader, Sir Gilbert, at a certain
memorable interview, intimated that, in his opinion, it was not too late for
Luigi to apply himself to the acquisition of certain of those accomplishments
which he, the Baronet, held to be essential to the education of a gentleman.
Thus it came to pass that Luigi had not been more than a week at the Chase
before he found himself put into the hands of the Rev. Eldred Merton, the vicar
of St. Michael&rsquo;s, who had been known in his time as a successful
&ldquo;coach,&rdquo; with a view of having at least a smattering of classical
lore instilled into him.
</p>

<p>
Then for Luigi began a period of purgatory, such as in his after-life he never
looked back to without a shudder. He was utterly devoid of linguistic gifts, in
any case as far as the dead languages were concerned, and before long he became
the despair of his tutor; who, however, would not acknowledge himself beaten,
for one reason, perhaps, because, being a married man with a numerous family,
Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s guineas were very acceptable to him. So, four mornings in
each week saw Luigi at the vicarage, and when his two hours&rsquo; lesson had
come to an end, it would have been hard to say whether pupil or tutor was the
more rejoiced of the two.
</p>

<p>
But there was another series of lessons which Luigi was compelled by his
grandfather to undergo, and which to him were a source of torture almost as
keen, although different in kind, as that caused him by his classical studies.
The lessons in question were those necessitated by the art of learning to ride.
As it happened, Luigi had never been on horseback in his life, nor would he
ever of his own free will have aspired to that &ldquo;bad eminence.&rdquo; Both
morally and physically he was an arrant coward, and, from his point of view,
everyone who bestrode a horse ran a certain amount of risk to life and limb,
which, for his part, he would very gladly have eschewed had it been in his
power to do so. But his grandfather&rsquo;s orders were imperative, and there
was nothing for him but to obey with the best grace possible. So, there being
no such thing as a riding-school at Mapleford, Mr. Marsh from the
livery-stables came over to the Chase on three afternoons in each week
&ldquo;in order to put the young squire through his paces,&rdquo; as he termed
it. Never, as later on he openly avowed, had he had a pupil who made such slow
progress and did him so little credit. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a regular funker,
that&rsquo;s what he is,&rdquo; he would tell his wife in confidence. &ldquo;He
has no more pluck than a chicken. Not a bit like his father used to be at his
age. Why, before Master Alec was eighteen, there was hardly a fence or a gate
in the county that he hadn&rsquo;t topped. This chap will never top one as long
as he lives.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Truth to tell, Luigi never succeeded in getting the better of the nervousness
which invariably assailed him the moment he found himself astride a
horse&rsquo;s back. After he had taken his twentieth lesson his timidity was as
extreme as when he took his first. He was a coward by nature, and it was
impossible for him to be anything else.
</p>

<p>
Being the kind of young man he was, that he should be terribly bored by the
limitations of his life at the Chase goes without saying. To begin with, he
hated the country. He missed his London acquaintances and the free-and-easy
life to which he had been used in the metropolis. Then again, as the days and
weeks went by, he never quite succeeded in feeling at his ease when in the
presence of Sir Gilbert, nor even of demeaning himself as if he were. When they
were together, it seemed as though he were unable to rid himself of a vivid
sense of the guilty part he was playing, such as rarely troubled his easy-going
conscience at other times. His manner was timid and nervous; indeed, whenever
the Baronet betrayed an extra touch of irritability, it might almost be termed
servile. He had somewhat the air of a cur who is conscious that the lash may
come down on him at any moment.
</p>

<p>
But, by-and-by, when he perceived that it was possible to do so without much
risk of detection, he began, on two or three afternoons a week, to find his way
to the <i>King&rsquo;s Head</i> at Mapleford (being always careful to get back
to the Chase in time for dinner), where was a billiard-room which was
frequented by all the fast young men of the little town. There Luigi felt
himself thoroughly at home; there his only happy hours were spent. He could
handle a cue with some degree of proficiency, and, as the grandson of Sir
Gilbert Clare and the prospective owner of Withington Chase, he took a certain
social precedence over the other frequenters of the room. For the first time in
his life he found himself flattered and made much of, and the sensation was an
eminently agreeable one. But such company cannot be indulged in without a
certain amount of expense, and it was a necessity of the position which had
been so ungrudgingly accorded him that Luigi should spend his money with an air
of careless liberality which was far from being native to him. Thus it fell out
that what remained of the baronet&rsquo;s fifty pounds, after Captain Verinder
had borrowed five of it, and he had equipped himself with a limited supply of
those articles which the latter assured him were absolutely indispensable to
his new position, began, when once he had taken to frequenting the
<i>King&rsquo;s Head</i>, to melt away in a quite alarming fashion. As a
consequence, he was presently compelled to apply to Giovanna for a loan of ten
pounds, which, however, she refused to let him have till he had given her his
solemn promise to repay her out of Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s next cheque.
</p>

<p>
At this time Luigi saw very little of Captain Verinder, or rather, the latter
saw very little of him, although he more than once sent word through Giovanna
that if it were not convenient for his nephew to meet him at Maylings, he had
but to name his own time and place and the Captain would not fail to be there.
But Luigi was never without an excuse of some kind for not making an
appointment, and, indeed, exhibited a quite unaccountable reluctance to indulge
in the pleasure of a <i>tête-a-tête</i> with his uncle. What he told himself
was, that he was his own master now, at least as far as Verinder was concerned,
and wasn&rsquo;t going to let himself be &ldquo;preached at&rdquo; by anybody:
and that the Captain would preach at him, as he termed it, whenever they should
come together, he felt fully assured. Besides, he had already discovered that
his respected relative was possessed of a quite abnormal faculty for borrowing
money, and having himself such a limited supply of that commodity, he was
affectionately unwilling to subject his uncle to the pain of a refusal.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ungrateful hound!&rdquo; exclaimed the Captain one day in a rage to
Giovanna. &ldquo;Does he dream, after all I have done for him, that he is at
liberty to cast me off like an old glove? I will teach him a different lesson
from that before he is much older.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.<br />
THE PROGRESS OF EVENTS</h2>

<p>
Among other letters which Sir Gilbert Clare found on his breakfast-table on a
certain September morning, was one which caused him to wrinkle his forehead and
arch his shaggy eyebrows in a way by no means usual with him. Before laying it
down he read it carefully through a second time, and then, unheedful of his
other correspondence, and of the small china teapot at his elbow which was
always brought in by Trant, the butler, the moment his master made his
appearance, he lapsed into one of those fits of absent-mindedness which, in his
case, were becoming more frequent with advancing years.
</p>

<p>
Luigi, from the opposite side of the table, was watching him with furtive eyes,
and wondering whether it would be possible to obtain a sly glance over the
letter which had had such an unusual effect upon his &ldquo;grandfather.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Could he have had his wish, he would have read as follows:
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;The Shrublands, Tuesday.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;M<small>Y DEAR</small> G<small>ILBERT</small>.&mdash;Please turn to the
signature before reading further and satisfy yourself that it is really I who
am writing to you after all this long time; for indeed, cousin, it must be
nearly, if not quite, a score of years since we met last (it was shortly after
my marriage, I remember), and no communication of any kind has passed between
us in the interim.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As you may perhaps recollect, I was always afflicted with a restless and
roving disposition, and since poor dear Sir Thomas&rsquo;s death (now eight
years ago) I have felt no disposition to permanently settle anywhere, but have
preferred to live a wandering, Bedouin kind of life, pitching my tent here,
there, or anywhere, but never for very long at a time. It is a species of
existence which, although it is lacking in those elements of stability so
precious to the majority of my home-clinging, hearth-loving sex, has yet about
it certain elements of variety and entertainment which, in my estimation, more
than serve to counterbalance its shortcomings.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Finding myself here at the Shrublands in fulfilment of a promise of
long-standing, and within half-a-dozen miles of your place, it has seemed to me
(old memories even now not being quite dormant within me) that I could not do
otherwise than make you aware of my propinquity and, further, intimate that if
you can &lsquo;put me up&rsquo; for a couple of nights&mdash;no
longer&mdash;(together with my companion and maid), I shall be pleased to find
myself once more under a roof which is associated in my mind with so many
pleasant memories of the days that are no more.
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;Your affectionate cousin,<br />
&ldquo;L<small>OUISA</small> P<small>ELL</small>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Between Sir Gilbert and Lady Pell, when they were young people, there had been
a something which, if it could not in strictness be termed a romantic episode,
yet had in it the possibilities of one, and, had the fates proved propitious,
would probably have eventuated in a way which would have changed the current of
both their lives.
</p>

<p>
It was during the lifetime of Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s father and mother that Louisa
Grayson, a tall, dashing, somewhat hoydenish girl of eighteen, was invited on a
long visit to Withington Chase. Mr. Gilbert Clare, as he was then, who had just
returned from a journey in Central America, had felt himself drawn towards his
high-spirited, bright-eyed cousin, who, although few people would have called
her handsome, was possessed of some singularly attractive qualities; while she,
on her side, fell frankly in love with him. But it was not to be. Miss Grayson
was summoned home by the dangerous illness of a relative, and her cousin let
her go without putting to her the one definite question which her heart was
hungering to be asked; after which quite a number of years passed before they
met again. On his part, at least, it could have been nothing more than a
passing fancy, seeing that within a twelvemonth of their parting, Sir Gilbert
had seen, fallen in love with, and married his first wife. Whether in Lady
Pell&rsquo;s case it had proved to be more than a passing fancy was a question
which she alone could have answered.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I shall be very glad to see Louisa, very glad indeed,&rdquo; murmured
Sir Gilbert under his breath when he had read her letter for the second time,
&ldquo;and I take it as a favour on her part that she has offered to come to
the Chase. Of course at our time of life&mdash;although I don&rsquo;t forget
that she is a number of years younger than I&mdash;she cannot be so foolish as
to imagine&mdash;&mdash; No, no; I will give her credit for more sense than
that. She is no longer a flighty romantic schoolgirl; indeed, I remember that
when I saw her last, she impressed me as having developed into quite a woman of
the world. Still, a widow&mdash;&mdash; Um&mdash;um.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
With that, as already related, he lapsed into one of his musing fits, which
lasted till the entrance of Trant, who coughed and gazed reproachfully at his
master on finding that he had not yet poured out his first cup of tea.
</p>

<p>
The first thing the Baronet did on retiring to his study after breakfast was to
reply to Lady Pell&rsquo;s letter.
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;M<small>Y DEAR</small> L<small>OUISA</small>,&rdquo; he
wrote,&mdash;&ldquo;Come to the Chase by all means&mdash;you ought to have come
years ago&mdash;and stay as long as it suits you&mdash;the longer the better.
You may rely upon receiving the heartiest of welcomes from
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;Your affectionate cousin,<br />
&ldquo;G<small>ILBERT</small> C<small>LARE</small>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This missive he at once despatched by a mounted groom to the Shrublands.
</p>

<p>
Now, in the course of the forenoon of the day preceding the arrival of Lady
Pell&rsquo;s note, Giovanna had driven over from Maylings and had asked to see
Sir Gilbert. The proceeding was such an unusual one on her part that it was not
without a spice of anxiety that he joined her in the morning-room. But she at
once reassured him that, as far as he was concerned, nothing serious was the
matter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have this morning received a letter from home,&rdquo; began Giovanna,
&ldquo;that is to say, from Catanzaro,&rdquo; she added by way of correcting
herself, &ldquo;which informs me that my grandmother (my father&rsquo;s
mother), who is over ninety years of age, is dangerously ill and has expressed
a strong desire to see me. Under the circumstances, Sir Gilbert, you will
probably agree with me that it is my duty to hasten to her side. It will
doubtless be the last opportunity I shall have of seeing her, but I did not
care to set out on so long a journey without first taking your opinion in the
matter.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That was very thoughtful of you, my dear madam, very thoughtful
indeed,&rdquo; replied the Baronet with a gratified air. &ldquo;It is clearly
your duty to lose no time in carrying out your venerable relative&rsquo;s wish.
Is it your desire that your son should accompany you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh dear, no, Sir Gilbert,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Clare hastily. &ldquo;In
cases where there is sickness in a house I have always found that young men are
only in the way. They are not merely uncomfortable themselves but a source of
discomfort to others.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very possibly you are right, madam. But my idea in mentioning your son
was that he would be in a position to act as your travelling escort.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I am quite used to travelling alone, I assure you, Sir Gilbert, and
am not in the least timid. For instance, when I returned from America I was
quite alone.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Possibly so, madam, possibly so,&rdquo; returned the Baronet stiffly.
&ldquo;That is a matter which pertains to the past and with which I have
nothing to do. But it seemed to me that, in the position you now occupy as my
daughter-in-law, you ought not to&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pardon me, Sir Gilbert,&rdquo; interposed Giovanna in her smoothest
tones, the blunder of which she had been guilty dawning on her with a rush,
&ldquo;my remark had reference to an escort of the male sex only. It was far
from my intention to travel alone. As a matter of course my maid will accompany
me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The Baronet&rsquo;s brow cleared in some measure. &ldquo;Um&mdash;um. I had not
thought about your maid. Of course&mdash;of course. But what, now, if Mrs. Tew
were also to keep you company? In such a case expense need be no
consideration.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is very kind of you to say so, sir. My first thought was to ask Mrs.
Tew to share my journey, but then I called to mind that she is no longer so
young as she has been, and that she is far from strong; and as it is my
intention to get through to Catanzaro without stopping anywhere longer than may
be necessitated by the change from one train or vehicle to another, I would not
willingly run the risk of her breaking down by the way.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Probably you are right, madam; the affair had not struck me in that
light. As you say, at Mrs. Tew&rsquo;s time of life such a long and hurried
journey might overtask her strength.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Speaking thus, he crossed to a side table where were pen and ink, and having
extracted his cheque book from his breast pocket, he proceeded with the
deliberation of old age to fill up a cheque for thirty guineas. Giovanna rose
as he recrossed the room. She understood that the interview was at an end.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Here is something towards defraying the expenses of your journey,&rdquo;
he said as he pressed the cheque into her hand. &ldquo;I trust that you will
find your aged relative much improved by the time you reach her and that she
may be spared to you for several years to come. Should you wish to see Lewis
before setting out, as I presume you will, you will find him at the vicarage,
which you will drive past on your way home. We shall miss you greatly and shall
hope to see you again as speedily as may be. And, by the way, will you inform
Mrs. Tew, with my compliments, that during your unavoidable absence we shall
expect her at the Chase as usual.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert escorted Giovanna to the door, where her brougham was waiting. As
they shook hands and bade each other adieu no slightest prevision was in the
mind of either that, as far as this world was concerned, it was their final
farewell. For, like so many of us, they were the slaves of events, already in
process of evolution, of which they had no cognisance and in the bringing about
of which they had no share. They never met again.
</p>

<p>
Giovanna did not fail to deliver Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s message to Mrs. Tew,
adding, &ldquo;And of course the brougham will be wholly at your disposal while
I am away.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Tears came into the little lady&rsquo;s eyes. &ldquo;Both you and Sir Gilbert
are most kind,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and I am at a loss how to thank you
sufficiently.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There had been no thought or intention on Giovanna&rsquo;s part of taking
either Mrs. Tew or Lucille with her to Italy, and although, the moment her
oversight was made patent to her, she hastened to assure Sir Gilbert that she
had all along meant her maid to accompany her, the statement had merely
emanated from her on the spur of the moment as being the only way in which she
could extricate herself from the difficulty. Putting aside the additional
expense to which she would have been put, which she felt she could ill afford,
there existed other and more cogent reasons why neither Lucille nor anyone else
who knew her as Sir Gilbert Clare&rsquo;s daughter-in-law should accompany her
to Catanzaro. For one thing, certain of her relatives on her father&rsquo;s
side were little removed above the rank of peasants, while none of them were of
a kind that would have reflected credit on her new position. Further, to none
of them, for certain prudential reasons, had the secret of that position been
divulged. Nobody at Catanzaro, when she should reappear among them, would know
her as other than the daughter of the late Giuseppe Rispani, landlord of the
<i>Golden Fig</i>, who, because she had the misfortune to have an Englishwoman
for her mother, had chosen to take up her abode in that mother&rsquo;s native
country. It was plainly imperative that on no account must Lucille be allowed
to keep her company on her journey; but, for all that, after what she had told
Sir Gilbert, it would not do to leave the girl behind at Maylings.
</p>

<p>
The letter from Catanzaro had, in the first instance, been addressed to Captain
Verinder&rsquo;s lodgings, and had been reposted by him to Vanna, who now
telegraphed to her uncle that she should leave Mapleford by a certain train,
and requested him to meet her at the London terminus, which he accordingly did.
Taking him out of earshot of her maid, Vanna in very few words put him in
possession of the facts of the case. He quite agreed with her that her journey
must be undertaken alone. So presently the girl was given half-a-sovereign and
told that she could go back to her parents; in other words, take a holiday till
she should hear from Captain Verinder, and that meanwhile her wages would go on
as usual. It was an arrangement which suited Lucille to a nicety. Then Captain
Verinder escorted his niece from one terminus to the other, and a little later
saw her off by the Continental night mail.
</p>

<p>
But there were certain features in connection with Giovanna&rsquo;s proposed
visit to Catanzaro which she had not deemed it advisable to reveal to anyone.
The fact was that old Signora Rispani was quite a wealthy person for one in her
station of life, and Vanna, who had always been her favourite granddaughter,
was drawn to her death-bed more by the hope of inheriting, if not the whole,
then a very considerable portion of her money, than by any real affection which
she entertained for the old lady. In telling Sir Gilbert that her grandmother
had expressed a strong desire to see her she had stated more than she was
warranted in doing. In reality it was the signora&rsquo;s medical attendant
who, in accordance with an arrangement Giovanna had made with him before coming
to England, had informed her by letter of her grandmother&rsquo;s critical
condition. It will be enough to state here that the signora held out for
several weeks after her granddaughter&rsquo;s arrival, so that it was not till
towards the middle of October that Mrs. Clare, richer by some hundreds of
pounds than she had been on her arrival, once more set her face Englandwards,
with a devout hope in her heart that she should never be under the necessity of
setting eyes on Catanzaro or any of its inhabitants again.
</p>

<p>
But many strange things had happened while she had been away.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br />
ARRIVALS AT THE CHASE</h2>

<p>
It was in the course of the afternoon of the second day after the departure of
Mrs. Clare that Lady Pell, accompanied by Miss Ethel Thursby, arrived at
Withington Chase (her maid, in company with the luggage, would follow later
on). They had been driven over from the Shrublands in Mrs. Forester&rsquo;s
landau. Sir Gilbert was waiting in the entrance-hall to receive them. As Lady
Pell advanced he went forward with outstretched hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Welcome, Louisa, thrice welcome to the Chase!&rdquo; he said in his most
cordial tones. &ldquo;It is indeed an immense pleasure to me to see you again
after so long a time.&rdquo; With that he drew her closer, and stooping a
little&mdash;for tall though her ladyship was, he was considerably the taller
of the two&mdash;imprinted a cousinly salute on her cheek, which might once
have been round, but was so no longer.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert had never kissed her but once previously, when she was a girl of
eighteen, and only a few hours before her mother&rsquo;s illness had summoned
her away at a moment&rsquo;s notice. It was a kiss which had given birth in her
heart to many delicious hopes, never destined to be fulfilled, and it still
lived in her memory like the faint vague fragrance exhaled from a
<i>pot-pourri</i>. But to-day her cousin&rsquo;s second kiss, so wholly
unexpected, recalled in all its pain and all its sweetness that incident of
long ago. For a moment or two her heart throbbed so that she could not speak.
Then, with a little shiver, she came back to the present.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is very kind of you, cousin, to say such pretty things to me,&rdquo;
she replied, with a curious little tremor in her voice and a dim wistful smile.
Then, more composedly: &ldquo;But, indeed, I must ask you to believe me, when I
assure you that I am as pleased to find myself again at the dear old Chase as
you can possibly be to see me here. And now you must allow me to introduce to
you Miss Ethel Thursby, a very dear young friend of mine, who is good enough to
keep an old woman company, and put up with her vagaries while her regular
companion is incapacitated by illness.&rdquo; Then turning to Ethel:
&ldquo;Child, this is my kinsman, Sir Gilbert Clare, of whom you have many
times heard me speak.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is a happiness to me to welcome Miss Thursby under my roof, not
merely for my cousin&rsquo;s sake, but also for her own,&rdquo; said the
Baronet, with simple old-fashioned courtesy as he took Ethel&rsquo;s timidly
offered hand in his. Next moment a thrill went through him from head to foot,
which even extended to his fingertips and was perceptible to Ethel, while a
strangely startled look leapt into his eyes. It was as if a ghost from out the
dead past had suddenly confronted him. Then he passed his hand across his eyes
as if to sweep away the vision, murmuring under his breath as he did so:
&ldquo;No&mdash;no; I must indeed be getting into my dotage even to imagine
such a thing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He turned away with a stifled sigh. Lady Pell had observed nothing. She was
gazing round the old entrance-hall, all the features of which had that
half-strange, half-familiar air which inanimate things have a way of putting on
when we have not seen them for a long time, more particularly when they happen
to have formed the framework of some unforgettable episode in our private
history.
</p>

<p>
Presently Mrs. Burton, the housekeeper, conducted the ladies to their rooms,
and nothing more was seen of them till after the second dinner gong had
sounded. It may be here recorded that when Ethel accompanied Lady Pell on her
visit to Withington Chase, she was wholly unaware that Everard Lisle was living
within half a mile of it, and that there was rarely more than one day out of
the seven on which he did not spend some hours there. If the place had ever
been mentioned in her hearing as that where Everard was now located, it had
escaped her memory&mdash;which by no means implies that Everard himself was
forgotten.
</p>

<p>
To-day, however, Lisle had not been asked to dine at the Chase, for one reason,
because Mr. Kinaby, the steward, whose health had improved during the last few
days, was desirous of his help in going through certain accounts and other
matters connected with his stewardship.
</p>

<p>
On entering the drawing-room the two ladies found both the Baronet and Luigi
there.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Louisa,&rdquo; said Sir Gilbert, &ldquo;allow me to introduce to you my
grandson, Lewis Clare, the only son of my late eldest son, John Alexander
Clare, whom I think you met once or twice when he was a youth. Lewis&mdash;my
cousin, Lady Pell.&rdquo; Then, a few seconds later, when her ladyship and the
young man had shaken hands: &ldquo;Miss Thursby&mdash;my grandson.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The young people contented themselves with a simple bow, after which they each
drew back a little way. Then said Sir Gilbert aside to her ladyship: &ldquo;Of
course you have heard that only quite recently was I made aware of the
existence of my grandson.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would have been impossible for me not to have heard of it. It is the
talk of the county&mdash;in everybody&rsquo;s mouth.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And more than one pretty version of the affair has got into circulation,
I do not doubt. Some people have more imagination than they are aware of. Give
them but the merest thread of fact, and they will weave out of it a tissue of
romance which does credit to their inventive powers, if to nothing else.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But is not that your own fault in some measure? The central fact of the
affair, that you had found your long-lost grandson and had installed him at the
Chase, was one which you had evidently no wish to conceal, even had it been in
your power to do so. Why, then&mdash;&mdash; But, really, I have no right to
question you in the matter.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say that. Why, then, you were about to add, throw any cloak
of concealment round the subordinate facts of the case? I will tell you why, my
dear Louisa. Simply because, although I have chosen to acknowledge my grandson
and to instal him in that position which the world&mdash;very
mistakenly&mdash;regards as his by inalienable right, it by no means follows
that there are not circumstances connected with the antecedents and personal
history both of himself and his mother which I have no intention, if I can
anyhow avoid it, of allowing to become public property. You, however, are in an
altogether different position; from you I desire to have no concealments in the
affair, and after dinner I will tell you all there is to tell.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was with a curious mixture of sulkiness and gratification that Luigi took
Miss Thursby in to dinner. His sulkiness arose from the fact that in the
company of this beautiful girl he felt strangely bashful and out of his
element; for once he was possessed by a vivid consciousness of being the very
inferior creature that he really was, and it was one of those unsought
conclusions which we prefer not to have forced upon us. His gratification arose
from the fact that for the first time in his life he found himself in a
position to treat a being in every other way so much above him, not merely as
his social equal but as his inferior; for one of the parlour-maids who was
deeply smitten with Luigi&rsquo;s good looks, and acted as a sort of house spy
for him, had already whispered in his ear that the extremely pretty girl whom
Lady Pell had brought with her was nothing more than her ladyship&rsquo;s
companion.
</p>

<p>
Only a paid companion, and, as such, one who ought to feel herself honoured by
whatever attentions the grandson of Sir Gilbert Clare might choose to pay her
(for by this time Luigi had got into the way of taking himself and his position
quite seriously), and yet, try as he might, he could not feel himself at home
in her company. He felt altogether different when in the society of Miss
Jennings, the barmaid at the <i>King&rsquo;s Head</i>, who, in her way, was a
very pretty girl, and also a good girl. When with Miss J., as she was generally
called by the young men of the billiard-room, he never felt in the slightest
degree bashful, or ill at ease, and certainly never at a loss for words. Why,
they two would go on &ldquo;chaffing&rdquo; each other for half an hour at a
stretch when Miss J. happened to be in the humour and to have no other
customers to claim her attention. And yet for all that, although he could not
have told himself why, in his secret heart he did not wish Miss Thursby to be a
bit different from what she was, for she was a revelation to him.
</p>

<p>
What on earth was he to talk to her about? he asked himself. His grandfather
and Lady Pell were immersed in their recollections, and to go on sitting by
Miss Thursby like a dummy was fast becoming intolerable. Evidently he must make
a plunge of some kind.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose&mdash;er&mdash;that you and Lady Pell have knocked about a
good deal together,&rdquo; at length he ventured to observe. Then seeing
Ethel&rsquo;s look of surprise, he added hastily: &ldquo;I mean that you have
been great travellers, you know. I heard her ladyship say just now that
something&mdash;er&mdash;put her in mind of&mdash;of something else she had
seen abroad.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have only had the pleasure of knowing Lady Pell for about a couple of
months,&rdquo; answered Ethel. &ldquo;I believe she has been a considerable
traveller in her time; indeed, she was to have gone to France this autumn had
not sickness broken out in the house of the friend whom she was about to
visit.&rdquo; It was a relief to Luigi to find that Miss Thursby was not a
travelled person, as, in that case, she might have chosen to talk about things
of which he knew next to nothing, and so have made his ignorance more patent
than was desirable.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose, now, that you are pretty well acquainted with London,&rdquo;
was his next remark. He was beginning to feel more at his ease.
</p>

<p>
Ethel shook her head. &ldquo;My knowledge of London is very limited indeed. I
spent a fortnight there once with my aunts, but that is the only time I have
been there. I was brought up in a small provincial town, and know very little
of the world beyond its narrow limits.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hope Lady Pell intends making a long stay at the Chase,&rdquo; he
presently ventured to remark, &ldquo;as, in that case, we shall also have the
pleasure of <i>your</i> society, Miss Thursby. It&rsquo;s precious dull here, I
can tell you. My grandfather goes nowhere, and only by rare chance does a
visitor find his way to the Chase. Of course one can get through the day pretty
well, but the evenings are awful. Most nights grandad has his secretary fellow
to play chess, or backgammon with him, and there&rsquo;s poor me left without a
soul to talk to. It&rsquo;s something cruel, I can assure you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There was quite a pathetic note in Luigi&rsquo;s voice as he spoke the last
words. Having once begun to touch on the subject of his own imaginary
grievances, he could be fluent enough.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But no doubt you have resources within yourself, Mr. Clare, sufficient
to cause the time not to hang too heavily on your hands. Books and music, for
instance, and&mdash;and probably other things.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know so much about that, Miss Thursby. I&rsquo;m not much
of a reading man, not built that way, don&rsquo;t you know. And one can&rsquo;t
be everlastingly jingling by oneself on the piano; besides, Sir Gilbert
wouldn&rsquo;t stand it when he&rsquo;s deep in a game of chess. No; what I do
is to get through an awful amount of yawning, mixed with a little bit of
drawing, for which&mdash;the drawing, not the yawning&mdash;there are people
who say I have something of a gift. All the same it&rsquo;s
inf&mdash;uncommonly slow work, Miss Thursby, I give you my word.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is it asking too much to be allowed to see your drawings, Mr.
Clare?&rdquo; queried Ethel. &ldquo;Not that I have the slightest pretension to
set myself up as a critic,&rdquo; she made haste to add, &ldquo;being all but
destitute of technical knowledge, and only able to appreciate a work of art of
any kind in so far as it satisfies my conceptions of the beautiful, or appeals
to my sense of humour, or pathos, or teaches me something which I feel it is
good for me that I should know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi felt that the conversation was getting a little beyond him, so he
contented himself with saying: &ldquo;Oh, my sketches are quite at your
service, you know; but I give you my word that you will find them awful
rubbish.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
After dinner, the evening was so sunny and pleasant, that Sir Gilbert caused a
couple of lounging chairs to be placed on the terrace, where he and Lady Pell
stationed themselves, ostensibly to watch the sunset, but in reality that they
might enjoy a <i>tête-à-tête</i> without any risk of being overheard by the
young people. At dinner their talk had mostly concerned itself with
reminiscences of people whom they had known when they were forty years younger.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile, Ethel, with Luigi standing by her, his hands deep in his pockets,
was going through the latter&rsquo;s portfolio of drawings.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now,&rdquo; said Lady Pell presently, settling herself in her chair
with a comfortable conviction that she was about to listen to a most
interesting recital, &ldquo;and now, cousin Gilbert, for your chapter of family
romance. I confess that I am dying to hear the genuine version of the
affair.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For a couple of minutes or so Sir Gilbert lay back with closed eyes, as if
endeavouring to concentrate his thoughts on the task he had set himself to go
through with. Then, in a low voice, slowly and hesitatingly at first, he began
to tell that story with which the reader is already familiar. With some of its
earlier incidents Lady Pell was acquainted; for instance, she knew that Alec
Clare had left home in consequence of having quarrelled with his father about
money matters, that, later on, he had settled in the United States, and there,
some few years afterwards, had come to an untimely end. But the rest of Sir
Gilbert&rsquo;s narrative, from the incident of the cutting off of the entail
to his daughter-in-law&rsquo;s presentation of herself at the Chase, and his
ultimate acknowledgment of his grandson, had for Lady Pell all the charm of
novelty. She knew how much Sir Gilbert disliked being interrupted, and she
listened to him in silence, but she caused him to feel that it was the silence
of one who was deeply interested in all he had to tell her. Neither was she in
a hurry to speak when at length he had come to an end.
</p>

<p>
Her first words were: &ldquo;Thank you, cousin Gilbert.&rdquo; Then, after a
momentary pause: &ldquo;I appreciate to the full the confidence you have seen
fit to repose in me, and I need scarcely tell you it will be as sacred with me
as if it had been poured into the ear of a father confessor. Certainly your
narrative is a most extraordinary one; but one has only to read &lsquo;The
Romance of the Peerage&rsquo; to discover that still stranger things, and all
duly authenticated, are associated with the private histories of some of our
oldest families. Still, with all due deference, I must say that in this
Italian-looking grandson of yours, I am unable to find a single trait which
helps to recall his father to my memory, if, indeed, poor Alec was his
father.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert gave vent to a little angry snort.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you mean to imply, Louisa, that&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell laid a hand on his sleeve.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I mean to imply nothing. I only hope that you sifted the evidence most
thoroughly before bringing yourself to accept this young man as your dead
son&rsquo;s offspring.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What do you take me for, Louisa? There was no flaw in the
evidence&mdash;none whatever.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell tapped her teeth with her fan. &ldquo;Do you know, Gilbert,&rdquo;
she said, &ldquo;that I felt quite grieved when one day in the <i>Times</i>
obituary I came across a notice of the death of Mr. Page, your old adviser,
whom I remember quite well. What a pity it is he did not live a few years
longer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The old man&rsquo;s shaggy brows came together for a moment, but that was the
only notice he took.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And this daughter-in-law of yours has gone back to Italy,&rdquo;
continued her ladyship presently. &ldquo;I should very much like to have seen
her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have only to extend your visit at the Chase in order to do so. I
presume that Mrs. Clare will not be gone more than a month at the most.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell shook her head. &ldquo;I am only awaiting a letter from Madame de
Bellecour in order to&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At this juncture Luigi stepped out through the long window, and crossing to his
grandfather, said: &ldquo;Have you any objection, sir, to Miss Thursby playing
the piano? If it will annoy you in the slightest degree, of
course&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not at all&mdash;not at all,&rdquo; broke in Sir Gilbert a little
brusquely. &ldquo;Let her play by all means. Why should it annoy me, eh?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not a bit like poor Alec&mdash;not one little bit,&rdquo; remarked Lady
Pell as if to herself; but, for a man of his years, Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s hearing
was extraordinarily keen, and her words reached him.
</p>

<p>
His first impulse was to indulge in a little explosion, his second was to think
better of it. After all, his cousin was merely enunciating a truth of which no
one could be more unpleasantly conscious than he was; still, it is not always
agreeable to have truths which we cannot deny, but would fain ignore, stated
thus bluntly by another.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And is it the boy&rsquo;s fault, Louisa, that he resembles in no way his
father?&rdquo; asked Sir Gilbert presently, but without any trace of
irritability. &ldquo;Which of us can help our looks?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell felt a touch of compunction. Without intending it, she had pricked
her kinsman in a sore place. &ldquo;Of course the young man is in no way to
blame,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;and it would be nonsense to impute any such
meaning to my words. I could not help saying what I did because for hundreds of
years back there has not been a Clare in the direct line whose features did not
bear the unmistakable Clare stamp. If you dispute what I say, your own portrait
gallery will suffice to convince you that I am right. But, as you are well
aware, you can&rsquo;t dispute my dictum. Why, as far as features and
expression go, you yourself are as like the Maurice Clare who fell at Marston
Moor as one pea is like another. Still, as you justly observe, your grandson
can in no way be held answerable for the misfortune of his looks, and if in
other respects he fulfils your expectations, there&rsquo;s not a word more to
be said.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There was a little space of silence; then, with a half sigh, Sir Gilbert said:
&ldquo;Between you and me, Louisa, that is just where the shoe pinches.
Unfortunately, Lewis does <i>not</i> fulfil my expectations&mdash;far from it.
But then, as I sometimes put it to myself, considering the way he was brought
up, am I not asking more of him than I have any right to expect?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That certainly is a point of view which should not be lost sight
of,&rdquo; responded her ladyship. &ldquo;But what is it in particular that you
complain of in him?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I am not complaining&mdash;nothing of the kind. I should not feel
myself justified in doing so. It is simply that I am disappointed.&rdquo; Then
placing a hand lightly on her arm, he added: &ldquo;My great fear is that I
shall never succeed in making a gentleman of him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That would indeed be a misfortune. He would be the first Clare against
whom such an allegation could be brought.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Knowing, as I did,&rdquo; resumed Sir Gilbert, &ldquo;(for, as far as I
am aware, his mother hid nothing from me), the defects under which he laboured
as regards his education and upbringing, I determined to have them remedied as
far as it might be possible to do at this late time of day. Accordingly I
arranged with the vicar of St. Michael&rsquo;s, an old Cambridge man, to do
what he could in the way of introducing Lewis to some, at least, of the great
writers of antiquity. Of course I knew it was too late to do much unless the
boy took kindly to the vicar&rsquo;s teaching. I also engaged a man to give him
riding lessons. Well, I waited till several weeks had gone by without making
any inquiry as to the progress he was making. I did not want it to seem as if I
were in anyway hurrying the boy. The other day, however, I made it my business
to call both on the vicar and on Marsh, the livery-stable keeper. From both I
heard the same story, reluctantly told, of incompetence and hopeless failure.
&lsquo;He&rsquo;ll never look anything but a figure of fun on horseback, sir;
he&rsquo;s no more nerve than a mouse,&rsquo;&mdash;was Marsh&rsquo;s
uncompromising verdict; and from the vicar I had no better a report. &lsquo;I
am grieved to say that it is simply a waste of time and money to endeavour to
impart even a smattering of classical knowledge to Mr. Clare,&rsquo; was what
he had to say to me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That must be excessively disheartening for you,&rdquo; remarked her
ladyship in her most sympathetic tones.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Disheartening indeed, Louisa; still, all that might be overlooked and
forgiven him in consideration of his bringing up, but unfortunately he seems to
have contracted a number of low tastes, and to be addicted to a class of
company which cannot but tend to degrade him still further. Some men&rsquo;s
weaknesses and shortcomings are accidents of their lives and are more or less
curable, others seem as if they had been bred in the system and cannot be
eradicated. I greatly fear that my grandson&rsquo;s failings belong to the
latter category.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It grieves me greatly that you should have cause to say this of one who
ought to be the comfort and stay of your declining years.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The necessity is indeed a grievous one; but it is a relief to have
someone to unburden my mind to. It was not till the evening of the day before
yesterday that sundry of Lewis&rsquo;s shortcomings were brought under my
notice, of which I had hitherto been purposely kept in ignorance. It appears
that Trant, my butler, has a nephew who is billiard marker at the
<i>King&rsquo;s Head</i> hotel in Mapleford. The two had not seen each other
for some months till they met the other day. Then the young man revealed to his
uncle certain facts which the latter deemed it his duty at once to lay before
me. It seems that on two or three afternoons in each week, presumably when his
lessons are over at the vicarage, where he generally stays for luncheon, Lewis
finds his way to the billiard room in question, which at that hour of the day
is frequented by a number of idle and fast young men, where he poses as the
grandson of Sir Gilbert Clare, and the great man of the company, treating all
who care to drink at his expense, in other words, everybody who happens to be
there. Nor is that all. One revelation led to another, and a little questioning
on my part elicited the fact that, for some weeks past, Lewis has been in the
habit, after he was supposed to have retired for the night, of stealing out of
the house by one of the back entrances and making his way to the saddle-room,
where he and Snell, a groom whom I took into my service about a year ago (for I
keep a couple of horses still, although I make very little use of them), are in
the habit of hobnobbing together over short pipes and whisky till long after
midnight. Needless to say, Snell was packed off at a moment&rsquo;s notice,
although I hold that he was by far the less blameworthy of the two.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is dreadful. Have you spoken to your grandson?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not yet&mdash;not yet,&rdquo; answered Sir Gilbert a little wearily,
&ldquo;I have, perhaps weakly, delayed doing so. It is not merely a question of
what I ought to say to him; that is a very simple matter&mdash;but of what I
ought to do, in short, of what steps it behoves me to take in order to break
him of his wretched propensities at once and for ever. That he will make me all
sorts of fine promises I do not doubt, but can I trust his promises? I am
afraid not. At the time he may fully intend to keep them, but the moment
temptation comes in his way they will be powerless to restrain him. Of late I
have made it my business to study him. He puzzled me at first, but after
Trant&rsquo;s revelation&mdash;well, well!&rdquo; He was silent and sat rubbing
one hand slowly and softly within the other, a look of perplexity and distress
clouding his grand old features. Then after a pause he added with an unwonted
quaver in his voice: &ldquo;He is my grandson and I cannot cast him adrift. To
do so now, to relegate him to the position from which I raised him, would
merely be to put a premium on his ruin.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
To this Lady Pell apparently found nothing to reply.
</p>

<p>
For the last few minutes, the sound of music had reached them from the
drawing-room, but now came a burst of song, so clear, so sweet, so penetrating,
that they both listened, spell-bound. Not a word passed between them till the
song had come to an end. Then Sir Gilbert said: &ldquo;I have not enjoyed
anything so much for a long time. Miss Thursby is not only possessed of an
exquisite organ, but she has been taught how to use it to the best advantage.
She sings with taste, <i>brio</i> and expression. In her, Louisa, you have
evidently secured a treasure.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She&rsquo;s a dear, good girl&mdash;which is far better than having an
exquisite organ, as you term it&mdash;and if she were my own daughter could
scarcely love her more than I do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The sun has set, and the evening is growing chilly; suppose we go
indoors. Miss Thursby must sing to us again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Miss Thursby was only too pleased to find that her song had afforded Sir
Gilbert so much pleasure, and, at his request, she sang again and again, Luigi
standing by her meanwhile and turning over her music. A spell was upon him,
under the influence of which he felt as if he scarcely knew himself. Emotions
and feelings were at work within him to which he had heretofore been a
stranger. He caught flying gleams of something higher and better than existence
had yet revealed to him. He thought of &ldquo;Miss J.&rdquo; and scorned
himself for his fatuity.
</p>

<p>
Outside on the terrace it was grey dusk. The long windows were still wide open.
A single lamp had been lighted in the drawing-room, which shone on the two
figures at the piano. In the semi-obscurity which shrouded the rest of the
room, sat Sir Gilbert and Lady Pell, dim figures faintly outlined. Miss
Thursby, at Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s request, was singing &ldquo;Robin Adair.&rdquo;
She had just begun the second verse when all in the room were startled by three
or four piercing shrieks following quickly on each other, and evidently
proceeding from someone on the terrace. Ethel stopped singing on the moment and
sprang to her feet, as did Lady Pell. Sir Gilbert, with surprising agility for
a man of his years, made a dash for the open window, followed more leisurely by
Luigi. But scarcely had the Baronet set foot on the terrace before a female
figure almost literally stumbled into his arms. So taken aback was he that he
could only splutter out: &ldquo;What! what! Who are you? What&rsquo;s
amiss?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At the sound of his voice the girl&mdash;who was none other than Bessie Ogden,
the under-housemaid&mdash;started back as if she had been shot, and although
she was shaking in every limb and the pallor of her face was discernible
through the dusk, she contrived to bob a little curtsey. &ldquo;Oh, sir,&rdquo;
she said, &ldquo;I humbly beg your pardon. I had no idea it was you I run
against, but I was so frightened that I quite lost my head.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But what was it that frightened you?&rdquo; demanded Sir Gilbert, who
had recognised the girl, a little impatiently.
</p>

<p>
Then Bessie, half crying and still trembling from the shock she had undergone,
contrived to tell her tale. It had been her &ldquo;afternoon out,&rdquo; and in
coming back she had taken a short cut across the terrace (which she had no
business to do), and when opposite the drawing-room windows had been confronted
by a tall, dark, hooded figure, which had appeared suddenly from behind a clump
of evergreens, and, a few seconds later, had vanished as mysteriously as it had
come.
</p>

<p>
By this time Trant and Mrs. Burton, followed by the rest of the servants, had
appeared on the scene, drawn thither by Bessie&rsquo;s shrieks.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert gave vent to an impatient snort. &ldquo;Here, Mrs. Burton,&rdquo;
he said in a tone of grave displeasure, &ldquo;take this idiot away and give
her a good talking to. If I hear any more of this nonsense she shall be sent
about her business at a moment&rsquo;s notice.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell, Ethel, and Luigi were standing together just outside the window.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is the Grey Brother whom the girl believes she has seen.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And who is the Grey Brother, Lady Pell, if I may take the liberty of
asking?&rdquo; queried Luigi.
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell bit her lip. She had spoken aloud without intending to do so.
&ldquo;The Grey Brother, Mr. Clare, is the family spectre,&rdquo; she said
behind her fan. &ldquo;But not a word of this before your grandfather, unless
you wish to have your head snapped off.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br />
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING</h2>

<p>
It was evident that Sir Gilbert Clare was very much put out by the scene just
enacted on the terrace. As soon as the last of the servants had gone back
indoors he re-entered the drawing-room, where Trant now proceeded to light the
centre lamp and the candles in the girandoles, and resumed his seat by Lady
Pell. Luigi and Ethel, at the opposite end of the long room, were engaged in
turning over a book of foreign photographs. He was always glad to put as wide a
space as possible between his &ldquo;grandfather&rdquo; and himself, and she
had tact enough to be aware that after so untoward an interruption, the baronet
might not be in the humour for any more music.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, who,&rdquo; said Sir Gilbert, &ldquo;can have put the notion into
that silly girl&rsquo;s head about the so-called Grey Brother? (Of course
<i>you</i> know the family legend, Louisa.) She has only been about half-a-year
in my service, and, if I remember aright, she came to us all the way from
Sussex.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But she did not mention the Grey Brother by name, did she?&rdquo;
queried her ladyship. &ldquo;As I understood her, what she said was, that when
opposite the drawing-room windows she was confronted by a tall, dark, hooded
figure&mdash;nothing more specific than that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what could such a description refer to, pray, except to the Grey
Brother? I suppose that in the servants&rsquo; hall such legends die hard, and
that any story, or incident which savours of the supernatural, is handed down
from one generation of domestics to another. If we could get to the bottom of
the affair, I have no doubt we should find that this Sussex girl has had the
legend recounted to her by somebody, and that it so impressed her imagination
that the first time she finds herself alone in the grounds in the dusk of
evening, she is prepared to distort every queer-looking shrub or bush into a
semblance of the family apparition, and, indeed, would feel herself rather
aggrieved than otherwise should it fail to appear to her. You may rely upon it,
that girl Ogden will be the heroine of the servants&rsquo; hall for half a year
to come.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Still, it seems clear to me that she saw <i>something</i>. I never
witnessed a more genuine case of fright. But of course the question is what
that something was.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Had there been a moon, I should have said that what frightened her was
nothing more substantial than her own shadow. In all likelihood it was a
poacher, or a tramp, or some other vagabond who was prowling about where he had
no business to be. And that reminds me of something.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He rose and rang the bell, and then to Trant, who responded to the summons, he
said: &ldquo;Send for Bostock, and bid him and his man keep a sharp lookout
to-night. I have reason to suppose that there are one or more bad characters
lurking about the grounds.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Bostock was the keeper who, some years before, had succeeded Martin Rigg, the
latter having been permanently disabled in a poaching affray. Martin Rigg, it
may be remembered, was the last to bid God-speed to Alec Clare on that night
when Sir Gilbert pronounced sentence of banishment on his eldest son.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I presume from what you said just now,&rdquo; remarked Lady Pell when
Trant had come and gone, &ldquo;that of late years you have not been troubled
by any of these visitations, or appearances, or whatever is the proper term for
them?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not for twenty years, or more, so that I felt myself justified in hoping
that the Grey Brother had died a natural death and been buried out of sight for
ever. Now I come to think, it was a little while before Alec left
home&mdash;um&mdash;um&mdash;for the last time that we were bothered and
annoyed with quite a series of appearances, or what were said to be
such.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, poor Alec&mdash;poor boy&mdash;what a fate was his!&rdquo; exclaimed
her ladyship with a sigh. &ldquo;The apparition has never manifested itself to
you, Cousin Gilbert?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly not,&rdquo; replied Sir Gilbert with emphasis. &ldquo;Nor to
my father before me. My mother <i>fancied</i> that she caught a glimpse of the
figure on several occasions, not outside the house where it is generally said
to be seen, but indoors, in the picture-gallery, or on the stairs, or
elsewhere; but she was an excitable woman&mdash;excitable in more ways than
one&mdash;and my father always pooh-poohed her statements of what she professed
to have seen as so many hallucinations, although, as a matter of course, he
wholly failed in converting her to his own point of view.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Next morning, on coming down to breakfast, Lady Pell found by her plate a
black-bordered letter bearing a French postmark. At sight of it she exclaimed:
&ldquo;Then the poor child is dead! What a pity! And he was the only
grandson.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert, who was already seated at table, glanced inquiringly at her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think I told you,&rdquo; she said in answer to the look, &ldquo;that
it was originally my intention, after leaving the Shrublands, to have gone
direct to France, there to stay till well on for Christmas with a very old
friend of mine, indeed, the only one of my school companions whose friendship I
have retained till now. On the eve of starting I received a letter from Julie
in which she asked me, in consequence of her grandson&rsquo;s illness, to put
off my visit till I should hear from her again. It was merely a feverish cold,
she wrote, and not the slightest danger was apprehended. But this
black-bordered missive, even before I open it, tells me but too surely what has
happened.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She said no more, but opened the letter. Tears were in her eyes when she laid
it down a couple of minutes later. For awhile the meal progressed in silence.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert was the first to speak. &ldquo;Am I right, Louisa, in supposing
that, owing to your friend&rsquo;s loss, your visit to France will have to be
postponed indefinitely?&rdquo; he asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Postponed till spring undoubtedly. Madame de Bellecour presses me to go
after a week or two, but at such a time I should feel myself little better than
an intruder.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In that case there can be no valid reason why you should not prolong
your visit at the Chase, and give to us the time you originally intended to
devote to your friend in France.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell in the act of helping herself to sugar considered for a few moments.
Then she said: &ldquo;Thank you for your offer, Cousin Gilbert. I will think it
over and let you know my decision later on.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
After breakfast Lady Pell went to her room to write some letters. At such
times, as Ethel was aware, she preferred to be alone. So, it being one of those
lovely autumn mornings which are among the choicest of the year, Ethel put on
her hat and quitted the house with the intention of exploring the grounds, and
making herself better acquainted with the Chase and its surroundings.
</p>

<p>
What the uppermost subject in her thoughts was as she went sauntering along,
careless whether she took this path or the other, she was never afterwards able
to remember. All she knew was that she was softly crooning a lately-learnt
ballad which had taken her fancy, and that she felt quietly and sunnily happy,
when all at once, without an instant&rsquo;s warning, and unknown to herself;
she touched the turning-point of her destiny.
</p>

<p>
Ethel, who had stopped in her walk, in order to inhale the fragrance of some
late-blooming roses, hearing the sound of approaching footsteps on the gravel,
turned her head to see who was coming, and a moment later, round a clump of
evergreens, appeared the unforgotten face and figure of Everard Lisle, who was
on his way to his daily duties at the Chase.
</p>

<p>
The two were within a dozen yards of each other, and the moment Lisle&rsquo;s
eyes fell on Ethel, he came to an abrupt halt, paralysed as it were by sheer
amazement. Ethel&rsquo;s heart seemed to stop beating for an instant or two,
and then went on with a bound, while a lovely flush suffused her face and
throat, and seemed to tingle down to her very fingertips. Everard, on the
contrary, had turned almost as pale as a corpse. Ordinarily one of the most
self-possessed of men, he had now to draw three or four laboured breaths before
a word would come.
</p>

<p>
After all, it was Ethel who first broke the silence. She advanced a little way
and held out her hand with a smile which to Everard seemed little less than
heavenly. &ldquo;And is it really you, Mr. Lisle?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I
could scarcely believe at first that my eyes were not playing me false.
Withington Chase was the place, was it not, to which you told me you had come
when&mdash;when I saw you last? But I only heard the name once, and that must
be my excuse for having forgotten it. In any case, I am very glad to meet you
again. It is only three weeks since I left dear St. Oswyth&rsquo;s, and yet
when I look back it seems like an age.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
By this time Lisle had hold of her hand, which he seemed in no hurry to
release.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, this is my home, Miss Ethel, and has been ever since I left my
father&rsquo;s roof. Not the Chase itself, mind you,&rdquo; he smilingly added,
&ldquo;but a much humbler domicile just beyond the park. Sir Gilbert and my
father were at the same college somewhere about half a century ago, so when the
former found himself in want of an assistant&mdash;a sort of half secretary and
half bailiff&mdash;he called to mind the fact that the man whose good fortune
it had been in years gone by to save his life, and whom he had never quite lost
sight of since, had a son, and offered him the post. And now that I have told
you so much about myself, allow me to ask, in the name of all that&rsquo;s
wonderful, how I happen to find you here?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, there&rsquo;s nothing in the least wonderful about that,&rdquo;
replied Ethel, who by this time had regained possession of her hand. &ldquo;I
am here as companion, for the time being, to Lady Pell, who is a relative of
Sir Gilbert. Of course you have heard that my dear aunts have lost the greater
part of their fortune and have been compelled to leave their old home?&rdquo;
Everard nodded. &ldquo;Well, through Lady Pell, my aunts obtained a tenant for
Vale View House in the person of her stepdaughter, and that was how she and
they became acquainted. Her companion being away on account of illness, I am
filling the position <i>pro tem</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hope Lady Pell intends making a long stay at the Chase.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She came, intending to stay only a couple of days, but, as the result of
a letter she received this morning, it seems not unlikely that her visit will
be prolonged.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;With all my heart I hope it may,&rdquo; said Everard. There was a
fervour in his voice, and a fire in his eyes, which brought back the glow to
Ethel&rsquo;s cheeks and recalled, as though they related to an event of
yesterday, every word and look of Lisle at that interview on her birthday, when
he pleaded his suit with so much earnestness, but pleaded in vain. Well,
Everard Lisle was not like some people.
</p>

<p>
Her heart whispered to her: &ldquo;He loves you still. You are as dear to him
at this moment as you ever were.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She did not speak, but turned away her head and gazed across the park.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now I must leave you&mdash;for the present,&rdquo; said Everard.
&ldquo;I have my morning&rsquo;s work to attend to, and Sir Gilbert likes
punctuality in others if he does not always practise it himself. I often lunch
and dine at the Chase. Let us hope that the presence of Lady Pell will not have
the effect of depriving me of a privilege which I never valued so highly as I
do at this moment.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He smiled, lifted his hat, and went his way.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.<br />
LUIGI&rsquo;S ESCAPADE</h2>

<p>
Mr. Kinaby&rsquo;s dog-cart, now that the land-steward himself was almost
wholly confined to the house, was at the service of Everard Lisle, and he
generally made use of it, if the weather happened to be bad, when he was
invited to dine at the Chase, thereby saving himself a long wet tramp there and
back through the park.
</p>

<p>
To-day the fine forenoon had degenerated into a wet evening, and when Lisle had
given his horse and trap into charge of the stable help and, after divesting
himself of his wet mackintosh, had made his way to the drawing-room, he found
there the Baronet, Lady Pell and Miss Thursby. Sir Gilbert, in his abrupt
fashion, at once proceeded to introduce him to the ladies. After bowing to her
ladyship, Everard held out his hand to Ethel, saying as he did so: &ldquo;I
have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Thursby on more than one occasion before
to-day; in point of fact, we happen to come from the same town, St.
Oswyth&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And a very charming, old-fashioned town it is,&rdquo; said her ladyship;
&ldquo;and some of the people, whose acquaintance I made
there&rdquo;&mdash;with a significant glance at Ethel&mdash;&ldquo;I found to
be quite as nice as the place.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At this moment Trant entered the room with the announcement that dinner was
served. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all very well,&rdquo; said Sir Gilbert testily,
&ldquo;but what has become of my grandson? Where is Mr. Lewis? Send up to his
room at once, Trant, and tell him that dinner is waiting.&rdquo; Then turning
to Lady Pell, he added: &ldquo;I hate unpunctuality, especially at meal-times.
It would serve the young dog right to make him go without his dinner.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is he often behind time?&rdquo; queried her ladyship.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, I can&rsquo;t say that he is. He knows that I wouldn&rsquo;t put up
with it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then you can afford, for once in a way, to overlook his remissness.
Besides, it would be unfair to blame him before hearing what he may have to say
for himself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, he&rsquo;ll have some plausible excuse or other, I don&rsquo;t
doubt,&rdquo; growled Sir Gilbert. &ldquo;You would be clever to catch him
without one.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Trant reappeared. &ldquo;Mr. Lewis is not in his room, Sir Gilbert. It seems
that he left the house about ten o&rsquo;clock, and has not been seen
since.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s eyebrows came together in a frown. Then he shook himself,
and forcing a smile, said: &ldquo;In that case there is no need to wait.
Perhaps they have persuaded him to stay and dine at the vicarage, although,
when that has been the case before, he has always sent me word.&rdquo; With
that he offered his arm to Lady Pell and Everard did the same to Miss Thursby.
</p>

<p>
When dinner was over there was no sitting out of doors as on the preceding
evening. In the drawing-room, the lighted lamps, the drawn curtains and the
wood fire, served as so many reminders of the dying year. This evening, out of
compliment to her ladyship, Sir Gilbert forewent his usual game of chess. At
his request Ethel played and sang for upwards of an hour, during which time it
was Lisle&rsquo;s happy privilege to turn over her music and hover round her
generally. Between whiles Sir Gilbert and her ladyship, who were seated
considerably apart from the young people, conversed in low tones.
</p>

<p>
Ten o&rsquo;clock struck all too soon for Everard Lisle. It was his appointed
hour for leaving the Chase. When he had taken leave of the ladies, Sir Gilbert
quitted the room with him. While the dog-cart was being brought round and he
was inducting himself into his mackintosh, the baronet sent a servant to
ascertain whether his grandson had yet reached home. No, Mr. Lewis was not in
his room, neither had anyone seen him, was the word brought back. &ldquo;I
shall sit up for him, if it be till six o&rsquo;clock in the morning,&rdquo;
said Sir Gilbert grimly to Lisle. With that, he nodded a curt, but not unkindly
goodnight, and strode back to the drawing-room.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s words were in Everard&rsquo;s mind as he drove through the
wind and the rain. What had become of young Clare? Where and by whom had he
been detained? Could any harm have befallen him? He did not believe much in the
likelihood of his being at the vicarage all these hours; nevertheless, he would
drive round there, although it would be more than a couple of miles out of his
way, and should Clare chance to be there, he would give him a hint that the
sooner he got back to the Chase the better it might be for him.
</p>

<p>
But the missing delinquent was not at the vicarage. He had left there at his
usual hour, and of his after-movements neither Mr. nor Mrs. Merton had any
knowledge. &ldquo;What if he has found his way to the <i>King&rsquo;s Head</i>,
and is still there?&rdquo; said Everard to himself as the vicarage door was
shut behind him. &ldquo;In any case, it&rsquo;s a point worth settling;&rdquo;
and with that he turned his horse&rsquo;s head in the direction of Mapleford.
Rumours of Luigi&rsquo;s frequent visits to the billiard-room of the hotel in
question had come to Lisle&rsquo;s ears, for Mr. Lewis Clare, in virtue of his
position as Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s grandson, was a personage of some consequence
in the little town, and his comings and goings were not merely noted, but
freely commented upon.
</p>

<p>
Everard&rsquo;s surmise proved to be correct. He found Luigi at the
<i>King&rsquo;s Head</i>, but not in quite as sober a condition as he might
have been. It was the birthday of Miss Jennings, the pretty barmaid, and it had
seemed to him that the occasion was one which nothing less than champagne could
do justice to. There were several other young men there who were of the same
opinion as Mr. Clare&mdash;so long as the latter was willing to pay for the
wine. The sudden apparition of Lisle turned Luigi cold from head to foot and
had the effect of partially sobering him. He did not doubt for a moment that
Sir Gilbert had sent for him, and his limbs shook under him as, without a word
of farewell to his companions, he rose in obedience to Lisle&rsquo;s beckoning
finger and followed him into the open air. &ldquo;Your grandfather is sitting
up for you,&rdquo; said Everard. &ldquo;The longer you stay here, the longer
you will keep him out of bed. Let me help you into the dog-cart.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I dare not face him,&rdquo; whimpered Luigi. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d almost
sooner go and drown myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But you can&rsquo;t stay here all night,&rdquo; urged Lisle. &ldquo;You
have been here far too long already, and I shall not go without taking you with
me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He&rsquo;ll turn me out neck and crop, I know he will,&rdquo; moaned the
other, with a clutch at Lisle&rsquo;s sleeve to enable him to keep his balance.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pooh! Don&rsquo;t be a coward. Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s bark, as you ought to
know by this time, is far worse than his bite. He will give you a good
jacketing, and serve you right, and there will be an end of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah!&mdash;you don&rsquo;t know him; you think you do, but you
don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said Luigi with the intense gravity of semi-inebriety.
&ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;d almost sooner drown myself than face him,&rdquo; he
whimpered for the second time.
</p>

<p>
He was indeed, as Everard could not help reflecting, in no condition to be seen
by his grandfather. What was the best thing to do? He stood for a moment or two
considering, and then he said: &ldquo;If you like to stay at my place to-night,
I will find you a bed. But in that case, after leaving you there, I must drive
to the Chase, inform Sir Gilbert where you are, and make the best excuse I can
for your non-appearance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lisle, you&rsquo;re a brick!&rdquo; ejaculated Luigi, seizing Everard by
both arms and making as though he would playfully shake him. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve
never liked you, you know, but to-night you&rsquo;ve proved a regular
brick.&mdash;Yes, that&rsquo;s the card&mdash;a shake-down at your place, and
you to go and make my excuses to Granddad. Of course you&rsquo;ll know what to
say. Suddenly taken ill on my road home&mdash;glad to take refuge
anywhere&mdash;awfully sorry he&rsquo;s been put about&mdash;better already and
hope to be all right by morning.&mdash;You know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A sharp drive of twenty minutes brought them to Elm Lodge, Mr. Kinaby&rsquo;s
house, where, by this time, everybody had retired for the night, for which
Everard was not sorry. He let himself and his companion in by means of his
latch-key. His intention had been to give up his bed to Luigi, but this the
latter would by no means agree to, not through any unselfishness on his part,
but because he felt that the trouble of undressing would be too much for him.
&ldquo;All I want and all I&rsquo;ll have is a snooze on a sofa,&rdquo; was his
own way of putting it. Accordingly, Everard having provided him with a blanket
and pillow, he kicked off his boots and stretched himself out on the couch in
the sitting-room. Half a minute later he was fast asleep.
</p>

<p>
Everard, having turned down the lamp, left him. The dog-cart was waiting at the
door, and ten minutes later he drew up at the main entrance to the park. Nixon,
the lodge-keeper, was in bed and had to be knocked up. Leaving his horse and
trap in the old man&rsquo;s charge, Lisle took a bee-line across the park in
the direction of the house. On reaching the terrace he saw that the entire
frontage was in darkness, except that the couple of lozenge-shaped openings,
high up in the shutters of the study windows showed like two dim patches of
yellow light. It was evident that the baronet was keeping his word and had not
yet retired.
</p>

<p>
Going up to one of the windows, Lisle took a coin out of his pocket and tapped
with it on the glass. For a man of his years, Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s hearing was
still remarkably acute, and in less than a minute the shutter was unbolted and
thrown back, and in his deepest tones came the question: &ldquo;Who is
there?&rdquo; It was almost on such a night, some quarter of a century before,
that Alec Clare had tapped at the same window, and he, Sir Gilbert, had put to
him precisely the same question that he was putting now. He shivered as the
fact recalled itself to his mind. A chill breath from the tomb seemed for a
moment to lift his silvered locks.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is I&mdash;Everard Lisle,&rdquo; came the clear response.
</p>

<p>
With fingers that trembled somewhat, Sir Gilbert undid the window-fastenings,
and Lisle stepped into the room.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have brought me tidings of Lewis?&rdquo; was the old man&rsquo;s
eager query.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have, Sir Gilbert. He is at my rooms at Elm Lodge. He is not at all
well, and I have persuaded him to stay where he is till morning, in the hope
that by then he will have thoroughly recovered.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert drew himself up to his full height and grasped the young man by one
shoulder. &ldquo;Lisle&mdash;um&mdash;um, you are trying to keep something from
me,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;There is something in the background which you do
not wish me to know. If it concerns my grandson, I <i>must</i> know it, and I
look to you to answer my questions with that candour which up to now I have
found to be one of your unfailing attributes. Tell me this: did you find my
grandson at Elm Lodge on your arrival there after leaving here?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, sir, I did not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Where did you find him?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I went in search of him and found him at a certain hotel in the
town.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So&mdash;so. And the worse for drink, hey?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He certainly had imbibed a little more wine than was good for
him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I thought as much,&rdquo; was Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s stern rejoinder.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This, perhaps, may be urged in extenuation, sir&mdash;that the occasion
was a birthday-party&mdash;(Mr. Lewis was one among a lot more young
men)&mdash;that he had had nothing to eat since breakfast, and that the very
fact of his being unaccustomed to take much wine was the reason why what he had
taken affected him as it did.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You would make excuses for him, would you? Leave him to do that for
himself, if you please. And what is the class of young men whom he chooses for
his associates? Nothing better than common riff-raff, I&rsquo;ll be
bound.&rdquo; Then all at once his voice broke. &ldquo;And it is of my
grandson&mdash;the last of the Clares&mdash;that these things are being
said!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Everard hardly knew whether to go or stay. A minute later, Sir Gilbert was
himself again. &ldquo;I am much obliged to you, Lisle,&rdquo; he said,
&ldquo;for the trouble you have taken in this wretched affair. Tell my grandson
to come to me in the library at ten o&rsquo;clock to-morrow. Till then I have
no wish to set eyes on him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
When Everard got back to his rooms he found Luigi still sleeping soundly, and
so left him for the night. But it was certainly a surprise to him when, on
going down next morning between seven and eight o&rsquo;clock, he found the
room empty and his guest gone.
</p>

<p>
Shortly after daybreak Luigi had woke up with a splitting headache. As soon as
he had pulled his wits together and called to mind where he was, he proceeded
to empty the carafe of water which Lisle had considerately placed within his
reach. Then he sat for a long time with his elbows on his knees and his face
buried in his hands. His heart sank within him when he thought of the
inevitable interview with his grandfather which could not much longer be
delayed, for he had strong doubts as to the amount of credence Sir Gilbert
would accord to the story of his sudden illness. That he would be subjected to
a severe wigging and have certain penalties of a more or less disagreeable kind
imposed on him, he did not doubt; but he anticipated nothing worse than that.
He had, however, another cause for disquietude which, as it seemed to him,
might not improbably entail results far more dire. He was nearly sure that, in
the course of the previous evening, he had made Miss Jennings an offer of his
hand and heart, but whether she had accepted or repulsed him, or had merely
treated his offer as a foolish joke, he could not for the life of him remember.
But what if she had taken his offer seriously and, in the event of his
repudiating it, which he would be absolutely bound to do, were to seek out his
grandfather and pour her story into his ears! The consequences of her doing so
were too terrifying to contemplate. &ldquo;Oh, what an idiot I must have
been!&rdquo; he groaned more than once.
</p>

<p>
Somehow this morning he did not care to face Lisle; so, after a time he let
himself out of the house and bent his steps towards the town. He entered the
first hairdresser&rsquo;s shop he came to, where he had what is termed a
&ldquo;wash and brush-up,&rdquo; after which he felt considerably refreshed.
Next to a chemist&rsquo;s where he called for and drank off at a draught a
certain effervescing mixture which was warranted as an infallible
&ldquo;pick-me-up.&rdquo; After that he thought he would take a turn by the
river and try to find an appetite for breakfast. Very careful was he not to go
near the <i>King&rsquo;s Head</i> and Miss Jennings.
</p>

<p>
By this it was past nine o&rsquo;clock and time for him to turn his face
homeward. He had scarcely gone a dozen yards from the inn when he saw Mr.
Kinaby&rsquo;s groom, whom he knew by sight, coming towards him on horseback.
On nearing him the man reined up and carrying a finger to his forehead, said:
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve bin lookin&rsquo; for you all over the town, sir. I&rsquo;ve
a note for you from Mr. Lisle.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi took the note and tore it open. It was merely a line. &ldquo;Your
grandfather wants to see you in the library at ten o&rsquo;clock.&mdash;E.
L.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said Luigi with a nod to the man. &ldquo;Tell. Mr.
Lisle it shall be attended to.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.<br />
SIR GILBERT&rsquo;S DECISION</h2>

<p>
Luigi, as he turned the handle of the library door, felt that he would have
given something to know what had passed between Lisle and his grandfather
overnight. Had the former succeeded in convincing Sir Gilbert that his absence
from home was due to a sudden attack of illness, or had he allowed his
grandfather to become acquainted with the real facts of the case? His
uncertainty on the point was dispelled by Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s first words.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So, sir, you have recovered sufficiently from your last night&rsquo;s
debauch to allow of your coming to see me,&rdquo; he said, taking him in
through his contracted lids from head to foot.
</p>

<p>
Luigi&rsquo;s eyes fell and his knees trembled under him. As he said of himself
afterwards, he felt &ldquo;like a washed-out scarecrow.&rdquo; He tried to
moisten his lips, but his tongue was as dry as they. His first thought was:
&ldquo;That scoundrel, Lisle, <i>did</i> sell me, after all! Not a bit of use
now pretending I was ill.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Clearing his voice, he said: &ldquo;I am very sorry, sir, that I was not able
to get home yesterday in time for dinner. That I took more wine than was good
for me I frankly admit. So little am I used to it that a very small quantity
tells upon me. I don&rsquo;t know whether you are aware of it, sir, but the
occasion was a birthday wine party to drink the health of young Jack
Derrick.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Jack whom did you say?&rdquo; demanded Sir Gilbert, adding, <i>sotto
voce</i>: &ldquo;If the fellow would only stand up and face me like a man and
not look so confoundedly cringing and obsequious, I could forgive him almost
anything.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Jack Derrick, sir, son of Colonel Derrick, he who has lately come to
reside at Stanbrooke Grange.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi had calculated that his lie was a tolerably safe one. He knew that the
Colonel and Sir Gilbert had never met and that, in view of the secluded habits
of the latter, there was little likelihood of their doing so. Besides, it was
quite true that young Derrick, with whom, however, he was merely on nodding
terms, had just come of age, but the rest of his statement was a pure
invention. It was the health of Miss Jennings that had been drunk in creaming
bumpers.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Humph!&rdquo; said Sir Gilbert, as he gave a tug at the lobe of his
right ear. Then he took a turn across the room and back again, for he had been
standing by the chimney-piece on Luigi&rsquo;s entry. &ldquo;After all,
then,&rdquo; he remarked to himself, &ldquo;the boy was in better company than
I gave him credit for. Still, he deserves a sound wigging and he shall have
it.&rdquo; But his frown had lightened perceptibly, a fact which Luigi&rsquo;s
furtively glancing eyes did not fail to note.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Even granting what you say, sir, that is no excuse for allowing yourself
to become inebriated as, by your own admission, you were last evening. Be
careful not to let it happen again, or you will find that I shall deal with it
much more severely. But I have not done with you yet. I have been very much
grieved and annoyed to find that on two or three afternoons a week you have
taken to frequenting a certain billiard-saloon in the town, and there
consorting with a number of young men whose society can be neither creditable
nor beneficial to you in any way. I am willing to believe that, in some
measure, you have erred through ignorance, through lack of a clear conception
of what is due to your position as my grandson. Still, even that excuse can
scarcely avail you in the case of Snell, the groom, whom I discharged a few
days ago. That you should steal out of the house when you were supposed to be
abed and go to the fellow&rsquo;s room and there sit smoking and drinking with
him, making him thereby your equal for the time being, seems to me nothing less
than disgraceful; indeed, I can scarcely trust myself to say what I think of
it. After this warning, however, there will be no excuse for you&mdash;none
whatever, if you do not keep strictly within the lines of conduct laid down for
you. Snell has gone; and as regards the billiard-room, I must ask you to give
me your word not to enter it again, nor, indeed, any other, without having
obtained my sanction beforehand. Are you prepared to give me the promise I
ask?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly, sir&mdash;most fully and willingly. I give you my word to
have no more to do with public billiards after to-day, and I shall be very
careful about the class of people I mix with in time to come.&rdquo; Nothing
came easier to Luigi than to make promises; the difficulty with him, as with so
many of us, lay in the keeping of them. &ldquo;This is another specimen of
Lisle&rsquo;s dirty work,&rdquo; he reflected. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s been playing
the double part of spy and informer. But a day of reckoning will come for
him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Keep to your promise and you will find yourself no loser by it in the
long run,&rdquo; resumed Sir Gilbert. &ldquo;And now you may go for the
present,&rdquo; he said after a minute or two. &ldquo;But I cannot conceal that
I am grievously disappointed in you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi needed no second bidding. He had &ldquo;pulled through&rdquo; the scrape
far better than he had expected, and was now inclined to be jubilant.
&ldquo;Grievously disappointed in me, is he?&rdquo; he said with a short laugh.
&ldquo;What did the old fool expect? A grandson made to pattern, I suppose.
Well, Granddad will just have to put up with me and make the best of me as I
am.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
After a few minutes spent in half-bitter, half-sorrowful rumination, Sir
Gilbert said aloud: &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go and have a talk with Louisa.
She&rsquo;s very clear-headed for one of her sex, and her opinions are nearly
always worth listening to.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He found Lady Pell in the morning-room, busy with her crewel work and alone.
She had sent Ethel for that after-breakfast ramble which she believed to be so
conducive to the girl&rsquo;s health and good looks. Sir Gilbert sat down and
proceeded to give her an account of his interview with Luigi. &ldquo;What to do
with him, I know not,&rdquo; he ended by saying. &ldquo;I am sadly afraid that
he will never be a credit to the house of Clare. He seems to have contracted a
number of low tastes and reprehensible habits before he and I had ever set eyes
on each other, and whether I shall ever succeed in eradicating them seems more
than doubtful. It is a sad thing to say, but there are times when I feel almost
driven to wish that I had remained ignorant of his existence and he of
mine.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear Gilbert, you really should not allow such notions to get into
your head. Things are not yet come to that for the poor young man, and
remembering that, you ought to regard his shortcomings with the utmost
leniency.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is what I try to do, Louisa. It is a bitter reflection, but one
which often haunts me, that if I had treated this boy&rsquo;s father less
hardly, my old age might have been a very different one from what it is
to-day.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have translated Lewis to an altogether different kind of life from
that which he has been used to, and allowances must be made for the fact.
Patience and tact will often effect wonders. I would not be in too great a
hurry, if I were you. Old habits and ways can&rsquo;t be got rid of in a hurry.
If you believe the young man himself is doing his best to second your efforts,
why then&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But that is just where I&rsquo;m in doubt.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then give him the benefit of the doubt; it will only be generous on your
part to do so. I think, if I were you, I would let him travel awhile. Nothing
tends more to expand a person&rsquo;s mind&mdash;providing,&rdquo; she drily
added, &ldquo;that one has a mind capable of expansion, and in Lewis&rsquo;s
case the converse has yet to be proved.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
After luncheon he had a further talk with Lady Pell, one result of which was
that he asked Luigi for the address of Captain Verinder, and having obtained
it, he proceeded to write to that gentleman, asking him, if it would be
convenient for him to do so, to call upon the writer between eleven and twelve
o&rsquo;clock on the day but one following. As has already been stated, Sir
Gilbert had conceived a distaste for the Captain at their first interview, and
he had afterwards been at the pains to snub him most unmercifully. Had he been
questioned as to the cause of his dislike, he could only have replied, that it
was one of those unreasoning and unreasonable antipathies which nobody cares to
formulate in words, even if it were not next to impossible to do so. In point
of fact, it was merely an instance the more of &ldquo;I do not love thee,
Doctor Fell.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Now, however, that he had decided to carry out Lady Pell&rsquo;s suggestion,
and send Luigi abroad for a time, it seemed to him that the boy&rsquo;s uncle,
provided he were willing to undertake the charge, was the proper person into
whose hands to entrust him while away from home. He knew nothing whatever to
the Captain&rsquo;s detriment, and he told himself that, as a man of sense, he
ought not to allow a foolish prejudice to stand in the way of any project which
was likely to prove in the slightest degree beneficial to his grandson. Hence
his note to the Captain.
</p>

<p>
It was not without sundry misgivings and in a far from comfortable frame of
mind, that next day Captain Verinder journeyed down to Mapleford. A cab
conveyed him from the station to the Chase, where he discharged the vehicle,
not knowing whether he might be detained half-an-hour, or half-a-day. In any
case, a walk back to the station would do him no harm.
</p>

<p>
He had evidently been expected, and was at once shown into the room which was
already so familiar to him, where he was presently joined by Sir Gilbert, who,
for the first time, welcomed him with an outstretched hand.
</p>

<p>
Augustus Verinder breathed a deep inward sigh of relief.
</p>

<p>
It is not needful to describe in detail the interview that followed. Sir
Gilbert at once entered frankly into the affair, explaining to the Captain
exactly why he had sent for him and the task which he was desirous that the
latter should undertake. September was still young, and another month of fine
weather might almost be depended upon. It was his wish that his grandson should
spend that month in foreign travel, chiefly in Switzerland, with, perhaps, a
glance at the Italian lakes <i>en passant</i>. Would it fall in with Captain
Verinder&rsquo;s arrangements to fill the part of Mentor to this latter-day
Telemachus during the tour in question? To which the Captain replied, that
nothing would afford him greater happiness; and, indeed, his heart leapt for
joy at the thought of being able to spend a month on the Continent without
being called upon to disburse a shilling of his own.
</p>

<p>
Various matters having been discussed and settled, Sir Gilbert produced his
cheque-book, and after having filled up and signed one of the forms, handed it
to the Captain. A glance at it showed the latter that it represented a sum of
one hundred and seventy pounds.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For your expenses,&rdquo; said Sir Gilbert; &ldquo;but I have included
in it twenty pounds for Lewis&rsquo;s outfit, which, seeing that he will be but
a month away, ought, I think, to be sufficient.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Amply sufficient, Sir Gilbert,&rdquo; assented the Captain as he
pocketed the cheque.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should like Lewis to drop me a line every four or five days, so as to
keep me <i>au courant</i> with your movements. I am desirous that you should
avoid all large towns, such as Paris and Brussels, either in going or
returning. It will be best that you should make your way to Bâle as speedily as
possible and decide on your future course after you reach there.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your wishes are my commands, Sir Gilbert.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How soon will it be convenient for you to start?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In thirty-six hours from now I shall be at your disposal.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Trust you old soldiers for knowing the value of time. And now that we
have settled everything so far, you must oblige me by staying to
luncheon,&rdquo; said Sir Gilbert with a heartiness that was more assumed than
real. Do what he would, he could not like this man. And yet he had nothing
valid, nothing tangible to urge against him. &ldquo;I am a prejudiced old
fool,&rdquo; he said to himself, &ldquo;and the older I get the worse I
become.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At luncheon the Captain was fortunate enough to give Lady Pell a distinctly
favourable impression of himself, which went to prove that Lady Pell&rsquo;s
professed ability to read character at first sight was sometimes at fault.
&ldquo;I agree with you that the man is not <i>quite</i> a gentleman,&rdquo;
she remarked later to Sir Gilbert; &ldquo;but in that respect he only resembles
the great majority of his sex. In these matters, my dear cousin, one
can&rsquo;t pick and choose. It seems to me that Captain Verinder, as the
boy&rsquo;s uncle, is the proper person to entrust him to.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Next morning after breakfast, Luigi said to Lady Pell when no one was by:
&ldquo;Can you spare me five minutes in private, Lady Pell?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly, my dear boy,&rdquo; was the cordial response. &ldquo;Come
with me to my sitting-room.&rdquo; There was much about Luigi that she did not
like, but it seemed to her that in some respects he was deserving of pity.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo; she said, looking questioningly at him as
she took her usual chair by the window and motioned him to another. The room,
which had been specially assigned her, had been the late Lady Clare&rsquo;s
boudoir.
</p>

<p>
Luigi cleared his voice and then, a whimsical smile overspreading his features,
said: &ldquo;Lady Pell, last night I saw the Grey Brother.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell pricked up her ears and became at once interested. &ldquo;Gracious
me!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;You do indeed surprise me. When and where did
it happen? You must give me all particulars.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was late&mdash;between eleven and twelve o&rsquo;clock&mdash;I had
stolen out of the house by way of the conservatory on purpose to have a
smoke.&rdquo; Here Lady Pell shook a monitory finger at him. &ldquo;The fact
is, I&rsquo;ve never been used to the early hours of the Chase, and I
can&rsquo;t sleep if I go to bed before midnight. Well, having let myself out,
I made my way to the little wood, or spinny, which reaches from the back
premises of the Chase nearly as far as the old tower where Martin Rigg, the
former keeper, and his daughter have their quarters. It was not the first time
I had gone there for a smoke after dark. In the middle of it is a tiny glade,
or open space, and there I seated myself on the twisted root of a tree. A young
moon was half way up the sky, and the stars were very bright. I had smoked one
pipe out and thought I would have another before turning in, but on feeling for
my tobacco-pouch, which I had laid down beside me, I could not find it.
Slipping off my seat, I stooped to search for it among the grass, found it and
stood up again. On turning to resume my seat I found myself confronted by a
tall robed and cowled figure, which might have sprung out of the ground for
anything I could have told to the contrary. Certainly I had heard no faintest
sound of footsteps. That I was considerably flabbergasted, your ladyship will
readily believe.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Such an apparition would be enough to flabbergast anybody, as you term
it. But what was it like as regards its features?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Its face was nearly hidden by its cowl, and all I can call to mind is
that it had a long grizzled beard and two eyes that seemed to look through
me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, and what did you do next?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I simply bolted&mdash;and I&rsquo;m not ashamed to confess it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; was her ladyship&rsquo;s sole comment, but to herself she
said: &ldquo;You coward!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You won&rsquo;t catch me going there again after dark.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose not after such a startling experience. But tell me this: did
the apparition, if such I may term it, project any shadow of itself in the
moonlight?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi opened his eyes. &ldquo;Upon my word, I don&rsquo;t know, Lady Pell. I
was too confused to notice. But why do you ask?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Because I believe it is an understood thing that ghosts have no
shadows&mdash;what, indeed, are they themselves but shadows? You evidently
missed an interesting point there. But why have you chosen to make me your
confidant, Lewis?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Because after what you said to me the other night when that girl made
such a bobbery on the terrace, I thought I would ask your advice before saying
a word to anybody else.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That was very sensible on your part. My advice is, that you keep your
singular experience strictly to yourself. The whole affair is inexplicable, and
no good can come of talking about it. Your grandfather would be greatly annoyed
were he to discover that any such report had emanated from you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
Luigi could scarcely credit his good fortune. That he should not merely be done
with Latin declensions and those hateful riding-lessons, but be at liberty to
ramble about the Continent for the ensuing month, visiting places he had never
seen before, seemed almost too delightful to be true. He could not help saying
to himself with a chuckle: &ldquo;Perhaps if I hadn&rsquo;t drunk Miss
J.&rsquo;s health quite so often the other night, this bit of luck would never
have happened to me.&rdquo; It was a relief to him on another account to get
away from Mapleford for a time. It would effectually separate him from the
aforesaid Miss J., who would be sure to hear of his departure. He trusted that
by the time he should return she would have forgotten all about that ridiculous
question he had put to her on a certain occasion, her answer to which had quite
escaped his memory.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.<br />
UNCLE AND NEPHEW</h2>

<p>
Luigi had telegraphed to his uncle by which train he should travel, and the
Captain met him at the terminus. Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s cheque had already been
cashed, and uncle and nephew now proceeded to lay in a small but sufficient
supply of travelling necessaries. After that they dined at a French restaurant
and finished up the evening at a music-hall.
</p>

<p>
Next day they crossed to Antwerp, from which place Luigi wrote a few lines to
Sir Gilbert from a rough draft furnished him by the Captain.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear Grandfather,&mdash;We reached here from Harwich early this
morning. We are staying over till to-morrow at my wish, there being many
objects of interest in this memorable old city which I have long been desirous
of seeing. This forenoon we visited the cathedral and two of the more
celebrated churches, in each of which we found much to interest us. The
afternoon was devoted to the so-called museum, where is a celebrated collection
of paintings, including several by Rubens and other well-known masters of the
Dutch school. I need scarcely say that we were highly gratified.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We start by an early train to-morrow for Bâle, which we purpose making
our head-quarters. We shall, however, if we find the trains convenient, break
our journey for a couple of hours at Cologne in order to visit the Dom, which I
feel sure you would not like me to miss seeing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
Within an hour of posting the foregoing letter uncle and nephew were on their
way to Brussels, although it was one of the two places specified by Sir Gilbert
which he was desirous that his grandson should not visit.
</p>

<p>
It was not the first time the Captain had been there, and of such an agreeable
kind were the recollections he retained of it that he had felt irresistibly
tempted to visit it again. The fact was that on the occasion of his previous
visit he had left the city richer by twenty-five pounds than he had entered it,
that being the amount of his winnings after a couple of nights at the
gaming-table. Trifling though such a sum might seem to many people, to the
impecunious Captain it represented a very substantial and satisfactory gain.
Thus it was scarcely to be wondered at, now he found himself in the
neighbourhood and in the possession of ample funds, that a great longing should
come over him to tempt fortune in the same way again. He would only risk a
small sum, so that if he should prove so unfortunate as to lose it, no great
harm would be done, while, if he should be lucky enough to double or treble it,
his winnings would help to clear off some of his more pressing liabilities when
he should get back to town. It was unfortunate that he was not in a position to
prosecute his little adventure alone, but where he went Luigi must of necessity
go too&mdash;not, as he presently found when he broached the subject, that his
nephew needed more than a hint to cause him to exhibit an almost absurd amount
of eagerness to follow his worthy relative&rsquo;s example.
</p>

<p>
Thus it came to pass that about nine o&rsquo;clock that same evening uncle and
nephew, without any further introduction than a few whispered words between the
Captain and the man on guard at the door, were at once admitted to the
self-styled club or <i>cercle</i> (which, in reality, differed scarcely, if at
all, from a common gambling haunt), of which the Captain retained such pleasing
recollections. It had been agreed that on no account should they risk more than
twenty-five pounds between them, out of which the Captain, as being the more
experienced of the two, took fifteen for his share, leaving Luigi the remaining
ten.
</p>

<p>
Soon after midnight the Captain perforce stopped playing for lack of funds. His
fifteen pounds had vanished to the last franc; but, on the other hand, singular
to relate in view of his inexperience, Luigi rose from the table a winner to
the extent of fourteen pounds. Captain Verinder at once decided that next
morning should see them <i>en route</i> for Bâle.
</p>

<p>
But it was not to be. While taking an after-breakfast stroll&mdash;he had
decided not to start till the midday train&mdash;the Captain encountered a man
who, a few years before, had been one of his most intimate friends. This
person, Tyars by name, was now settled in Brussels and in a good position, and
nothing would satisfy him but that Verinder and his nephew must dine and spend
the evening at his house, an arrangement to which, after a little demur, the
Captain agreed.
</p>

<p>
As it fell out, however, he was compelled to go alone, Luigi, in the course of
the afternoon, being seized with one of the violent sick headaches to which he
had been subject at times ever since he could remember. His uncle left him
prostrate on a couch in a darkened room.
</p>

<p>
But for once the usually astute and suspicious Captain had been thoroughly
hoodwinked. Scarcely had he disappeared before Luigi sat up, chuckling softly
to himself. He was bent on a little adventure of his own in which his uncle
should have neither part nor parcel. The demon of gambling had got him in his
grip, and Luigi lent a willing ear to his enticements. He had won fourteen
pounds last night, why should he not win forty, eighty, a hundred to-night? He
could see no reason whatever why he should not.
</p>

<p>
In the big solid-leather portmanteau which held both his uncle&rsquo;s clothes
and his own was stored away a little roll of bank-notes of the value of one
hundred pounds, the same being part of the proceeds of Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s
cheque. Luigi&rsquo;s intention was to abstract a couple or three five-pound
notes and with them, in addition to his overnight winnings, to try his luck at
the <i>cercle</i> for the second time. He had opened the portmanteau and the
roll of notes was in his fingers, when he was startled by the sound of voices,
one of which he took to be his uncle&rsquo;s, in the corridor outside. In an
instant he had shut down the lid of the portmanteau and crammed, the notes into
his pocket. The alarm proved to be a false one, but Luigi, having taken
possession of the whole of the notes, saw no reason why he should put any of
them back. After all, they were his property and not his uncle&rsquo;s;
besides, although he might take them with him to the <i>cercle</i>, he was
fully determined not to risk more than the sum he had originally fixed on: it
was a determination from which nothing should move him. How his uncle would
open his eyes in the morning at beholding his nephew&rsquo;s overnight winnings
scattered carelessly on the dressing-table!
</p>

<p>
Captain Verinder opened his eyes very wide indeed when, on entering his
nephew&rsquo;s room some time after midnight, he found Luigi pacing it,
wild-eyed, haggard, with clenched hands, tumbled hair and rumpled clothes, like
a man half distraught. He had come back from the gaming table penniless. In the
excitement of play, all his fine resolutions had vanished like chaff before the
wind. He had gone on losing madly, recklessly, till not only had the hundred
pounds gone, but his previous night&rsquo;s winnings and whatever else he had
had in his purse to boot. Well might the Captain when, bit by bit, the truth
had been dragged out, sit down and stare at him in blank dismay. No words at
his command could have expressed more than a tithe of what he felt.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.<br />
A DESPERATE RESOLVE</h2>

<p>
It was nine o&rsquo;clock next morning. Captain Verinder, with his hands
clasped behind his back and downcast eyes, was pacing the courtyard of the
hotel, which was ornamented with a double row of orange-trees and myrtles in
green tubs, and had one end roofed with trellis work festooned with a vine, the
leaves of which were now turning brown and golden, and under which were ranged
a number of rustic seats interspersed with small marble-topped tables.
Presently Luigi, for whom his uncle had been waiting, made his appearance,
looking very sallow and cadaverous, while the dark half-circles under his eyes
bore mute witness to the sort of night he had spent.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid that I am about to reproach you for your insensate
folly,&rdquo; began his uncle. &ldquo;Your conscience will do that far more
effectually than any words of mine. Besides, I hold myself greatly to blame for
bringing you here in the first instance, and it is perhaps no more than just
that I should have to put up with the consequences equally with yourself. I
have been going into cash matters this morning and find that when our hotel
bill has been discharged, we shall have about fifteen pounds left, all told.
Now, if you can reveal to me by what miracle of economy two people can contrive
to spend a month in Switzerland without exceeding that amount, I shall be much
obliged to you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Of course it can&rsquo;t be done,&rdquo; said Luigi sulkily.
&ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing for it but to go back home.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, indeed. And in that case how, pray, shall we excuse ourselves to Sir
Gilbert Clare?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why need he know that we have returned? Why can&rsquo;t we lie quietly
by in London till the month has come to an end?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For a very simple reason,&rdquo; returned the Captain drily. &ldquo;Have
you forgotten that your grandfather looks to receive a letter from you every
few days while you are away? Now, supposing you were to send him a note
professedly written from Lausanne, or Geneva, with merely the London postmark
on it, what would happen then?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I had forgotten all about having to write to the old boy,&rdquo; said
Luigi with a smothered imprecation.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;On the other hand,&rdquo; resumed the Captain, &ldquo;it would be
madness to go to him and frankly confess our sins. He would never forgive
either of us, and he would regard me, perhaps rightly, as being by far the
bigger sinner of the two.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In that case, what&rsquo;s the best thing to do?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Upon my word, I haven&rsquo;t the ghost of an idea. It&rsquo;s a bad
lookout all round. Nowhere can I discern a way out of our quandary. But
let&rsquo;s to breakfast with what appetite we may. A hungry stomach is never a
good counsellor.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It seemed as if the Captain was destined to encounter people whom he knew. As
he was crossing the entrance-hall after breakfast he met a man face to face
whom he had not seen for some time. He was Mr. Henriques, the money-lender,
who, in days gone by, when Verinder was going gaily down hill but had not yet
reached the bottom, had more than once helped him to tide over a temporary
difficulty. Both the men now came to a halt and each asked the other what had
brought him there. The money-lender was not one of those who have no eyes for a
man because he happens to have come down in the world; such men have their
uses, as no one knew better than he. More than once since his own collapse
Verinder had been enabled to introduce &ldquo;business&rdquo; to him, and had
not been above accepting a commission for doing so.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Can you spare me ten minutes?&rdquo; queried the Captain.
&ldquo;Willingly, if you&rsquo;ll wait till I&rsquo;ve breakfasted,&rdquo;
replied the other. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll join you on the smoking-room balcony in
half an hour.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
The Captain and Luigi were just in time to catch the midday train. They both
looked jubilant, and well they might, for Mr. Henriques had come to their
rescue. The Captain had introduced Luigi to him and had frankly explained how
they came to be &ldquo;cornered.&rdquo; (He had always found it advisable to
deal frankly with Mr. Henriques.) When the money-lender had satisfied himself,
which a few leading questions enabled him to do, that Luigi was really the
grandson of Sir Gilbert Clare of Withington Chase, he made no difficulty about
advancing him a hundred pounds on the joint note of hand of himself and his
uncle. For the time being they were saved, and just then they did not permit
any thought of the future to mar their content.
</p>

<p>
It does not come within the scope of our design to accompany them in their
wanderings from place to place. It will be enough to say that they made good
use of their time and spent their money with a free hand. Indeed, it was owing
to the latter circumstances that they found themselves back in London some days
before they were due there, paucity of funds having compelled them to cut short
their tour, a fact which they deemed it advisable to keep from the knowledge of
Sir Gilbert. Accordingly it was arranged that Luigi should quarter himself for
a few days on his uncle, and that the two should then travel down to the Chase
as if they had just come straight through from the Continent.
</p>

<p>
But on reaching the Captain&rsquo;s rooms a very disagreeable surprise awaited
them. Mr. Henriques was dead, and the executors on whom devolved the winding up
of his affairs wrote, not merely to acquaint Captain Verinder with that
melancholy fact, but also to give him notice that the bill at thirty days (the
late Mr. H. had declined to have it drawn for a longer period, but had hinted
that a renewal might perhaps be arranged) for one hundred and twenty pounds,
principal and interest, bearing the joint signatures of himself and Mr. Lewis
Clare, would have to be met in due course, and that, under the circumstances,
any renewal of it was out of the question.
</p>

<p>
Never were two men more dumfoundered. They had eaten their cake and enjoyed it,
and now the reckoning must be paid. They were no better off than they had been
at Brussels; indeed, they were worse off to the extent of twenty pounds, and,
now as then, their predicament was such that, of all people in the world, Sir
Gilbert was the last whose ears it must be allowed to reach. It was indeed a
sorry home-coming.
</p>

<p>
In the course of the following day Captain Verinder waited upon the executors,
but the only concession he could obtain from them was a week&rsquo;s grace
beyond the date when the note would fall due.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;London swarms with money-lenders,&rdquo; said Luigi; &ldquo;surely, one
or other of them would do as Henriques did, and advance us enough money on our
joint signatures to pay off this confounded bill.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very possibly that might be managed; but what then? We should merely be
putting off the evil day for a little while, and the worst of it would be that
the longer we succeeded in staving it off, the bigger would be the reckoning
when it did come. At present all we have to find is a hundred and twenty
pounds, but if we should succeed in negotiating another bill, at the end of two
or three months we should have a hundred and fifty to meet, and supposing we
were compelled to go on renewing, a little later we should have to face a
liability of a couple of hundred pounds; and so it would go up by leaps and
bounds in the way of compound interest till some day our good friends the
usurers would put the screw on, and the inevitable crash would come. No; we
must, if possible, find some better way out of our difficulty than that.
I&rsquo;ll sleep on it; perhaps an idea may come to me in the course of the
night.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Next morning the Captain seemed in a thoughtful mood, and as Luigi was in no
humour for talking, breakfast passed almost in silence. When it had come to an
end, and the equipage had been removed, the elder man said: &ldquo;Draw up that
easy chair to the window, and light a weed. I have something to say to
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As soon as his own meerschaum and Luigi&rsquo;s cigar were well under way, he
resumed: &ldquo;You remember that day about which you spoke to me while we were
abroad, when, Mr. Everard Lisle being away on business for your grandfather,
the old gentleman called you into his study and got you to write one or two
letters for him?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi nodded.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then, you will remember telling me that while you were there a clerk
came down from London, bringing with him a parcel of American bonds, for which
your grandfather, after having examined and counted them, gave the man a
receipt, and that, as soon as the clerk had gone, he asked you to unlock the
door of the strong room which opens out of his study, and deposit the bonds in
question in a certain drawer marked B. You also said, if I mistake not, that
that was the first time you had set foot inside the strong room.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And the last,&rdquo; interposed Luigi.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If I recollect rightly, the bonds in question were endorsed
&lsquo;Missouri and Eastern Union Preference.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That they are a good sound stock may be taken for granted, otherwise
your grandfather would not have invested so largely in them. I see by this
morning&rsquo;s newspaper that yesterday they were quoted at from 53 to
53-5/8.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes&mdash;what then?&rdquo; demanded Luigi blankly. He could not imagine
what his uncle was driving at.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Merely this, dear boy&mdash;that if we could by any means contrive to
annex a few of the bonds in question, a way out of our difficulty would at once
be opened for us.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The silence that ensued lasted for some minutes. The Captain wanted what he had
said to sink into his nephew&rsquo;s mind. It was a daring suggestion, but,
after all, not nearly so audacious as that other suggestion, which had emanated
from the same source, that Luigi should personate Sir Gilbert Clare&rsquo;s
dead grandson. That suggestion had borne practical fruit, had, in fact,
developed into a splendid success. Why should not this one prove equally as
successful?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A very ingenious suggestion indeed, uncle,&rdquo; said Luigi at length;
&ldquo;but how do you propose to carry it into effect? You talk as if I had in
my possession a duplicate key of the strong room.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is a mere detail,&rdquo; responded the Captain airily, &ldquo;which
I have not yet had time to consider.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Assuming for the moment that we succeed in obtaining possession of the
bonds, and that their loss is discovered, what then?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, what then? Why should suspicion fall upon you? Should we decide to
carry out the affair, it would have to be in such a way as to leave no possible
link which would serve to connect you or me with the missing documents.
Besides, I think it not unlikely that some long time would elapse before the
bonds would be missed. Your grandfather has apparently bought the stock as a
permanent investment, and if such be the case, no reason will exist for him to
go through the parcel a second time in order to satisfy himself that none of
them have been abstracted. Months, nay years, might elapse without the loss
being discovered; it is even possible that Sir Gilbert might die in ignorance
thereof. It would be singular, would it not, if the bonds should ultimately
come to you as his heir? Looked at from that point of view, you would merely be
obtaining an advance on your own property.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let us suppose once more,&rdquo; persisted Luigi. &ldquo;The bonds are
sold, let us say; their loss is discovered; as a consequence, a hue-and-cry is
set afoot and the missing numbers advertised. In that case what is to prevent
their being traced back to the first vendor of them after their&mdash;hem!
abstraction?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The Captain smiled as he shook the ash out of his meerschaum. &ldquo;The answer
to that is very simple,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I shall know how to put the
bonds on the market through such a channel as will render it an impossibility
for them ever to be traced back.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Three days later uncle and nephew, attired in their travelling suits as if
fresh from their journey across the Channel, arrived at Withington Chase.
Captain Verinder felt it was due to Sir Gilbert that he should personally give
him back the young Telemachus who for the past four weeks had been entrusted to
his charge.
</p>

<p>
By this time he and Luigi had settled all the details of their plot, as far as
it was possible for them to do so beforehand, and away from the spot.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.<br />
MATTERS AT THE CHASE</h2>

<p>
No great measure of persuasion was needed on the part of Sir Gilbert Clare in
order to induce Lady Pell to extend the term of her visit at Withington Chase.
</p>

<p>
Sooth to say, age was beginning to tell somewhat upon her ladyship. With
advancing years her craving to be continually on the move from place to place
began to work less powerfully within her. There were even times when a growing
sense of loneliness made itself sadly felt, and when the knowledge that she was
both childless and homeless would unseal in her heart a fountain of poignant
regrets which would well to her eyes in tears, all the more salt, it may be, in
that they were, as a rule, so sternly repressed.
</p>

<p>
Somehow the Chase seemed more of a home to her than any place she had visited
for years. There was a sweet nameless charm about the old mansion which
affected her&mdash;she could hardly have told how. Even when she had been a
month there she felt no desire to pack up her trunks and betake herself
elsewhere. This, for her, was an altogether novel experience.
</p>

<p>
It may be that Lady Pell&rsquo;s liking for the Chase was due in part, if not
wholly, to her recollection of a certain happy season she had spent there when
in her teens. It had been the scene of the first and, possibly, the only
romance her life had known&mdash;a poor little futile romance, as events had
proved&mdash;but perhaps none the less cherished on that account; and it was
still the home of the man who had been the ideal of her girlish dreams.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert, for his part, was well satisfied that his cousin should make the
Chase her home for as long as it might suit her convenience to do so. That he
would feel her departure as a loss whenever it should take place, he began to
realise more clearly the longer she stayed. She was capital company; never
otherwise than lively and in good spirits, not a bit in awe of him, and imbued
with a sufficiency of the combative element to make her always ready to
administer that pinch of contradiction which men like the Baronet need to put
them on their mettle.
</p>

<p>
Without any design or set intention on her part, Ethel had become a great
favourite with the old man. As we know, the Baronet had had several sons, but
no daughter, and all unwittingly Ethel had slipped into a vacant niche in his
heart, of the existence of which he had heretofore been only dimly aware. In
Ethel&rsquo;s singing and playing he found something that pleased him
exceedingly. And when in some neglected corner she found a heap of old music
which had belonged to, and bore the signature of, the first Lady Clare; and
when, one evening, without saying anything to him, she ventured to play some of
them; and, when he recognised them&mdash;voices from the tomb, as it were,
silent for thirty long years&mdash;his delight was touching to behold. After
that Ethel played and sang to him every evening, when he would sit with closed
eyes, an elbow resting on either arm of his big easy-chair, and the fingertips
of one hand pressed against those of the other, while an expression of great
peace and contentment would gradually steal over his grand old features.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tell what it is, Louisa, that draws me so to that
girl,&rdquo; he remarked one day to Lady Pell. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not her good
looks, though they are undeniable; and it&rsquo;s not her musical abilities,
admirable as they are; it&rsquo;s a charm, a something altogether indefinable
and elusive, to which, if I were to try for an hour, I don&rsquo;t think I
could give its proper name. Both her eyes and her voice seem to haunt me; it is
as if I had seen the one and heard the other in some prior state of existence.
At times they affect me in the strangest possible way.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t wonder at your being taken by Ethel Thursby,&rdquo;
returned Lady Pell. &ldquo;She is a dear girl, and I should like to have kept
her with me always; but her aunts would only lend her to me for a time. In one
sense I shall be quite sorry when Beilby, my ordinary companion, is well enough
to resume her duties.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You must not let her go yet awhile, Louisa. And yet, the longer she
stays, the harder it will seem to part from her when the time comes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There is some one besides you and me, unless I am very much mistaken,
who will find it harder still to part from her when the time comes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And who may that be, pray?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That very nice secretary of yours, Mr. Everard Lisle.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lisle! You don&rsquo;t mean to say&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I mean to say that he&rsquo;s over head and ears in love with Ethel
Thursby.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You astonish me. I have remarked nothing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Of course not. It was not to be expected. You are only a poor purblind
man. Now, <i>I</i> have been sure of it for some time; indeed, I began to have
my suspicions almost from the first time they met. I confess that I watch the
progress of the little comedy, out of a corner of my eye, with a good deal of
interest. I like to see a man in earnest, and that&rsquo;s what young Lisle
evidently is.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He&rsquo;s a fine fellow, and I wish&mdash;it seems a hard thing to
say&mdash;that my grandson were more like him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, well, Gilbert, you must just accept Lewis as he is, and make the
best of him. I am afraid it would not be well for us if we could have people
manufactured to our own liking. But, when all is said, I am not without hope
that your grandson will ultimately prove to be everything that you could
desire.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They were still talking when a black-bordered letter, which had just arrived,
was brought to Sir Gilbert.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is from my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Clare,&rdquo; he said as he examined
the postmarks before opening it. &ldquo;From the mourning envelope, I judge
that her venerable relative is dead.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And such, indeed, proved to be the case. Giovanna wrote to say that her
grandmother was no more, and that in the course of a few days she hoped to be
on her way back to England. She had written twice to Sir Gilbert previously,
just a few formal lines couched in studiously respectful terms, her first note
containing the announcement of her arrival at Catanzaro, and her second
conveying the news that her grandmother still lingered, but that all hope of
her recovery had been given up. Brief and simple though the notes were, the
composition of them had been anything but a labour of love to Giovanna. She had
expended both time and pains over them, and, after all, had been far from
satisfied with the result.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert, however, had Giovanna but known it, was quite satisfied. To him
his daughter-in-law&rsquo;s brief formal communications seemed everything that
the occasion demanded. He often thought about her, but never unkindly, and he
looked forward to her proximate return with a certain amount of pleasure. He
had begun to regard her as an agreeable element in the subdued tenour of his
existence; and although Lady Pell far more than compensated for her absence,
his cousin would not stay at the Chase for ever, indeed, she might take it into
her head to start off at any moment, and when her ladyship should be gone
Giovanna would step back into the place which for a little while she had
unavoidably vacated.
</p>

<p>
He now gave Mrs. Clare&rsquo;s note to Lady Pell to read.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose we may expect her back in about a week or ten days,&rdquo; he
presently remarked. &ldquo;It will gratify me to introduce her to you. I think
you will be pleased with her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell&rsquo;s sole reply was a little dubious cough. Liberal-minded though
she was in many ways&mdash;indeed, she prided herself on being so&mdash;she was
not, as a rule, prepossessed by foreigners. It was an insular prejudice, but
one, unfortunately, which she shared in common with numbers of worthy people,
who take credit to themselves for their narrow-mindedness, and are proud of
boasting that they are &ldquo;English to the backbone.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Her mother was an Englishwoman, as I think I have mentioned to you
before to-day,&rdquo; remarked Sir Gilbert with a little flash of the eye.
&ldquo;Consequently&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mrs. Clare is only half a foreigner. It is a fact I had forgotten. Yes,
that certainly makes a difference, and I at once admit that I am a little
curious to meet her. Being the sort of woman you have described to
me&mdash;still, for all her forty years, or whatever their number may be, so
splendidly handsome&mdash;you have not, I presume, overlooked the possibility
of her one day marrying again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The Baronet threw a startled glance at his cousin. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; he
exclaimed, &ldquo;such an idea never entered my mind.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can well believe it,&rdquo; rejoined Lady Pell with a little pitying
smile. &ldquo;You men!&mdash;you men! But now that I have made you a present of
the idea, you cannot fail to perceive the extreme feasibility of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Um-um. But if Mrs. Clare had any thought or intention of marrying again,
why need she have waited all these years? Like the rest of us, Louisa, she is
not growing younger.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Possibly she has met no one whom she cared to marry. But, be that as it
may, it must at once strike you that the Mrs. Clare of to-day&mdash;the
daughter-in-law of Sir Gilbert Clare and the mother of the prospective heir of
Withington Chase&mdash;is a very different personage in the matrimonial market
from the Mrs. Clare of six months ago. If she prove anything like the kind of
woman I take her to be, you may rely upon it that she will not long be content
to remain buried in a little poky neighbourhood such as this. She will
want&mdash;and very naturally&mdash;to see something of the world, and to
assume that position in society to which by your own act she has become
entitled.&rdquo; Then, perceiving that her words had had more effect than she
had intended, she hastened to add: &ldquo;But these are merely some of my
views, and must not be taken for more than they are worth. It may be that I
shall find Mrs. Clare a very different kind of person from anything I have
imagined her to be.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert rose stiffly from his chair.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What you have just told me, Louisa, has put me about a little, and I
have no wish to deny it. There is reason in what you say&mdash;much reason.
For, when all is said, why should not Alec&rsquo;s widow marry again if her
inclination tends that way? Only, I hadn&rsquo;t thought of
it&mdash;that&rsquo;s where it is&mdash;I hadn&rsquo;t thought of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
A happy accident&mdash;if that may be termed an accident which was the result
of the working out of a series of events altogether outside their own
control&mdash;had brought Lisle and Ethel together again, but neither of them
felt inclined to cavil at having been thus unceremoniously treated. Neither did
they evince any disposition to grumble when they found that a day seldom passed
without bringing them for a longer or shorter time into the society of each
other. Everard was at the Chase nearly every forenoon, and frequently stayed
for luncheon, while his invitations to dinner were even more frequent since
Lady Pell&rsquo;s arrival than they had been before. The latter fact he owed to
his ability as a whist-player, for Sir Gilbert, to his great satisfaction, now
found that, with Mrs. Tew to make a fourth, he could count upon a rubber as
often as he chose to bring the little party together, which, on an average, was
three or four evenings a week. It was a pleasure from which circumstances had
long debarred him.
</p>

<p>
Everard&rsquo;s love for Ethel, which her refusal of him had compelled him to
crush down with all the force of his will, but which nothing had availed to
kill, under the daily sunshine of her presence sprang up into fresh and
vigorous life. To all outward seeming, as he flattered himself, his treatment
of her in no wise differed from that which he would have accorded to any other
young woman with whom circumstances might have brought him into daily contact;
but on that point, as we have seen, he was mistaken, Lady Pell having
penetrated his secret almost from the first. He strove to so train both his
voice and his eyes that neither of them should betray him, and
believed&mdash;foolish fellow!&mdash;that he had succeeded in the attempt. He
had no present intention of risking his fate a second time. Just now it was
happiness enough to be enabled to see Ethel and to talk with her day after day,
to sit by her at table, to hover round her at the piano, and to be permitted to
hold her fingers for a moment within his when the time came for bidding her
goodnight. Once again his tongue should bear witness for him&mdash;and he would
stand or fall by the result: but not yet.
</p>

<p>
And Ethel&mdash;what of her?
</p>

<p>
She would not have been a woman had she not known that Lisle loved her. If Lady
Pell could penetrate his secret, it was scarcely to be expected that she who
was alone concerned should be less clear-sighted, lacking though she was both
in years and experience.
</p>

<p>
With Ethel, although she did not know it, it was love that whispered
love&rsquo;s secret to her heart. She heard the whisper but failed to recognise
the voice. Only a little while before she had been sorely smitten, and not yet
had she quite recovered from the blow; although every day that took her farther
away from it helped almost imperceptibly to blunt the sharp edge of pain. A
consciousness had begun to dawn on her that within her heart, dormant as yet,
or only just beginning timidly to unfold, lay the potentialities of a love very
different from that which her ignorance had been beguiled into accepting as the
&ldquo;perfect flower of life.&rdquo; Already for her the morn of a new and
more beautiful love was beginning to break, before the sweetness and light of
which all that was left in her memory of the deposed image of Launce Keymer
would fade and crumble into nothingness.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.<br />
A DEED OF DARKNESS</h2>

<p>
It was late in the afternoon when Captain Verinder and his nephew arrived at
Withington Chase. Under the circumstances, Sir Gilbert could not well do
otherwise than invite the Captain to dine and sleep there, and when Verinder,
although secretly overjoyed, pleaded that his dress clothes were in his
portmanteau at the cloakroom of the London terminus, his excuse was at once
overruled. &ldquo;If that is your only objection, sir, you shall be kept in
countenance by my grandson and myself. For once in a way we will all wear
tweeds at dinner.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Retaining Luigi&rsquo;s hand in his for a few seconds, Sir Gilbert gazed
somewhat wistfully into the young man&rsquo;s face. &ldquo;You have not brought
back much of the tan of travel on your cheeks,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;How is
that, I wonder? Not for years have we had so hot an autumn as the one now
drawing to a close.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My face never either tans or freckles, sir, however hot the weather may
be,&rdquo; explained Luigi with a touch of heightened colour. &ldquo;It is a
fact for which I am unable to account.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Humph! At all events I&rsquo;m glad to see that your cheeks can take a
blush. I am glad, too, judging from your letters, that you seem to have enjoyed
yourself while away, although that was by no means the object I had in view in
sending you abroad. I trust that your experiences during the last month will
not be thrown away upon you, but that they will be productive of benefit to you
in more ways than one.&rdquo; With that he turned away, murmuring to himself:
&ldquo;What can be the reason why he never looks me straight in the face? Why
do his eyes always flicker and drop when I try to fix them with my own? It is a
bad trait, a very bad trait, and it fills me with a vague sense of mistrust. If
he would but confront me with Lisle&rsquo;s open unflinching look! That young
fellow&rsquo;s eyes are as clear and honest as the day.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was an immense relief to Luigi to find that his grandfather made no mention
of Miss Jennings. His fear had been lest, during his absence, that young person
might have sought out Sir Gilbert and have enlightened him as to the absurd
offer which he, Luigi, had made her on her birthday night when under the
insidious influence of <i>Veuve Cliequot</i>. When, therefore, his grandfather
turned away without mentioning &ldquo;Miss J.&rsquo;s&rdquo; name he felt that
a great danger had passed him by.
</p>

<p>
But while one weight had been lifted off his mind, another crushed him down
with a force from which he found it impossible to free himself. Ever before him
loomed the black shadow of the deed to which he had become engaged. Sleeping or
waking, it held him with a nightmare grip. He ate his dinner not because he
wanted or cared for it, but because not to have done so would have laid him
open to question and remark. After dinner came whist, Captain Verinder making
up the quartette, <i>vice</i> Everard Lisle. Ethel and Luigi, being free to
follow their own devices, engaged in a desultory conversation, chiefly anent
the latter&rsquo;s recent travel experiences, which before long began to
languish and presently died out. Then, with a muttered excuse that he was
altogether behindhand with English news, Luigi seized on a batch of illustrated
papers and buried himself among them, while Ethel&rsquo;s face brightened
perceptibly. She saw before her not merely the prospect of a cosy hour with a
favourite author, but an escape from a <i>tête-à-tête</i> with Mr. Lewis Clare.
</p>

<p>
Next morning the Captain routed Luigi out of bed at an untimely hour. &ldquo;I
want you to show me Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s study,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and the
desk in which he keeps the key of the strong room.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There was no difficulty about doing that, because the study door was never
locked overnight, in order that the servants might have access to it betimes,
their orders being to have it in readiness for Sir Gilbert by ten o&rsquo;clock
to the minute.
</p>

<p>
The room was empty when Luigi opened the door and went in, followed by his
uncle. &ldquo;That is the door of the strong room&mdash;iron, as you
see&mdash;and this is the drawer in which the key of it is always kept,&rdquo;
said the former.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And where is the key of the drawer kept?&rdquo; queried the Captain.
&ldquo;It is one of a bunch grandfather carries about with him and rarely lets
out of his own keeping.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Verinder glanced at the door, then he tried the drawer, which, as a matter of
course, was locked, and then he stooped and examined the keyhole.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As far as I can judge,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;the lock is of quite an
ordinary kind, and you ought not to experience much difficulty in picking
it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But what will grandfather think when he finds the drawer
unlocked?&rdquo; questioned Luigi.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, merely that he must have omitted to lock it overnight. Of course
the key of the strong room will be there just as he left it, and there will be
nothing to arouse his suspicions that it has even been touched. He will simply
tell himself that he must be more careful in future, and there will be an end
of the matter.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was too early for breakfast, so they left the house and went for a stroll in
the grounds.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish, Lewis, my boy,&rdquo; remarked the Captain cheerfully,
&ldquo;you would try not to look quite so glum and down in the mouth. If you
had a murder on your mind you could hardly look more wretched than you do. Do,
for goodness sake, assume a cheerfulness; even if you can&rsquo;t feel
it&mdash;though what cause you have for being anything else than cheerful, I
cannot for the life of me imagine.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I&rsquo;m not like you; I haven&rsquo;t nerves of cast iron; I wish
I had,&rdquo; retorted Luigi. &ldquo;Be cheerful, indeed! It&rsquo;s all very
fine, but how is it possible for me to look other than down in the mouth when I
remember the desperate business I&rsquo;m booked to go through with three
nights hence?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Desperate business, indeed! What nonsense is this? There&rsquo;s nothing
desperate about it, nothing whatever. Here&rsquo;s the affair in a nutshell:
you wait in your room till the clock strikes midnight; then you kick off your
shoes, steal downstairs in the dark, and make your way to the study. Then you
open the slide of your dark lantern and proceed to manipulate your picklocks.
After a minute or two the lock yields to your coaxing; you open the drawer and
there lies the key you want, ready to your hand. Five minutes later the bonds
are yours. By half-past twelve you are not merely back in your own room, but in
bed and asleep. <i>Voilà tout!</i> Desperate business, quotha!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For sole reply Luigi shrugged his shoulders and spread out the palms of his
hands with one of those indescribable gestures which an Englishman may perhaps
caricature, but cannot even passably imitate.
</p>

<p>
Although Captain Verinder had had no intimation to that effect, he was quite
aware that his visit was expected to come to an end some time between breakfast
and luncheon. Accordingly, as soon as the former meal was over, he proceeded to
make his adieux. Having said goodbye to Lady Pell and Miss Thursby, he turned
to Sir Gilbert, who had already rung the bell and ordered the dog-cart to be
brought round, and who now accompanied him as far as the entrance hall, with
Luigi bringing up the rear. While waiting they chatted about the weather and
other indifferent topics. Presently the dog-cart drove up and Luigi flung wide
the door. Then Sir Gilbert, drawing himself up and putting on his most
grandiose manner, said, &ldquo;We shall look to see you again at Withington
Chase before very long, Captain Verinder.&rdquo; It was vague and yet
sufficiently courteous. Then, as the Captain bowed and murmured his thanks:
&ldquo;I need scarcely tell you how very much obliged I am to you for the care
and attention you have lavished on my grandson during the time he has been
under your charge, and, as a proof that such is the case, I trust you will do
me the favour of accepting this trifling recognition at my hands.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As the Baronet turned back into the house after favouring Verinder with a
parting wave of the hand as the latter was being driven off, he muttered to
himself: &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t help it, I really can&rsquo;t, but I do
<i>not</i> like that man. Of course it&rsquo;s the sheerest prejudice on my
part, and, knowing it to be such, I am all the more bound to do my best to get
the better of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
When Captain Verinder opened the envelope which the Baronet had pressed into
his hand at parting, he found inside it a cheque for thirty guineas. &ldquo;A
thousand thanks, my dear Sir Gilbert!&rdquo; he exclaimed with a chuckle.
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mind how often you employ me on the same terms. You are
obliged to me for the care and attention I have lavished on your grandson, eh?
What a pity, in one sense, it is that one dare not enlighten you about the
little Brussels episode!&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
In accordance with the plan agreed upon between himself and his nephew, the
Captain took the first train up to town, but only to return to Mapleford in the
course of the forenoon of the following day, bringing with him a set of
picklocks, a dark lantern and an old portmanteau. He again took up his quarters
at the <i>Crown and Cushion</i> hotel, where Luigi called upon him in the
course of the afternoon. Then was the purpose for which the portmanteau had
been brought from London made manifest, which was to enable Verinder to give
his nephew an object-lesson in the art of lock-picking, in which the latter
proved himself no inapt pupil.
</p>

<p>
The day was Saturday, and it was decided that the attempt should be made the
following night, because it was an understood thing at the Chase that on
Sundays the house should be shut up and every one retire an hour earlier than
on week-day nights. Supposing that all should go off successfully, Luigi would
conceal the stolen securities in his own room till the morrow, taking the first
opportunity that should offer to make his way with them to the <i>Crown and
Cushion</i>, where his uncle would relieve him of them, and at once hurry off
to London, there to negotiate the sale of them through that &ldquo;safe
channel&rdquo; of which he had previously made mention to his nephew. The
Captain did not let Luigi go without once more impressing on him that, if he
only carried out to the letter the instructions laid down for him and did not
lose his nerve, he ran absolutely no risk of detection. On the other hand,
should the scheme, through some blunder on his part, prove abortive, he must be
prepared to accept the consequences. In that case, the whole discreditable
transaction with Mr. Henriques, and what gave rise to it, would inevitably be
brought to Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s notice, with a result which it was impossible to
foresee, but which, in any case, must prove nothing short of disastrous.
</p>

<p>
Never before had Luigi Rispani spent so miserable a Sunday, and yet it came to
an end all too soon for him.
</p>

<p>
At the usual hour everybody retired; indeed, Luigi had crept away some time
before without bidding goodnight to anyone. With his ulster wrapped round
him&mdash;for the autumn nights were chilly&mdash;and lighted by a solitary
candle, he sat shivering and quaking in his bedroom, waiting for the stroke of
midnight. It came, after what seemed an interminable time, a thin tinkle of
sound from the old case-clock on the gallery staircase. With the last stroke he
stood up, dropped the ulster off his shoulders, and slipped his feet out of his
patent shoes. Then he unlocked his portmanteau and took therefrom the bunch of
picklocks, the dark lantern, and a travelling flask filled with brandy, into
the cup of which he poured a liberal measure of the spirit and drank it off
without drawing breath. Then he set light to the wick of the lantern, shut the
slide, and put it into one of the pockets of his velvet lounging jacket, and
the picklocks into the other. That done, he blew out the candle, crossed to the
door, opened it and stood listening intently for fully a couple of minutes.
Then he stepped out into the pitch-dark corridor and drew the door to after
him. Traversing the corridor with noiseless footsteps, he emerged on the
gallery which overlooked the entrance hall. Here he paused to listen again, but
darkness and silence had the mansion to themselves. It was the work of a minute
to cross the gallery, pass swiftly down the broad old stairs and so into the
right-hand corridor on the ground floor, the second door in which was that of
Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s study. By this time Luigi&rsquo;s heart was palpitating at
such a rate that he was compelled to pause for a few moments with his fingers
on the handle of the door till its beatings had slackened. Then he pushed open
the door and went in.
</p>

<p>
Again he waited, scarcely breathing, while one might have counted six slowly.
Then, drawing forth his lantern, he pushed the slide halfway back and shot a
gleam of light around. All the familiar features of the room were there just as
he had seen them last.
</p>

<p>
Thus far everything had gone so well with him and so exactly as his uncle had
predicted it would, that he began to gather courage, and even caught himself
smiling at his own exaggerated fears. Well, it was his first attempt in that
particular line of business, so that every excuse ought to be made for him, and
in all sincerity he hoped it would be his last.
</p>

<p>
By this he had placed the lantern on his grandfather&rsquo;s desk and had begun
to manipulate the picklocks. As the Captain had inferred, the lock was only an
ordinary one, and after labouring for about three minutes Luigi succeeded in
picking it. His heart gave a great bound as he heard the click of the bolt.
</p>

<p>
Two seconds later the key of the strong room was in his hand. Taking the
lantern in his other hand, he crossed the floor, lifted the metal flap that
covered the keyhole, inserted the key, turned it and pulled open the massive
iron door. Drawing a deeper breath than common he stepped across the threshold,
lifted the lantern above his head and stared around.
</p>

<p>
The strong room at the Chase had at one time formed part of the room now used
by Sir Gilbert as his study. It was his father who had caused the dividing wall
to be built, and had turned the smaller chamber into a depository for family
papers, leases, deeds, securities and what not. One side of the room was
occupied by a row of shelves having a series of cupboards and drawers below
them, while two large japanned boxes took up a considerable portion of the
floor space; but, even then, there was room enough and to spare to stow away
all the archives of the Clare family for generations to come. The room was
lighted by a small, barred, oval window high up in the wall.
</p>

<p>
The drawer in which Luigi had put away the American bonds, on the occasion when
his grandfather had claimed his assistance owing to the temporary absence of
Everard Lisle, was labelled B, and after his preliminary glance round, he at
once made straight for it. Placing his lantern on the nearest shelf, he pulled
open the drawer, which was without lock or fastening of any kind.
</p>

<p>
Yes, there lay the identical bundle of papers which he had placed there several
weeks before, and which, in all probability, had never since been touched. The
bonds, which were tied together with green tape, must have numbered a score at
the least, but it had been decided by Verinder that it would be unadvisable to
abstract more than four of them, so that, even should Sir Gilbert have occasion
to handle the bundle, he would scarcely discover the loss, unless he should
happen to count those that were left. The proceeds of the sale of the four
bonds would not only suffice to clear off the note of hand held by the
executors of Mr. Henriques, but would, in addition, provide uncle and nephew
with a welcome supply of ready money.
</p>

<p>
Luigi, with the bundle of bonds between his fingers, was stooping over the
lantern and examining the knot in the green tape which held them together, when
he suddenly became aware that he was no longer alone. He had not heard a sound,
and yet, with an indescribable creeping of the flesh and, as it seemed, a
stoppage of all the pulses of his being, he felt, he knew, although he could
not have told through what channel the knowledge had been conveyed to him, that
he was being watched by someone or something from behind. With a gasp that
constricted his heart like a vice, he slowly turned his head, to see standing
on the threshold, clearly outlined in the semi-darkness, and seeming from the
depths of its cowl to be gazing fixedly at him&mdash;the figure of the Grey
Monk!
</p>

<p>
A cry of terror broke from his lips, the bundle of bonds dropped from his
nerveless fingers, his knees gave way under him, and sinking to the ground, he
covered his face with his hands, and so shut out that dread appearance. An
instant later he heard the heavy door swing sullenly to, and its bolt shoot
into the socket. He was a prisoner in the strong room.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap37"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.<br />
THE DEFEAT OF ROGUERY</h2>

<p>
In the course of the preceding month the apparition of the Grey Monk had been
seen on three different occasions after its first appearance to Bessie Ogden,
each time by one or another of the domestics at the Chase. Bessie had been
scouted and scolded both by Trant and Mrs. Burton, the housekeeper, till at
length she was almost ready to believe that she must have been the victim of an
optical delusion; and yet, strange to say, it was to no less a person than
Trant himself that the Grey Monk next appeared. It was late at
night&mdash;close upon midnight, in fact&mdash;when Trant, who had been some
time in bed, but was not yet asleep, suddenly called to mind that he had
inadvertently left his bunch of keys downstairs in the servants&rsquo; hall. On
no account was it advisable that he should leave it there till morning; the
other servants rose before he did, and there was no telling, with his keys at
their command, in what way they might choose to take advantage of his
oversight. It would never do to leave such a temptation in their way.
Accordingly, he scrambled into a few clothes, thrust his feet into a pair of
slippers, and started to go downstairs.
</p>

<p>
He got as far as the gallery, and then stopped, suddenly frozen to the spot.
There, pacing slowly to and fro by the light of a half-moon, which streamed in
slantwise through the east window, with bowed head and hands clasped in front
of him, was the Grey Monk! Trant&rsquo;s jaw fell, and his eyes seemed to start
from their orbits. A moment or two he stared; then he turned and, without a
word or a sound, made his way back to his room, shaking in every limb like a
huge jelly, and in mortal dread lest a ghostly hand should clutch him from
behind.
</p>

<p>
Next morning he sought an opportunity of unburdening his mind to Sir Gilbert,
only to be snapped at and told that he was an old fool for his pains.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let me hear of your having whispered a word about this idiotic rubbish,
either in the servants&rsquo; hall or outside the house, and it will be worse
for you,&rdquo; said the Baronet, in his most minatory tone. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
ashamed of you, Trant, at your time of life.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For all that, Sir Gilbert did not rest till he had told Lady Pell, who in
return confided to him his grandson&rsquo;s adventure in the spinny, as related
to her by the latter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is most annoying&mdash;most disturbing and annoying,&rdquo; said the
Baronet, &ldquo;and I don&rsquo;t at all know what to do in the matter. Perhaps
the best thing will be to do nothing, but to keep on ignoring the whole
business as I have done from the first. How is it the apparition never troubles
me? I only wish it would! It would not escape me, I warrant you, till I had
found out something definite about it. Let us hope, however, that we have heard
the last of it for a long time to come.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But it was a hope not destined to be fulfilled.
</p>

<p>
In the course of the following fortnight two more appearances were reported to
the Baronet, both coming from members of his own household. In these cases the
figure was avouched to have been encountered outside the house and in two
widely separated parts of the grounds.
</p>

<p>
When, on the morning to which we have now come, Mr. Lewis Clare failed to make
his appearance at the breakfast table, Sir Gilbert, in something of a huff,
sent a servant to his room with an ironical inquiry whether they might expect
to see him downstairs by luncheon time. Presently the man came back with the
news that Mr. Clare was not in his room and that his bed did not appear to have
been slept in. Thereupon the Baronet&rsquo;s eyes met those of Lady Pell.
&ldquo;What fresh folly has he been guilty of? What further disgrace is he
going to bring upon himself and me?&rdquo; were the questions they mutely
asked. But to the servant he merely nodded and said, &ldquo;That will
do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A little later, when her ladyship and Miss Thursby got up from table, he
remarked to the former, &ldquo;I will see you in the course of the
morning&rdquo;; which meant, &ldquo;As soon as I have any news you shall be
told it.&rdquo; Then to himself he added, &ldquo;I suppose I must employ Lisle
to hunt him up again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He lingered over his breakfast this morning in a way very unusual with him, as
if hoping against hope that, from minute to minute, his grandson might make his
appearance.
</p>

<p>
He was leaning back in his chair, a prey to a host of bitter thoughts, when
Trant, looking at once mysterious and important, entered the room, carrying in
one hand a letter, and in the other a large key.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If you please, Sir Gilbert,&rdquo; he said, in deprecatory tones, for he
knew how ill his master brooked being disturbed when in a brown study,
&ldquo;this letter, addressed to you, with the key of the strong room, has just
been found on your study table by the housemaid whose duty it is to dust the
room. As the letter is marked &lsquo;Immediate,&rsquo; I thought that
perhaps&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The key of the strong room lying on my study table, do you say?&rdquo;
broke in Sir Gilbert. &ldquo;How could it possibly have got there?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
While speaking he had taken both the key and the letter. Having put on his
glasses he looked at the address on the letter and shook his head. The writing
was wholly strange to him. Wondering greatly, he laid the key on the table in
front of him and broke open the envelope. Trant stole out of the room on
tiptoe; he seemed to scent a mystery.
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;Should Sir Gilbert Clare,&rdquo; began the letter, &ldquo;feel anxious
as to the whereabouts of his self-styled grandson he will find him locked up in
the strong room, the key of which accompanies this missive. It will be for the
young man to explain to Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s satisfaction the nature of the
business which took him there between twelve and one o&rsquo;clock this
morning.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Further, it may be as well to open Sir Gilbert Clare&rsquo;s eyes to a
fact in respect of which he seems to have been deliberately hoodwinked. Luigi
Rispani is <i>not</i> his grandson, but merely a nephew of the woman who
married John Alexander Clare. The said John Alexander Clare had but one
child&mdash;a daughter&mdash;who died when a few months old. In accepting Luigi
Rispani as his grandson Sir Gilbert Clare has allowed himself to be made the
victim of a fraud.
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;O<small>NE</small> W<small>HO</small> K<small>NOWS</small>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For full ten minutes after he had finished reading the note Sir Gilbert sat
without moving, his eyes closed and his chin sunk on his breast. So old and
worn and white did he look that he might have been taken for one already dead.
Many times in his life had he drunk deep of the waters of bitterness, but
perhaps never before had they tasted so utterly bitter. For the moment his soul
cried out, &ldquo;I can bear no more! Give me death&mdash;give me anything
rather than this!&rdquo; But presently the strong man within him, which was not
yet wholly overcome, began to reassert itself, and a voice seemed to say to
him, &ldquo;If what you have just heard be the truth, then is it better that
the truth should be known, at whatever cost to yourself and others. Anything is
better than that you should remain the unwitting participant in a living
lie.&rdquo; He opened his eyes, sighed and sat up. What a change had come over
his life in a few short minutes!
</p>

<p>
Presently he touched the handbell on the table, to which Trant, who had been
listening for it, at once responded.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Present my compliments to Lady Pell, and tell her that I am very
desirous of having a word with her here, and as soon as Mr. Lisle arrives
request him to come to me.&rdquo; He felt that he must share his burden with
someone; it was too weighty to be borne alone.
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell was quickly on the scene.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sit down, Louisa, and oblige me by reading this, which was brought me a
few minutes ago,&rdquo; said Sir Gilbert as he handed her the letter.
</p>

<p>
She took it without a word. When she had read to the end, she turned a scared
face on her kinsman.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is indeed terrible, if it be true,&rdquo; she said as she gave him
back the letter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Here is the key of the strong room to confirm it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At this juncture Everard Lisle entered the room. At sight of Lady Pell he was
about to retire, but Sir Gilbert motioned to him to come forward. &ldquo;Read
this, which was found on my study table about half-an-hour ago,&rdquo; he said.
</p>

<p>
Lisle, standing within a yard of his elbow, did as he was told. He, too, was
utterly dumbfoundered and for a few moments knew not what to say. Then a
thought struck him. &ldquo;According to this, sir, Mr. Lewis is still locked up
in the strong room.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aye&mdash;like a rat in a trap,&rdquo; replied the Baronet grimly.
&ldquo;Suppose we go and release him and hear what he has to say for himself.
Do you take the key, Lisle. Come, Louisa; I must ask you to keep us company.
This seems to me an affair which may necessitate the presence of
witnesses.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, be good enough to unlock the door of the strong room,&rdquo; he
said to Lisle when they had reached the study.
</p>

<p>
Everard did as he was told and pulled wide the heavy door.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Anybody inside?&rdquo; demanded Sir Gilbert sharply. He was standing
just behind Lisle, but his eyes failed to pierce the semi-obscurity of the
room.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Lewis Clare, sir,&rdquo; replied Everard.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, it <i>is</i> true, then!&rdquo; He drew in his breath like one
suddenly struck in a vital part and caught at Lisle&rsquo;s shoulder. A shiver
passed over him from head to foot, but his voice was firm enough when next he
spoke.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You there, come out&mdash;come out this instant,&rdquo; he commanded.
</p>

<p>
Never was there a more abject-looking being than he who responded to the
summons, with his blanched face, his dishevelled hair, and his fear-distended
eyes. He seemed to crawl rather than walk into the outer room. Sir Gilbert
pointed to a chair. &ldquo;Seat yourself there,&rdquo; he said. The look with
which he regarded him was a mixture of pity, contempt and scorn.
</p>

<p>
Then, in an aside to Lady Pell, he added: &ldquo;I thank heaven that not a drop
of my ancestors&rsquo; blood runs in this craven&rsquo;s veins. But pray be
seated. This may prove to be a lengthy business.&rdquo; As he spoke, he drew a
chair forward near his own and they both sat down. Then turning to Everard, he
said: &ldquo;Mr. Lisle, I think I have heard you say that you write
shorthand.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, Sir Gilbert.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then station yourself there opposite me. I want you to take notes of the
questions I am about to put to this wretched young man and of his answers to
the same.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There were so many questions he wanted to ask that for a few moments he seemed
at a loss where or how to begin. Luigi, of course, knew nothing about the
letter which had reached him so mysteriously with the key of the strong room,
and was still unaware that Sir Gilbert had the slightest suspicion of the gross
imposition of which he had been made the victim.
</p>

<p>
For a brief space Sir Gilbert seemed lost in thought, then lifting his head and
bending on Luigi from between his contracted lids a look which caused the young
fellow to shrink and cower even more abjectly than before, he said:
&ldquo;Luigi Rispani, for that is your name, I know you at last for the vile
impostor and cheat that you are. Whether you are aware of it or not, let me
tell you this: you have been guilty of that which would inevitably consign you
to a felon&rsquo;s cell should I decide to proceed to extremities against you,
and, indeed, you deserve nothing less at my hands. But what I may decide to do
in the matter will depend in a great measure upon yourself. Answer the
questions I am about to put to you truthfully and without prevarication, and I
may be induced to deal leniently by you. Lie to me, or strive in any way to
throw dust in my eyes, and the moment I discover you in the attempt I will have
you given into the custody of the police and will proceed against you with the
utmost rigour of the law. What say you, sir? Are you prepared to tell me the
absolute and positive truth without a shadow of concealment on your part, or
are you not?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I <i>will</i> tell you the truth, Sir Gilbert, and nothing but the
truth; I really will,&rdquo; whined Luigi, who was seated sideways on a chair,
huddled up and with one leg crossed under him, his back arched and his head
sunk between his shoulders. Every minute or two he was seized with a spasm of
nervous trembling, resulting partly from fright and partly from the chill due
to his long imprisonment in the strong room.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So be it,&rdquo; replied Sir Gilbert grimly. &ldquo;But bear this in
mind, that I know more, far more than you think I do.&rdquo; He paused, cleared
his voice and then continued. &ldquo;Luigi Rispani, you are <i>not</i> my
grandson&mdash;that I know already. But tell me this: what relation are you to
Captain Verinder, and also to the widow of my late son, John Alexander
Clare?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Captain Verinder is my great-uncle. Mrs. Clare is my aunt&mdash;my
father and she were brother and sister.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How, and with whom did the fraud originate, which led to your imposing
yourself on me as my grandson?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was all my great-uncle&rsquo;s doing. It was he who originated the
scheme, and it was he who persuaded my aunt and me to join him in carrying it
out.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;After all, then, my instinct was not at fault,&rdquo; murmured Sir
Gilbert to himself. &ldquo;It was not prejudice, but Nature&rsquo;s own
monition that bade me beware of Verinder.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You see, Sir Gilbert, this is how it was,&rdquo; went on Luigi, who now
seemed eagerly anxious to unbosom himself. &ldquo;When Mrs. Clare came to
London she knew nothing about her husband having been your son. He died in
America, and, as it would appear, without having told her anything about his
relatives in England. It was Captain Verinder who ferreted out the facts of the
case, and everything that followed was due to him. Mrs. Clare&rsquo;s only
child had died when it was a few months old, but he persuaded her that if she
were to introduce herself to you, bringing a son and heir with her, she would
have a far greater claim on your generosity, and might count upon a very
different reception at your hands, from any that would be given her as the
childless widow she really was. Of myself I can only say that I was weak enough
to be overborne by my uncle&rsquo;s persuasions, and&mdash;and that I
ultimately consented to allow myself to be passed off as your grandson.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi ceased, and for a little while no one spoke. Sir Gilbert, in an absent
way, was rubbing his eyeglasses with his pocket-handkerchief, and apparently
turning over in his mind what had just been told him. Looking up at length, he
said: &ldquo;You have been frank with me so far, or so I have reason to
believe. I hope you will not be less so in answering my next question. Tell me,
then, if you please, to what circumstances it was owing that I found you locked
up in my strong room.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi hung his head in a way he had not done before, while two spots of vivid
red flamed out on his sallow cheeks. Then, flinging up his head with a sort of
half-defiant air, he said: &ldquo;I promised to tell you the truth, Sir
Gilbert, and I will. Last night, after waiting till the clock had struck
twelve, I came here, picked the lock of your drawer, found the key of the
strong room, opened the door and went inside. My intention was to abstract
certain American bonds which I knew were there, and pass them over to my uncle
for him to dispose of.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This latter transaction, then, was one in which your uncle was also
mixed up?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was his notion entirely, that I should get possession of the bonds.
We were both cornered. Nearly all the money you gave us for travelling
purposes, had been lost at a Brussels gaming-table. We succeeded in borrowing a
hundred pounds on our joint note of hand, which will fall due about a week
hence. In order to meet it and so keep the affair from coming to your ears,
which it otherwise inevitably would do, my uncle egged me on to abstract four
of the bonds in question, the proceeds of the sale of which would have
extricated us from our predicament.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As pretty a piece of villainy as I have heard tell of for many a long
day!&rdquo; remarked Sir Gilbert. &ldquo;But you were disturbed by someone when
in the midst of your nefarious work, otherwise I should not have found you this
morning under lock and key.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi nodded, and his eyes, shifting for the first time from Sir
Gilbert&rsquo;s face, turned to Lady Pell and then to Lisle, with a look which
neither of them could fathom.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And who was that someone?&rdquo; demanded Sir Gilbert. &ldquo;Some
member of my household, as a matter of course; still, I fail to understand
why&mdash;eh, what is that you say? I did not catch your words.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The words uttered at first in little more than a whisper, were now spoken so
that all present could hear them.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was the Grey Monk who shut me up in the strong room.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap38"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.<br />
UNANSWERED QUESTIONS</h2>

<p>
Luigi Rispani&rsquo;s quietly spoken words sent a simultaneous thrill through
his three listeners.
</p>

<p>
It may be said to have been the very last answer to his question which Sir
Gilbert had expected to receive. Indeed, so disconcerted by it was he, that for
a few moments he sat like a man mentally bewildered, who has been asked to
accept a statement which his reason refuses to credit, but which he is utterly
without the means of refuting. It will be remembered that Lady Pell had already
told him of Luigi&rsquo;s strange experience that night in the spinny, besides
which, there were all those other occasions of late when the apparition was
said to have been seen by different members of the household&mdash;a body of
testimony to which, when considered in the aggregate, he could no longer refuse
to accord a certain amount of credence. There were circumstances, however,
connected with this last alleged appearance which put it on an entirely
different plane from the others, and which could be explained away by no theory
either of optics or of self-created illusions with which Sir Gilbert was
acquainted.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And do you mean deliberately to assert,&rdquo; he said at length,
addressing himself to Luigi, &ldquo;that what you have just told us with regard
to this so-called Grey Monk is the positive truth, and not an audacious attempt
on your part to smother up the real facts of the case?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is the absolute truth, Sir Gilbert, incredible though it may seem. I
had heard no sound, but all at once some instinct told me that I was no longer
alone. I turned, and by the light of my lantern saw the figure standing in the
shadow a little way back in the other room. Its face was towards me, but so
hidden by its cowl, that hardly anything could be seen of it except its long
grizzled beard. What followed, I hardly know, only that I heard the door shut
and the key turned, and realised that I was a prisoner.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I presume that neither of you spoke to the other?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not a word passed between us.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For a little while Sir Gilbert remained buried in thought. Then he said:
&ldquo;You may go for the present and remain in your own room till I send for
you. In what way I may ultimately determine to deal with you I have not yet
made up my mind.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
When Luigi&mdash;glad enough, one may be sure, to get away&mdash;had crept out
of the room with the air of a whipt cur, Sir Gilbert turned to Lisle.
&ldquo;You must get through your work without me this morning. I need scarcely
tell you that I am very much put about by this business. Preserve the notes you
have taken, and when you have an hour to spare you may write them out for me.
Perhaps I may never need them, but one cannot tell. Come, Louisa.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They went no farther than the morning-room. Lady Pell could not help seeing how
shaken Sir Gilbert was, and at her persuasion he drank a glass of sherry.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The shocking disclosures of this morning,&rdquo; he began after a few
minutes given to silent cogitation, &ldquo;require, as it seems to me, to be
considered from two very opposite points of view. On the one hand, there is the
audacious palming off upon me of a supposititious grandson and all the side
issues resulting therefrom&mdash;as to which I shall have something to say
later on. On the other hand, there is this mysterious affair of the Grey Monk,
to whose most opportune interference we seem to owe it that Captain
Verinder&rsquo;s vile scheme has suffered such a signal collapse. Now there
cannot, I think, be the slightest doubt that, let the origin of the previous
appearances have been what it may, there was nothing in the least degree
supernatural about last night&rsquo;s manifestation. That it was a being of
flesh and blood as much as you or I, to my mind admits of no question.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There I agree with you, Gilbert,&rdquo; remarked Lady Pell. &ldquo;It
was no ghost that locked up Luigi Rispani in the strong room.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And it was no ghostly hand that wrote the letter which has served so
completely to unseal my eyes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But who can this mysterious personage be, and where can he have sprung
from?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And whence and from whom did he obtain the information embodied in his
letter to me, which we now know to be absolutely true. Those are questions,
Louisa, which there seems little present probability of either you or I being
able to answer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At any rate,&rdquo; said Lady Pell with a shrug, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s far
from pleasant to know that, after everybody is in bed, the house is
perambulated by someone who, to answer some purpose of his own, chooses to
disguise himself as the family spectre. What becomes of him in the daytime? Who
supplies him with food? He would seem to be able to come and go just as he
likes, because he has mostly been seen out of doors in one part of the grounds
or another.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert shook his head. &ldquo;Mysteries all; more than that we cannot say.
But stranger than all to me is the fact that, whoever he may be, he should have
a knowledge of certain circumstances in the life of my son which only someone
intimately acquainted with him during his brief American career would be at all
likely to have. But from beginning to end the affair is altogether beyond my
comprehension.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The allegations conveyed in the letter affect Mrs. Clare most
seriously.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They do indeed. You have heard what Rispani said&mdash;that she was a
consenting party to the fraud concocted by Verinder. But her every action from
the time of her introduction to me affords incontestable proof of the fact. Oh,
it is vile&mdash;vile I could not have believed it of her. No one could have
appeared more open and straightforward than she. I had grown to like her,
Louisa&mdash;to like her very much. I shall feel the blow for many a day to
come&mdash;no, not for many, because at the most my remaining days can be but
few.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;According to the last note you had from her, Mrs. Clare may be here any
day.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Almost at any hour, unless she should choose to break her journey at
London instead of coming direct through to the Chase.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You will see her when she arrives?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It will be no more than just that I should do so. Every opportunity
shall be afforded her of refuting the charges which have been brought against
her, but that she will succeed in doing so I greatly doubt.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Again for two or three minutes he seemed lost in thought, then he went on:
&ldquo;I cannot deny that, in a certain sense, it is an immense relief to me to
find that Rispani is not my grandson. I have felt from the first, not merely
that he would fail to be a credit to the family, but that he would be nearly
sure to entail positive discredit on it, and that the unsullied name of the
Clares would be passed on by him fouled and dishonoured to whomsoever might
succeed him. Yes, I can afford to be very thankful that, being such as he is,
he is proved to be no grandson of mine. Better, far better, that the direct
line should die with me than that it should be continued in one so utterly
unworthy of the traditions of his race. But with Alec&rsquo;s widow it is
different. Rispani the impostor we have done with; he will go and trouble us no
more; but she&mdash;she will still remain my daughter-in-law; how vilely soever
she may have acted, whatever she may have been guilty of, the tie is one which
cannot be severed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;With regard to Rispani and that unscrupulous uncle of his, I suppose it
is not your intention to take proceedings against them?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would only be treating them after their deserts were I to do so. But
the affair will be productive of talk and scandal enough without that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At this juncture there came a tap at the door which was followed by the
entrance of Everard Lisle.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Luigi Rispani has just left the house, sir,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I
thought it right that you should be told as soon as possible. This note, which
he sent me by one of the servants, explains his reason for the step.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert took the note, and having adjusted his glasses, he read aloud as
follows:
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;D<small>EAR</small> L<small>ISLE</small>&mdash;After what has come to
light this morning I find I have not enough courage left to face Sir Gilbert a
second time; consequently think it best to take my departure and so save all
further bother.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As I don&rsquo;t suppose anybody will think it worth while to confiscate
my few traps, will you be good enough at your convenience to have them
forwarded by rail to the address given below.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;With reference to what passed this morning, it seems to me that my
wisest plan is to say nothing. <i>Qui s&rsquo;excuse </i>, they say, but, in my
case, it would be hopeless to attempt the first, and I have surely done enough
of the latter to satisfy anybody. At any rate, &lsquo;them&rsquo;s my
sentiments.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;Yours truly<br />
&ldquo;L. R.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What shocking flippancy in one so young!&rdquo; said Lady Pell.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let him go; it is perhaps as well,&rdquo; remarked the Baronet as he
gave the note back to Lisle. &ldquo;His doing so solves what otherwise might
have proved a difficulty to me. I think we have already got from him all the
information needful for our purpose, but should we require him at any future
time, his note will furnish us with a clue to his whereabouts.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
Luigi had stolen out of the house almost like a thief in the night&mdash;never
to cross its threshold again. So many things had happened and in so short a
time, and there was mixed up in them such an element of the inexplicable, that
he seemed to have lost control of his thoughts, which kept veering about from
one point to another unable to fix themselves on anything for more than a few
seconds at a time, and tormenting him now with one question and now with
another, to which no answer was forthcoming. Who, or what was the Grey Monk?
Were it merely a figment of the brain, an illusion of the senses, would it have
had the power, not to speak of the will, to shut the door of the strong room
upon him and turn the key? And yet to regard it as a being of flesh and blood
was to confront himself with one enigma after another and all equally
insoluble. Then again, through what channel had Sir Gilbert made the fatal
discovery that he, Luigi Rispani, was not his grandson? Evidently no suspicion
of the truth had been in his mind only a few hours before. At dinner on Sunday
Sir Gilbert had questioned him about his Continental trip, and had seemed
satisfied with his answers. The bubble had burst between ten o&rsquo;clock on
Sunday night and half past ten on Monday morning. Whose was the hand that had
wrought the mischief?
</p>

<p>
It was with a sad heart and reluctant feet that Luigi took his way towards the
hotel at Mapleford where his uncle was awaiting him. The Captain had scarcely
expected him quite so soon, deeming it likely that he would not see his way to
leave the Chase till after luncheon. The door of the sitting-room was open and
he heard his nephew asking for him below. &ldquo;Is it success, or
failure?&rdquo; he asked himself, not without a certain tingling at the nerves,
while Luigi was coming upstairs. One glance at the latter&rsquo;s face was
enough as he halted on the threshold and met his uncle&rsquo;s gaze. Failure
complete and unmistakable was written on every line of it. The Captain drew a
long breath and set his teeth hard for a moment or two. &ldquo;So,&rdquo; he
said with a sort of venomous bitterness as Luigi advanced, &ldquo;you have come
to tell me that you have made a mess of the affair! It is just what I have
dreaded all along. I was a fool to let you undertake the job. I ought to have
carried it through myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish with all my heart that you had. What I have come to tell you is
that the game&rsquo;s up!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; demanded Verinder, his lips fading to a
blue-white.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just what I say. We&rsquo;re ruined&mdash;there&rsquo;s no other word
for it. Everything is known to Sir Gilbert.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Everything is a big word.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not bigger than the occasion warrants. But perhaps you would like to
hear how it has all come about.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should indeed. But before you begin pour yourself out a thimbleful of
that brandy on the sideboard. You look as if the blood in your veins had turned
to water.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Small wonder if it has, as you will say yourself by the time I have told
you all.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
We need not follow Luigi in his narrative, nor record his uncle&rsquo;s
comments thereon. There were several points about it which puzzled the Captain,
even as they had puzzled his nephew, and for which he could find no adequate
explanation. But that in no wise affected the one overwhelming fact, that his
edifice of fraud, notwithstanding all the pains he had been at in the building
of it, had crumbled to pieces, struck down by some unseen hand, and he was far
from certain yet that it might not involve him personally in the catastrophe.
</p>

<p>
For the first and all-important question which he asked himself was, as to the
steps Sir Gilbert Clare might decide upon taking now that the nefarious plot of
which he had been made the victim was laid bare from beginning to end. Would
he, while the first flame of his resentment still burned fiercely, cause a
warrant to be issued for the arrest of one Augustus Verinder? It was a
possibility which might well cause even a man who prided himself on his nerve
to shake in his shoes, and if the Captain did not exactly do that, he was
certainly rendered excessively uncomfortable thereby. His somewhat cynical
philosophy notwithstanding, the prospect of two or three years&rsquo;
incarceration in a gaol, with all its concomitant pains and penalties, was no
more alluring to him than it is to the majority of people.
</p>

<p>
But presently a thought came to him from which he did not fail to derive a
certain measure of comfort. It would be next to impossible for Sir Gilbert to
institute proceedings against him without including his daughter-in-law in the
indictment as an accomplice, and one almost equally guilty with himself. Now it
seemed to him that the Baronet would think twice before taking so extreme a
step, seeing that whatever Giovanna might have been guilty of nothing could
alter the fact that she was a member of the Clare family; and that Sir Gilbert
would deliberately drag one of his own name through the mire of a prosecution
for fraud, seemed, considering the kind of man he was, to be scarcely
conceivable.
</p>

<p>
The Captain had just arrived at this comfortable conclusion when the current of
his thoughts was broken by an exclamation from Luigi, who, with his hands deep
in his pockets, had been staring disconsolately out of the window for some
minutes past.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If that&rsquo;s not Aunt Giovanna&rsquo;s trunk on the top of a fly
which is crawling down the street, I&rsquo;ll eat my hat! Of course it&rsquo;s
hers! I can make out her initials on it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then run downstairs; stop the cab and bring your aunt up here,&rdquo;
cried the Captain as he started to his feet.
</p>

<p>
It was indeed Giovanna, back from Italy. She had picked up her maid on her way
through London, and on arriving at Mapleford station had hired a cab to convey
her to Maylings. But she never got as far as Maylings. The fatal tidings were
told her in that room of the <i>Crown and Cushion</i> hotel.
</p>

<p>
She bore the blow very well; but she would feel the effects of it later on far
more than at the time. For the present she was simply stunned. She had had much
more at stake than either Verinder or her nephew. They had merely lost what had
never been theirs to lose. She had forfeited that which, had she not allowed
herself to be led away by Verinder&rsquo;s sophistries, would have remained
hers through life as an inalienable right&mdash;her position as daughter-in-law
to the Master of Withington Chase.
</p>

<p>
But whatever she felt all she said to the Captain was: &ldquo;I have to thank
you for this, Uncle Verinder. If you had let me go to Sir Gilbert, as I wished
to do, and tell him the truth&mdash;that my child died in infancy&mdash;he
would not have repulsed me. No, he would have acknowledged me and have made
much of me, and at his death I should not have been forgotten. But I listened
to you and have lost everything. Oh! I think we are all very rightly
punished.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap39"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.<br />
THE COUNSEL OF EXPERIENCE</h2>

<p>
There is no knowing how long Sir Gilbert Clare might have kept on expecting the
arrival of his daughter-in-law had it not been for a visit which Mrs. Tew paid
him in the course of the day following Luigi&rsquo;s departure from the Chase.
</p>

<p>
Late in the afternoon of the previous day Mrs. Clare&rsquo;s maid had arrived
at Maylings in a cab, bringing with her a note from her mistress, in which the
canon&rsquo;s widow was informed that although the writer had returned from
Italy it was not her present intention to again take up her abode in the house
which Sir Gilbert Clare had so generously placed at her disposal. Would Mrs.
Tew, therefore, be at the trouble to hand over to her maid whatever personal
belongings she had left behind when she went abroad&mdash;a request with which
that lady had at once complied. In answer to her questions the maid could tell
her nothing, except that the fly in which she and her mistress were being
conveyed from the railway station had been met and stopped by Mr. Lewis Clare;
that Mrs. Clare had thereupon alighted and had accompanied him into the
<i>Crown and Cushion</i> hotel (at a window of which she, Lucille, had caught a
glimpse of Captain Verinder), and that she was still there, awaiting
Lucille&rsquo;s return from Maylings.
</p>

<p>
From all this it was clear to Sir Gilbert that he need no longer expect the
coming of his daughter-in-law. She had been intercepted by Rispani and
Verinder, had been told of what had come to light during her absence, and, like
her nephew, had preferred an ignominious flight to facing the man she had so
bitterly wronged. Evidently she had no plea to urge in extenuation of what she
had done. There was nothing for it but to accept her guilt as proved, and to
try to forget that any such person had ever intruded her presence upon him.
</p>

<p>
As we have seen, Lady Pell had long ago penetrated Everard Lisle&rsquo;s love
secret, and of late certain signs which, to any eyes less experienced than
hers, would have passed unnoted, seemed to indicate that the time had come when
he need no longer delay his confession, but might with some measure of
confidence ask for that which she felt nearly sure would not be denied him.
Many were the opportunities she contrived for throwing the young people
together, but day after day went by and the all-important question still
remained unasked. At length she began to lose patience with Lisle. &ldquo;Who
would have dreamt that so much timidity lay at the back of that confident
bearing and resolute face? Oh, to be a man and afraid of a girl&rsquo;s No!
Your laggard courage evidently needs whipping up, my good sir, and mine shall
be the hand to do it!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
On the Saturday she said to Sir Gilbert: &ldquo;I have several times promised
myself a visit to the ruins of Dunarvon Castle, but something has always
intervened. Now, however, I will put it off no longer, or the last of the fine
weather will be gone. You placed the wagonette at my disposal whenever I might
choose to avail myself of it, so I shall take Miss Thursby and Mrs. Tew with
me, and, as we can&rsquo;t very well dispense with the services of a gentleman
on such an occasion, I want you to spare me Mr. Lisle for the whole of
Monday.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly, Louisa. Utilise his services in whatever way may seem best to
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am quite aware that it is not a bit of use asking you to join our
little party.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not the slightest use, Louisa. As you are aware, I never go
anywhere.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t help saying, Gilbert, that it would be better for you in
many ways if you did go somewhere. A man in your position, and with your
duties, has no business to make a recluse of himself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t dispute your dictum, only, as it happens, we are not all
made after the same pattern. Several years ago the world had become such a
tiresome place to me that henceforward I determined to see as little of it as
possible. It may have been a weak resolve to come to, but, such as it was, I
have kept it, and I am afraid that now I am far too old to change.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Everard Lisle could almost have gone down on his knees to Lady Pell when told
of the good fortune in store for him. He had already been to Dunarvon and knew
of the lovely woodland walks by which the ruins were surrounded, and that he
and Ethel should be able to spend a whole autumn afternoon among them seemed
almost too much happiness to be possible. That Lady Pell would afford them
ample opportunities for wandering away by their two selves he did not doubt.
What if he were to seize the occasion to break the rule of silence he had
hitherto imposed on himself, and try for the second time to win where he had
failed once already? Well, he would be guided by circumstances. Should a
propitious moment offer itself, he would not let it slip, but if not, then
would he wait a little longer.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert in person saw them off. This morning, or so it seemed to her
ladyship, he looked more cheerful and in better spirits than she had seen him
in since the affair of the strong-room, now a week ago. &ldquo;He will get over
the worst of it in time, as we do with all our troubles,&rdquo; she told
herself: &ldquo;only, he will carry the scar of it to his dying day.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A drive of a dozen miles brought our little party to their destination,
whereupon Lady Pell issued her instructions. The first thing to do was to
explore the ruins under the conduct of the authorised guide.
</p>

<p>
After that would come luncheon in a room in the custodian&rsquo;s cottage,
which was frequently utilised for that purpose. They had brought their own
hamper of good things with them, and their own man to wait upon them. After
which it would be time enough to decide how the rest of the day should be
spent.
</p>

<p>
At the end of an hour, having seen all there was to be seen, Lady Pell paid and
dismissed the guide; then, in an aside to Mrs. Tew, she said: &ldquo;I want you
to engage Miss Thursby for a few minutes while I have a little private talk
with Mr. Lisle.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The canon&rsquo;s widow nodded, and presently the young people found themselves
drawn apart, to all appearance in a quite fortuitous way.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If it won&rsquo;t be troubling you too much, Mr. Lisle,&rdquo; said Lady
Pell, &ldquo;I think I should like to take another peep at that old dungeon
about which the guide told us that gruesome legend. Such places have a peculiar
but quite absurd fascination for me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Having taken a second peep into the dungeon, her ladyship led the way up the
winding stairs which brought them out on the leads of the keep. &ldquo;Now that
we have got rid of that tiresome guide, one can enjoy the view and be left to
find out its most interesting features for oneself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lisle did not answer; he was wondering what had become of Ethel and why they
couldn&rsquo;t all four be enjoying the view from the keep.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If I had known that Dunarvon was half as picturesque as it is,&rdquo;
said Lady Pell presently, &ldquo;I would certainly have got Miss Thursby to
bring her drawing materials with her. There are charming sketches to be made
from half-a-dozen different points of view.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Would it not be possible to come to Dunarvon on some future day and
rectify the omission?&rdquo; queried Everard with the most innocent air
imaginable.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Come again another day? Impossible!&rdquo; cried her ladyship. &ldquo;My
time at the Chase is nearly up. A few more days, and Miss Thursby and I will be
winging our flight elsewhere. And high time too, in my opinion.&rdquo; She was
looking full at Lisle, and he felt himself colouring under her regard.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why do you say&mdash;&lsquo;and high time too,&rsquo; Lady Pell?
I&mdash;I fail to understand you.&rdquo; It was many a year since his cheeks
had burnt as hotly as they did at that moment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should have thought my words were plain enough to be understood by
anybody. However, since it seems that nothing else will do, I will deal with
you still more plainly.&rdquo; Laying a hand for a moment on his sleeve, she
said: &ldquo;Everard Lisle, you are in love with Ethel Thursby&mdash;and small
blame to you either! Ah! you needn&rsquo;t start. I&rsquo;ve known it all
along. Of course you thought, as most of your sex do in such cases, that nobody
could see what was the matter with you; whereas to me&mdash;not that I set
myself up as being cleverer than other people&mdash;it was as plain as a
pikestaff. Very well. Perceiving what ailed you, I went out of my way to make
opportunities for you to be together, and indeed, in a quiet way, did all I
could to help you. And with what result, pray? Simply none at all. Week after
week has gone by, and here you are, to all seeming, not a bit nearer what you
are dying to possess than you were when I arrived at Withington Chase. I am
disappointed in you, Everard Lisle.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Her ladyship&rsquo;s somewhat lengthy diatribe had afforded Everard time to
recover his self-possession. &ldquo;Lady Pell,&rdquo; he returned with some
emotion, &ldquo;that in you I have all along had a friend I have felt assured
in my own mind, but I must confess I did not think that the feelings with which
I regard Miss Thursby had betrayed themselves so plainly on the surface as they
seem to have done. However, you have surprised my secret, and I am confident it
could not be in better keeping. You deem me dilatory, in that I have so long
delayed putting my fortune to the touch; but there is one circumstance I may be
permitted to urge in extenuation of which I feel assured you have no knowledge.
Six months ago I proposed to Miss Thursby and was rejected. Can you wonder,
then, if I hesitate and seem to shilly-shally before venturing to run the same
risk again?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is something which I never so much as suspected,&rdquo; replied her
ladyship. &ldquo;Yes, that certainly puts a somewhat different complexion on
the affair. But I would not let myself be too much discouraged by it if I were
you, Mr. Lisle.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think I let it discourage me overmuch,&rdquo; said Everard
with a smile. &ldquo;Only, as I said before, it lies at the back of my apparent
hesitation.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then take the advice of an old woman who has seen something of the
world, and hesitate no longer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah! then you think I have a chance of success?&rdquo; exclaimed Lisle
with a sudden glow which seemed to irradiate him from head to foot. &ldquo;You
have seen something&mdash;you know something?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not quite so fast, my young friend, if you please,&rdquo; said her
ladyship in her dryest accents. &ldquo;I know nothing&mdash;absolutely nothing.
No whisper in connection with yourself and her has ever passed Miss
Thursby&rsquo;s lips to me. As for what I have seen, or may have fancied I have
seen, that is a matter of no moment and concerns no one but myself. Still, I
say to you as I said before: were I in your place I should hesitate no longer.
Are you prepared to seize the first occasion that offers itself?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;After what has passed between us, I should indeed be a coward not to do
so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very well then, the needful opportunity shall be given you after
luncheon this afternoon.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap40"></a>CHAPTER XL.<br />
&ldquo;LOVE TOOK UP THE HARP OF LIFE&rdquo;</h2>

<p>
Everard Lisle seemed to tread on air as he walked beside Lady Pell to the
custodian&rsquo;s cottage, where they found Mrs. Tew and Ethel awaiting them.
Luncheon was ready and they at once sat down to it. They made a very merry
little party, Everard in especial being in the gayest of spirits.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, what I should recommend you young people to do,&rdquo; said her
ladyship by-and-by, &ldquo;is to go in search of the Haunted Pool, about which
the guide was telling us this morning. He said it was not above a mile away,
and, in any case, the woods themselves are most lovely just now. As for Mrs.
Tew and I, we shall have a couple of comfortable chairs taken out into the
shade of yonder oak, and there have a quiet gossip to ourselves. And
don&rsquo;t forget that tea will be ready at five o&rsquo;clock to the
minute.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
We may be sure that Lisle and Ethel were by no means loth to carry out her
ladyship&rsquo;s behest, and presently they were lost to view among the green
shadows of the wood. Lady Pell gazed after them with a well-satisfied smile,
but it was with a sigh that the canon&rsquo;s widow followed their retreating
figures. &ldquo;Oh, to be young again and in love!&rdquo; she said, hardly
witting that she spoke aloud.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And have all the troubled record of our lives to go through
again,&rdquo; said her ladyship. &ldquo;For my part no such desire ever enters
my mind. All things considered, I&rsquo;m pretty well content to be as I
am.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Perhaps for the moment she failed to remember that her life had many
compensations denied to poor Mrs. Tew.
</p>

<p>
It was one of those lovely October days which make a golden bridge between
summer and winter. The woods were clothed with their richest garments&mdash;a
kaleidoscope of gorgeous tints, albeit the vesture of decay; The dry leaves
rustled under their feet, and little splashes of colour kept dropping round
them as they went. Here and there a rabbit peered cautiously at them for a
moment, showed a flash of white and was gone. Somewhere out of sight a robin
was fluting a monody to the dying year. They walked on for some time in
silence; Everard seemed to have left all his gaiety behind him. There was
something about his changing moods to-day which Ethel failed to understand. She
had known all along that his love had never altered or varied in the slightest,
and of late her own heart had whispered its secret to her in accents she could
no longer mistake. More than once during the last few weeks she had felt nearly
sure Everard was on the point of saying that which, almost unknown to herself,
she was secretly longing to hear; but the propitious moment had gone by and he
had not spoken, and not improbably it was the vague sense of disappointment
that had crept over her at such times which had first served to open her eyes
to the truth as regarded herself.
</p>

<p>
But somehow to-day she had no prevision of what was so imminent. Not even now
that she had come with him for a solitary woodland ramble. For that day at
least he seemed to have absolved himself from all serious thoughts, from all
matters of moment, and to be transformed for the time into the similitude of a
laughing, light-hearted school-boy. She could not know&mdash;how should
she&mdash;that it was her presence, that it was the privilege of being able to
spend several consecutive hours in her sweet company, which had thus had power
to metamorphose him almost beyond his knowledge of himself.
</p>

<p>
From the summit of the keep he had caught a silvery gleam of water in a hollow
no great distance away. It was probably the Haunted Pool, about which the guide
had told them, and lay darkling in its forest hollow, with a fringe of
bulrushes, and outside that a margin of soft turf that was pleasant to the
feet. For all it had the name of being haunted, there was nothing weird or
uncanny about the place, but rather an air of sweet solitariness as though of
one of Nature&rsquo;s temples, sacred to the shy creatures of the wood, upon
which for any human foot to intrude was to break some mystic spell.
</p>

<p>
For a few moments Lisle and Ethel stood drinking in the silent beauty of the
scene. Then said Everard,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Suppose we rest here awhile, &lsquo;the world forgetting, by the world
forgot.&rsquo;&rdquo; Speaking thus he led the way to the trunk of a tree,
blown down in some tempest years before, which had been left unheeded where it
had fallen.
</p>

<p>
And now at length had come the moment so long looked forward to, so long
delayed, so long regarded with apprehension, but now at last seized on with a
gladness which he himself felt to be closely allied to audacity. For events
might yet make a mockery of his gladness and prove it to have no better
foundation than a certain oracular utterance on the part of an old lady who
believed herself possessed of a gift for seeing farther into a millstone than
her neighbours. All this might come to pass of course, and yet he was not at
all dismayed. To-day he felt lifted above the common world. For the time he
breathed &ldquo;an ampler ether, a diviner air.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Nevertheless, it was in very commonplace terms that he began what he had to
say.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you know, Lady Pell quite startled me as she and I were standing
together on the keep before luncheon.&rdquo; He was not looking at Ethel, but
leaning forward and punching holes in the turf with the ferrule of his
walking-stick.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should have thought your nerves proof against anything Lady Pell might
have to say to you,&rdquo; answered Ethel smilingly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She gave me to understand that her stay at the Chase was drawing to a
close, and that in a very little while she and you would be winging your flight
elsewhere.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There was a moment&rsquo;s silence, and then Ethel said: &ldquo;It was a very
natural announcement, and I cannot see what there was in it to startle
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is because you look at it from one point of view, and I from
another. To you it means fresh faces and other scenes&mdash;in short, a change,
probably more or less welcome after the quiet and monotony of existence at
Withington Chase.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He paused. Ethel was quite aware that he was waiting for her to say: &ldquo;And
from your point of view what does it mean?&rdquo; By this she needed no one to
tell her what his reply would be. Everything had been revealed to her as in a
flash, and she marvelled at her blindness. And now the point for her to decide,
and that on the instant, was whether she should, or should not, ask him that
simple-seeming question, which she felt would but be the precursor to one of
infinitely more significance on his part, from answering which there would be
no possible escape for her. And in what terms was she prepared to answer it?
Her heart-throbs seemed to deafen her and her mind was torn by a conflict of
emotions, among which, however, one claimed predominance over the others. She
knew and owned to herself that she loved him. Then in the silence a voice
spoke. &ldquo;And from your point of view, Mr. Lisle, what does Lady
Pell&rsquo;s announcement mean?&rdquo; It was as though some force within her
had compelled her to put the question in her own despite.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It means,&rdquo; began Everard, and he paused for an instant as if his
breath had suddenly failed him&mdash;&ldquo;it means more, far more than I
could tell you in many words.&rdquo; Neither of them had been looking at each
other, but Lisle now left off his employment of punching holes in the turf, and
drawing himself up, he turned on Ethel a face all aglow with the emotion of the
moment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When you quit the Chase,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;I shall lose that
which to me is the most precious object on earth, and who shall say whether I
shall ever find it again? Ethel, on that April day which now seems so long ago
that I could fancy it pertained to some prior state of existence, I told you
that I loved you, and asked you to become my wife. Your answer was, that you
had no love to give me, and that you could never marry me. I took my dismissal
and went&mdash;indeed, there was nothing else left me to do&mdash;not knowing
whether I should ever see you again. Then, when, one morning, months
afterwards, I came suddenly upon you in one of the garden-paths at the Chase,
it seemed as if the gates of Paradise must have opened, and that you had come
down its golden stairs to meet me face to face. And the same instant my love
for you, which I had locked up in the innermost chamber of my heart as a
priceless treasure once more flooded all my being with a rapture of hope.
Ethel, that hope has not yet deserted me. If I have not spoken before, it has
been because I feared to startle you, because I trembled lest my audacity might
be the cause of my losing what I possessed already&mdash;your
friendship&mdash;and yet give me nothing in return. But now the day of timid
counsels is over, and at the risk of losing everything I cast silence to the
winds. You <i>must</i> hear me, you <i>must</i> know all, let your sentence be
what it may.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He poured forth the words with a fervour with which few who knew him would have
credited the ordinarily quiet, self-contained and somewhat self-repressed
Everard Lisle. They were both still seated on the trunk of the fallen tree, and
he now drew a little closer to Ethel, who, all this time, had been gazing
straight before her with a strangely rapt expression on her face.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So now again to-day,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;I am going to ask you the
self-same question that I asked you on your birthday&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Stay! Do not speak another word till you have heard what I have to
say.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She had turned and was facing him, the delicate roses of her cheeks somewhat
blanched, but her eyes shining clear and full like twin stars of morning. There
was that in the way she spoke which compelled attention. Everard was struck
dumb. Man though he was, his heart fluttered like a frightened bird. What was
he about to be told? That he was too late?&mdash;that some rival had been
beforehand with him? Where was all his happy confidence now? It seemed to him
as if his face had turned grey and old. A shiver went through him from head to
foot.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said Ethel, &ldquo;let us walk awhile. I have much to tell
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She rose, and, like an automaton, he did the same. They turned and, side by
side, began to pace the turfy margin of the pool. Ethel did not at once break
the silence. Many emotions were at work within her, and she wanted to assure
herself that she had them well under control before she spoke again.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mine is a strange story, Mr. Lisle, as you will at once admit when I
have told it you. You know me, and the world knows me, by the name of Ethel
Thursby, but that is not my real name. What that is no one knows. Neither does
anyone know who were my parents, where I was born, nor, indeed, who I am at
all.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Therewith she went on to tell him all those facts in connection with her early
history with which the reader is already familiar, beginning with the tragic
death of the woman who had passed herself off as her mother on board the
<i>Pandora</i>, leading up through their adoption of her as their niece by the
two Miss Thursbys, to her discovery of the truth as told her in Matthew
Thursby&rsquo;s letter on her nineteenth birthday.
</p>

<p>
It was with growing wonder and interest that Lisle listened to her as, step by
step, she unfolded the details of her story.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hope you do not for a moment imagine that all this which you have just
told me can make a shadow&rsquo;s difference in my love for you,&rdquo; he
eagerly began almost before the last words had left her lips.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I have still another confession to make,&rdquo; she said, breathing
the words, as it were, on the wings of a sigh. &ldquo;Let me finish, please,
before you say anything more.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then came the confession which the truth that dwelt in her forced from her
lips, although it was like tearing her heart to have to make it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Lisle, I have been engaged once already.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah!&rdquo;&mdash;with a swift indrawing of his breath. It was
undoubtedly a stab.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I was young, inexperienced, romantic,&rdquo; resumed Ethel, not allowing
herself to notice his exclamation. &ldquo;He was good-looking and plausible,
and he persuaded me into fancying that I loved him, and after a time we became
engaged. But, indeed, it was all a foolish fancy, for in my heart I never
really cared for him. Fortunately I discovered the sort of man he was before it
was too late. He had sought me in the belief that I was an heiress, and when he
found I was nothing of the kind, his only thought was in what way he could most
readily break with me. But no such action on his part was called for, for
meanwhile it had come to my knowledge that he was already engaged to someone
else, to whom he had behaved with a baseness and a heartlessness which seem
almost beyond belief. From that moment all was at an end between us. I felt
like a prisoner when his fetters are struck off and he is told that he is free.
How deep was my thankfulness that my eyes had been mercifully opened in time, I
alone can ever know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lisle had listened like one devouring her every word, but even before she had
come to an end he drew a deep breath of relief. Whomsoever this man might be,
she had never really cared for him, her heart had never been touched, he had
her own assurance to that effect, and for him, Everard Lisle, that was enough.
It was merely one of those lessons of experience which, in one shape or
another, we all of us have to learn, only she happily had been spared those
bitter consequences which so many of us are called upon to drain to the lees.
</p>

<p>
If, as a lesson, it served no other purpose, it would at least teach her to
discern and appreciate the difference between a spurious love and one that was
rooted in the heart&rsquo;s inmost core.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Since you have chosen to tell me these things,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I
can but accept and value them as so many proofs of your confidence, but they
weigh with me not so much as the lightest snowflake. They have not moved me by
a single hair-breadth from the ground I stood on before, and now, at last, you
must listen to what else I have to say. You have no longer any excuse for not
doing so. Ethel, answer me once again the question I put to you on your
birthday, only this time&mdash;this time&mdash;let your answer be a different
one! Will you be my wife?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They had come to a halt&mdash;why, neither of them could have told&mdash;and
somehow both her hands found themselves imprisoned in his She did not try to
release them, but her face was still averted and the marble of her neck and
throat was flushed with tenderest rose.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Speak, dearest&mdash;have you not one word for me?&rdquo; he pleaded.
</p>

<p>
Then she turned upon him two darkly shining eyes which seemed the
dwelling-place of that great mystery whose other name is love.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And can you,&rdquo; she said, each syllable punctuated by a
heart-throb&mdash;&ldquo;nay, is it even possible, after what I have just told
you, that you should still care for one who is nothing more than a
waif&mdash;who as a wife would come to you parentless, nameless, dowerless?
Consider. Take time to think. Do not answer me now, unless&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do not answer you now!&rdquo; broke in Everard impetuously. &ldquo;When
then should I answer you? Oh, my love&mdash;my love&mdash;how little you know
me! This is my one and only answer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
An instant later she was locked in his arms.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap41"></a>CHAPTER XLI.<br />
SIR GILBERT&rsquo;S STRANGE EXPERIENCE</h2>

<p>
It was considerably past five o&rsquo;clock before our lovers found themselves
back at the cottage, where Lady Pell and Mrs. Tew were awaiting their arrival
in order to have tea brought in. When it was over Lady Pell drew Ethel aside.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, my dear, and so he has summoned up courage to speak it
last,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I have seen what was coming for a long time, but
I certainly thought him somewhat dilatory in bringing matters to a climax.
However, all&rsquo;s well that ends well. I congratulate you most heartily. I
approve your choice, and so I am sure, will Sir Gilbert when I tell him.
Don&rsquo;t say anything now. You and I will have a long talk together in the
morning.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then while the horses were being brought round, she contrived to have a few
words with Everard.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So you have taken an old woman&rsquo;s advice, I find. Of one thing I am
quite sure, that you will never have cause to repent having done so. You are a
fortunate fellow. You have secured a treasure. Indeed, I&rsquo;m far from sure
that she&rsquo;s not a long way too good for you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There I quite agree with you, Lady Pell. Where, indeed, should we find a
man worthy of her? But is not that a very good reason why Miss Thursby should
have condescended to accept me? We should always try to improve our
fellow-creatures where improvement is needed. And that in my case she will find
ample scope for her efforts, no one knows better than myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He spoke gravely enough, but there was a lurking smile in his eyes which Lady
Pell did not fail to note.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You men have quite a wonderful gift for preaching one doctrine before
marriage and its exact opposite after. <i>Then</i> you discover that it is
yourselves who are perfection and your poor wives who are deficient in this,
that or the other quality which you never seemed to take account of before. But
it has always been so, and I suppose it always will be.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She was on the point of turning away.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;One moment, Lady Pell,&rdquo; said Everard. &ldquo;I have not yet told
you how deeply grateful I am for the advice you gave me this morning. To that,
in a great measure, I owe my present happiness. It gave me just the impulse I
needed; it was the spur to urge me forward on the road I ought to go. My
sincerest thanks will be yours to the last day of my life.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He was earnest enough now, there could be no mistake on that score.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Wait till you have been floundering in the quicksands of matrimony for
half-a-dozen years and then maybe you will tell a different tale,&rdquo;
laughed Lady Pell.
</p>

<p>
Evening had closed in by the time our party reached the Chase. It was Trant in
person, and not one of the footmen, who opened the door for them. He was
evidently perturbed; so much so, in fact, that the knot of his white tie had
worked itself round under his left ear without his being aware of it. Lady Pell
saw at a glance that something was amiss. &ldquo;What is it, Trant,&rdquo; she
asked quickly. &ldquo;Sir Gilbert&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo; Something rose in her
throat, but her eyes asked the question her lips refused to finish.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sir Gilbert, my lady, is not very well; nothing to be frightened at, if
I may take the liberty of saying so,&rdquo; he made haste to add. &ldquo;If
your ladyship will allow me,&rdquo; he went on in a lower voice, &ldquo;I
should like to tell you what I know of the affair before you see Sir
Gilbert.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell at once led the way to the anteroom. The butler opened the door,
bowed her in and followed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All morning Sir Gilbert was shut up in his study as usual,&rdquo; began
Trant. &ldquo;At luncheon his appetite was very poor, but he seemed tolerably
cheerful. At six o&rsquo;clock, after I had taken him a glass of Madeira and a
biscuit, he went into the hall, put on his soft hat, lighted a cigar and went
for a stroll on the terrace, and about half-an-hour later, happening to look
through the dining-room window, I saw him going slowly down the steps towards
the lower grounds. By this the evening was getting quite dusky. It might have
been a quarter of an hour, or twenty minutes later, when I heard the library
bell rung sharply. I hurried in and found Sir Gilbert lying back in his
easy-chair, looking quite dazed like&mdash;in fact, for half a minute or more
he stared at me as if he didn&rsquo;t know who I was. &lsquo;You rang,
sir,&rsquo; says I. &lsquo;Eh?&rsquo; says he. &lsquo;Did I ring, Trant? I
don&rsquo;t remember ringing. And I don&rsquo;t remember how I got here. How
did I get here, Trant?&rsquo; shutting his eyes and pressing his hand to his
forehead as if trying to bring back something he had forgotten.
&lsquo;Don&rsquo;t know at all, sir,&rsquo; says I. &lsquo;The bell rang and I
answered it.&rsquo; &lsquo;It&rsquo;s very strange, and I can&rsquo;t make it
out at all,&rsquo; says he. &lsquo;Be good enough to shut that window, and then
bring me a little brandy in a liqueur glass; and, Trant, let me know when the
ladies get back from their excursion.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell had listened with growing impatience to the butler&rsquo;s somewhat
long-winded narrative. &ldquo;Thank you, Trant; I am much obliged to you for
telling me this,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You need not trouble to inform Sir
Gilbert that I have returned. I will go to him at once. By-the-way, did you
hint anything to Sir Gilbert about sending for a doctor?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would have been as much as my place is worth,&rdquo; replied the
butler with a solemn shake of the head. &ldquo;And I shall be much obliged by
your ladyship not saying anything about my having spoken to you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A fire had been lighted in the library, for the autumn evenings were chilly,
and Lady Pell found Sir Gilbert seated by it and looking much as usual. There
was a small table, with a lamp on it, near his elbow, and the <i>Times</i>
newspaper was spread open on his knees.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So you have got back safe and sound,&rdquo; he said in his most cheerful
tones as she went forward. &ldquo;Well, you have had a charming day and I hope
you have enjoyed yourselves.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, most thoroughly. Didn&rsquo;t you find the house a little lonely
without us?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed I did&mdash;both lonely and dull. Dinner, I may tell you, is
ordered for an hour later than usual; I felt sure you would come back famished
after your long drive.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And so we have; but you are not yet dressed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No&mdash;the fact is, I must ask you to excuse me at table to-day, I am
slightly out of sorts and don&rsquo;t feel in the mood for company. Perhaps,
later on, I may be inclined for a little music. Meanwhile, Trant will not fail
to look after me. And now I won&rsquo;t detain you a moment longer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I shall come and look you up again as soon as dinner is
over.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do so. By that time I may possibly have something to tell you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell scarcely waited for dinner to come to an end before she was back in
the library. At the door she met Trant bringing out a tray containing the
remains of Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s apology for a dinner. &ldquo;Master seems
better, much better, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; he whispered as he passed her. Then
she entered, seated herself comfortably near the fire, settled her glasses on
her nose, deposited her ball of worsted on the hearthrug at her feet, and gave
a preliminary click with her needles.
</p>

<p>
The Baronet sat gazing into the fire for a little space; then he cleared his
voice and said: &ldquo;Louisa, I have been the subject of a very strange
experience to-day.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed, cousin?&rdquo; responded her ladyship, in just that tone of
sympathetic surprise which indicated that she was fully in touch with him.
&ldquo;But it is not the first strange experience you have had of late.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No indeed,&rdquo; with a sigh. &ldquo;But I will tell you all about it.
Perhaps you may be able to suggest an explanation where I confess that at
present I see none. Feeling somewhat lonely as the day wore on&mdash;so used
have I become of late to seeing faces round me&mdash;and it being still too
early to have the lamps lighted, I took a cigar, and having put on my hat and
coat, went out for a stroll in the grounds. At first I confined myself to the
terrace, but finding the air there rather chilly, after a time I went down the
steps and began to pace the sheltered paths of the shrubbery on the lower
level. I had finished my cigar&mdash;I am a very slow smoker&mdash;and in the
shrubbery it had grown almost dark before I turned to go indoors. I was
crossing that piece of sward on my way to the terrace steps, when I was seized
with a sudden giddiness. Everything seemed to go round with me. Stumbling
forward a step or two with outstretched hands, my knees gave way under me and I
sank, rather than fell, forward on the turf and lost consciousness. When I came
in some measure to myself, which must have been after a very few moments, I had
a sense of being borne swiftly along in a pair of strong arms. Then, I could
tell by the change of atmosphere that I was indoors, and a moment later I felt
myself being laid gently down, while the arms that had carried me were
withdrawn. And then&mdash;perhaps you will scarcely credit it&mdash;I seemed to
feel a kiss pressed on my forehead&mdash;yes, on mine, the forehead of an old
man of seventy-four! On the instant I opened my eyes, and there, clearly
outlined by the flame of the burning logs on the hearth, I saw bending over
me&mdash;whom or what think you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Thus directly appealed to, Lady Pell simply arched her eyebrows and shook her
head as one wholly at a loss for an answer. In the interest excited by her
kinsman&rsquo;s narrative her hands, still holding her needles, lay idle on her
lap.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A robed and cowled figure,&rdquo; returned Sir Gilbert, &ldquo;of whom I
could discern little save its long grizzled beard.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The Grey Monk!&rdquo; ejaculated her ladyship in a whisper, touched for
once with unaccustomed awe.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert bowed his head in grave assent.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap42"></a>CHAPTER XLII.<br />
SIR GILBERT&rsquo;S THEORY</h2>

<p>
Lady Pell sat looking at her kinsman for a little while in silence, waiting for
him to resume his narrative, and it was not till she perceived that he had
become oblivious of her presence and was on the point of lapsing into one of
his brown studies, that she spoke.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what happened after that, cousin?&rdquo; she asked, &ldquo;that is
to say, after you discovered that you had been brought indoors by the Grey
Monk?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert, who came to himself with a little start when she began to speak,
said: &ldquo;I have no distinct consciousness of anything that followed till I
found Trant standing over me, looking half scared out of his wits, and can only
suppose that I must have fainted again. But that, although only for a space of
two or three seconds, my eyes beheld a robed and cowled figure, I am as
positive as that they behold you at this moment. That it was no hallucination,
no piece of visual cheatery, I am firmly convinced.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Some people, in Lady Pell&rsquo;s place, might have said to Sir Gilbert:
&ldquo;Yet, when others professed to have seen the Grey Monk, you treated their
assertions with contempt, and would have it that they were the victims of a
self-created illusion.&rdquo; But Lady Pell was too wise to venture any such
observation. What she said was: &ldquo;If you have told me this, cousin, with
any idea that I might perhaps be able to furnish you with even a hint of some
clue to the mystery, I must at once confess that your expectation has been
wholly in vain. You yourself cannot possibly be more puzzled than I am.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hardly expected to hear you say otherwise,&rdquo; he remarked with a
half sigh; and with that he again subsided into silence.
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell resumed her knitting, only to let her hands fall idle again at the
end of a couple of minutes, while wholly unaware that she had done so.
</p>

<p>
Nothing was heard save the monotonous ticking of the clock on the chimney-piece
and the hissing and sputtering of the half-burnt logs on the hearth.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Louisa,&rdquo; spoke the Baronet suddenly in a voice which brought her
ladyship back with a start from the land of visions in which she had been
mentally wandering&mdash;&ldquo;Louisa, for the last hour or more a very
singular idea has intruded itself persistently upon me; it is one which I have
striven in vain to get rid of; indeed, so strongly does it hold me that it has
almost assumed the proportions of an absolute conviction. It is&mdash;that if
the cowl of the Grey Monk, who for weeks past has, so to speak, haunted the
Chase, could be plucked back, there would stand revealed the features of none
other than my eldest-born&mdash;my son so long believed to be dead&mdash;my
hardly dealt-by Alec!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Goodness gracious! Cousin Gilbert, whatever made you get that notion
into your head?&rdquo; Lady Pell was staring at him as if she already detected
symptoms of brain disease.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It came into my mind, Louisa; I didn&rsquo;t put it there, and it
refuses to be dislodged. But what if Alec be not really dead? What if the
report that he was killed by that explosion was based on some error to which we
have not the key? You remember the letter, written in an evidently disguised
hand, which was found on my study table together with the key of the strong
room?&rdquo; Lady Pell nodded assent. &ldquo;Who but Alec would have been in
the position to point out the fact that the child&mdash;his child&mdash;who had
died in infancy, was not a boy, but a girl? Who but Alec&mdash;my
Alec&mdash;would have cared to press a kiss on an old man&rsquo;s brow?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There is certainly some feasibility in what you say,&rdquo; remarked her
ladyship; &ldquo;but if Alec were still alive he would surely have made the
fact known to you long before now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You forget that he was a banished man&mdash;that it was a condition of
the agreement between us that he should never set foot in England till he had
my permission to do so. Heaven knows, permission would have been given long
ago, because long ago all his early faults and follies were condoned and
forgiven, had the faintest suspicion that he was still among the living ever
found lodgment in my mind!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Even granting your assumption that Alec is still alive (and with all my
heart I pray he may be), by what possible motive could he be influenced in
coming back to the Chase and allowing himself to be seen by several people
under the guise of the family spectre?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, now you ask me a question which it is impossible to answer with any
degree of certitude. Perhaps it had somehow come to his ears that I had adopted
an impostor as my heir. In any case, I care not what may have been the motive
which brought him back, if only it were he whose arms I felt about me three
short hours ago. I am alone in the world, Louisa, alone and old. I have just
been made the victim of a most shameful fraud, and if only, by some miracle, my
eldest-born could be restored to me, I should feel that the remnant of my days
had indeed been blessed to me far beyond my deserts!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Have you thought of any plan yet by which your theory can be tested and
the mystery of the Grey Monk elucidated?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not yet&mdash;not yet. But I generally lie awake for several hours in
the course of the night, and I shall have time to turn the matter over in my
mind before morning.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
That evening Sir Gilbert did not make his appearance in the drawing-room, but
retired at an earlier hour than usual, to fall asleep almost immediately, but
only to awake at the end of three hours and remain so till daybreak. During
that wakeful period he formulated a certain theory in his mind which he
determined to put to the proof immediately after breakfast.
</p>

<p>
The theory thus worked out by him, briefly stated, was to the following
purport:
</p>

<p>
Some month or more had now gone by since the Grey Monk had so startled Bessie
Ogden one evening on the terrace. So far as was known, that was the
apparition&rsquo;s first appearance for upwards of twenty years. Now, it was
quite evident to Sir Gilbert that if his son had been haunting the place for
several weeks, it could only have been with the knowledge and connivance of one
or more members of his household. How otherwise could Alec&mdash;supposing
always that it were Alec&mdash;have been supplied with food and lodging? How
else could he have had the run of the house at midnight, as the incident of the
strong room proved him to have had? Now, Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s oldest dependent,
and indeed the only one left whose memory could go back to so far a period;
one, too, whose company had been much sought after by Alec as a youth, was
Martin Rigg, the ex-keeper. Martin, who was now over sixty years old, had long
been superannuated. Owing to a gunshot wound in his leg, the outcome of a
poaching affray, he was a permanent cripple. He and his widowed daughter were
now quartered in the old Tower, of which mention was made in the early part of
this narrative as being the only remaining portion of the original Chase, the
semi-ruinous rooms of which had been specially renovated and fitted up for
their occupancy by Sir Gilbert.
</p>

<p>
Linking one thing with another in his memory, the Baronet, by the time he
arose, had come to the conclusion that if anybody was more likely than another
to be cognisant of his son&rsquo;s presence at the Chase, that person was
Martin Rigg.
</p>

<p>
He breakfasted in his own room, but in order to relieve the anxiety which he
knew Lady Pell would feel on his account, he wrote her a brief note and sent it
by Trant, in which he told her that, this morning, he felt quite as well as he
usually did, that he had a little special business to transact in the course of
the forenoon, but that he would not fail to meet her at luncheon. Then after
breakfast, he left the house by the back entrance and took his way through the
spinny in the direction of the Tower.
</p>

<p>
Even at his slow rate of progression, a few minutes&rsquo; walking brought him
to it. Grey and stern as he always remembered it, it loomed before him with no
visible sign of life about it. That, however, in no wise disturbed him. He did
not doubt that he should find either Martin or his daughter, or, more likely
still, both of them at home. Going up to the door, which, though of modern
make, was of oak and studded with huge square-headed nails, he rapped loudly at
it with the ivory knob of his cane; but to his summons even when repeated,
there came no response. Then he tried the handle, but only to find that the
door was locked. Thus, at the very outset of the inquiry he had been about to
enter upon, he found himself unaccountably baulked.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap43"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.<br />
THE ROOT OF THE MYSTERY</h2>

<p>
For a few moments he stood fuming and glaring with angry eyes and bent brows at
nothing in particular, while debating with himself what his next step ought to
be. Evidently the first thing to do was to ascertain why the Tower was shut up
and what had become of Rigg and his daughter. After considering the matter for
a little space, he said aloud: &ldquo;Nixon will be pretty sure to know.
I&rsquo;ll go and question him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Like Rigg, Nixon was another pensioned dependent of the house of Clare, and
together with his wife, much younger than himself, filled the post of
lodge-keeper at the main entrance to Withington Chase.
</p>

<p>
Across the park tramped the Baronet, a very unusual thing for him to do. The
old lodge-keeper was at home, and it did not take Sir Gilbert long to elicit
all that Nixon had to tell. It appeared that Martin Rigg had gone down to
Yorkshire to attend the funeral of his only brother, and that his daughter had
accompanied him. As to when they might be expected back, Nixon knew nothing.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you happen to know,&rdquo; said Sir Gilbert, &ldquo;whether Rigg has
had anyone staying with him at the Tower of late&mdash;a visitor of any kind, I
mean?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Nixon shook his head. &ldquo;Not to my knowledge, Sir Gilbert.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you are sure you heard nothing about any stranger being
there?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m quite certain on that score, Sir Gilbert. And either Martin,
or Dulcie would have been sure to speak of it if there had been.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As the Baronet walked back to the Chase he knew not what to think. So
powerfully had his imagination been worked upon by the belief, which by this
time had grown almost to a conviction, that his son was at the root of the
mystery of the Grey Monk, and that, of all men, Rigg was the one to whom he
must look to supply him with the key, that his mood was one of bitter
disappointment.
</p>

<p>
After luncheon he told Lady Pell all about his morning&rsquo;s errand and its
result.
</p>

<p>
In her own mind her ladyship had little or no faith in her kinsman&rsquo;s
conviction that the Grey Monk was none other than John Alexander Clare,
restored to life after some all but miraculous fashion when there was every
reason for supposing him to have died twenty long years before. She was not a
believer in the improbable, although, if questioned, she would have felt bound
to admit that even she had known cases where incidents of the most startling
kind had evolved themselves out of lives to all seeming the most commonplace
and prosaic.
</p>

<p>
In the course of the day she took an opportunity of informing Sir Gilbert of
the engagement of Ethel Thursby and Everard Lisle. That the news afforded him
genuine pleasure could not be doubted. &ldquo;So I shall not lose my little
girl after all!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;That is indeed something worth hearing.
She has become very dear to me, Louisa; I may tell you so now; and I should
have felt the loss of her more, perhaps, than the occasion would have seemed to
warrant, for she has contrived to steal her way into my affections in a quite
unaccountable fashion. My old age is the sweeter for her presence. I am very
glad that I am not to lose her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I shall make it my business to furnish her trousseau.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you may rely upon it that she shall not go to her husband without a
<i>cadeau</i> from me. I suppose she will have no dowry?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not a shilling, so far as I am aware. She is an orphan and was brought
up by two maiden aunts who, till a little while ago, were quite comfortably
off. Now, however, they have only just enough left to live upon.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In that case I must see what I can do by way of increasing Lisle&rsquo;s
salary. Of course when anything happens to poor Kinaby, Lisle will at once step
into his shoes. The furniture which is now at Maylings may as well be
transferred to Elm Lodge for the young couple&rsquo;s use. They will make a
well-matched pair, Louisa. As you know, I hold Lisle in very high regard, not
merely because he happens to be the son of the man who saved my life, but by
reason of his own fine qualities. How wide is the difference between him and
young Rispani!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Later in the day he took occasion to congratulate both the young folk, with the
old-fashioned courtesy which became him so well, nor did he fail at dinner to
drink to their health and happiness in a bumper of the rare old Madeira which
was reserved for very special occasions. It was evident to everyone that the
Baronet was in high good-humour, and that for the time at least he had
succeeded in throwing off the gloom to which late events seemed to have
hopelessly condemned him.
</p>

<p>
It was not till the second day after Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s visit to the Tower
that Martin Rigg and his daughter got back home. Within an hour of his return
he was summoned to proceed at once to the Chase, where Sir Gilbert received him
in his study. Scarcely had he limped slowly into the room before Sir Gilbert,
turning quickly upon him with bent brows and an assumption of his most minatory
manner, said: &ldquo;Rigg, how many days ago is it since you last saw my son,
Mr. John Alexander Clare?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
That the keeper was utterly taken aback he himself would have been the first to
admit. He turned hot and then cold almost as quickly as it takes to write the
words. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then back again,
and so crushed his hard felt hat between his fingers that it was never fit to
wear again. For a moment or two his gaze went up to a corner of the ceiling,
only to be drawn irresistibly back to the stern face and deep-set eyes of the
one man of whom he had ever stood in awe.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When did I set eyes on Mr. Alec last, sir?&rdquo; he stammered.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You heard my question. I said, how many days is it&mdash;not years, mind
you&mdash;since you saw my son last? Now, let me have no prevarication, Rigg.
You know that is what I would never put up with either from you or anyone else.
I have a right to know the truth in this matter, and I demand to know it.
Speak, and dare to tell me a lie at your peril!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have never been in the habit of telling lies, Sir Gilbert, either to
you or anybody else,&rdquo; replied the keeper stiffly. &ldquo;Since you force
me to speak, I can&rsquo;t help myself, though I bound myself under a promise
not to do so. Sir, I parted from Mr. Alec Clare five days ago, just before I
left home to go and bury my brother.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A low cry broke from Sir Gilbert; his figure suddenly lost its rigidity and he
sank back in his easy-chair, while his face blanched like that of a man at the
point of death. Martin, terrified, made a step forward, but Sir Gilbert,
tremblingly held up one hand. &ldquo;Leave me alone,&rdquo; he murmured,
&ldquo;I shall be better presently.&rdquo; To those of his time of life the
shock of sudden joy is oftentimes almost as trying as that of sudden grief.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sit down, Rigg,&rdquo; said the Baronet presently, mindful even at such
a moment of the man&rsquo;s lameness. Then, as he lay back with closed eyes,
little by little the colour ebbed back into his cheeks. It was true, then; his
instinct had not led him astray, and his Alec was still in the land of the
living! A great fountain of love and gratitude welled up in his heart&mdash;of
reverent thankfulness and gratitude that it had pleased the Inscrutable Power
who sways the destinies of mankind to vouchsafe him this crowning mercy so far
beyond his deserts. What happiness to know that his firstborn&mdash;he whom,
when young, he had so hardly treated that for years his memory of him had been
an unending remorse&mdash;had been given back to him as it were, indeed, from
the tomb, and that a season of reparation might still be granted him! But let
us not pry too curiously into all that passed through his mind at this, one of
the supreme moments of his life. Let his white hairs and his many sorrows not
appeal to us in vain.
</p>

<p>
After a time he began to question Rigg, eagerly and closely, about all that he
knew with reference to Alec. A summary of the information which he elicited
piece-meal from the keeper is all that need be given here.
</p>

<p>
It appeared that &ldquo;Master Alec,&rdquo; as Martin still, from old habit,
persisted in calling him, had been in hiding at the Tower for upwards of a
month, in fact, ever since about two days before&mdash;quite unintentionally on
his part&mdash;he so frightened Bessie Ogden on the terrace. The upper room of
the old structure, ordinarily used by Martin as a bedroom, had been fitted up
with a few extra articles of furniture and given up to his use; while Dulcie,
the keeper&rsquo;s daughter, had looked after his meals. More than once Martin
had heard him asseverate that he had only returned to the Chase in order to
right a great wrong&mdash;to send fraud and villainy to the right-about, and
that as soon as the task he had set himself was accomplished he should go back
to the place from whence he had come. What he had meant thereby Martin did not
know. During the day Alec had never stirred out of the Tower; only after
nightfall had he ventured abroad, and then only in the traditional guise of the
Grey Monk&mdash;a character which in his younger days, when home from school or
college, he had assumed more than once out of sheer love of mischief. As to the
means by which Alec had been enabled to obtain access to the Chase after the
household had retired for the night, that was his own secret, and one which he
had never divulged to the keeper.
</p>

<p>
Extreme was Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s disappointment and chagrin when told that his
son had finally quitted the Tower only about forty hour&rsquo;s previously.
This had happened during Martin&rsquo;s absence from home, but the latter was
already aware that his guest&rsquo;s visit would presently come to an end, and
that, although he continued to linger on like one who found it impossible to
tear himself away from the home of his boyhood, his task was accomplished and
there was nothing more left him to do.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But if you were away at the time, how do you know that my son left the
Tower when you say he did?&rdquo; demanded the Baronet.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Because I found this note, sir, waiting for me when I got home,&rdquo;
responded the keeper.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert took the proffered note with an eagerness he made no effort to
dissemble.
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;D<small>EAR</small> O<small>LD</small> M<small>ARTIN</small>,&rdquo; it
ran, &ldquo;I am off to-night&mdash;Tuesday&mdash;and whether we shall ever see
each other again is more than I can say. My hearty thanks are due to you and
Dulcie for the hospitality you have shown me, and the many kindnesses I have
received at your hands. You may be sure that both of you will be often in my
thoughts when I am thousands of miles away, and I will not so far wrong you as
to think you will forget me. I implicitly trust you to still preserve the same
strict secrecy as heretofore with regard to my presence at the Chase. On no
account must the faintest whisper of the truth escape the lips of either of
you. More on this point I know that I need not write.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am especially desirous&mdash;in fact, I lay it on you as a
charge&mdash;that you should keep yourself informed from day to day (which you
will have no difficulty in doing) of the state of my dear father&rsquo;s
health; and, should any necessity arise for you to do so, I rely upon you to at
once telegraph to me, under the name of &lsquo;John Alexander,&rsquo; to the
address given you on the other side. That this is most important you will
readily understand, and that you will not neglect my wishes in the matter I
feel assured.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now goodbye till we meet again&mdash;if ever we do.
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;Your friend,<br />
&ldquo;A. C.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Rigg, I should like to keep this, if you have no objection,&rdquo; said
the Baronet when he had read it carefully through.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No objection whatever, Sir Gilbert; only I should like you to bear in
mind that I should have kept my promise to Master Alec, and that nobody would
have got a word out of me, if you, sir, hadn&rsquo;t forced me to speak.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That I quite understand. Under the circumstances no option was left you.
But I wish you still to preserve the same secrecy. Not a syllable about this
business must pass your lips to anyone else.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Neither me nor Dulcie is of the gossiping sort. You may trust us for
that, sir.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am quite sure I may. And now I won&rsquo;t detain you further; but I
may tell you this&mdash;that, in the long run, you will find yourself no loser
by this morning&rsquo;s work.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
No sooner had the ex-keeper gone than the Baronet sought Lady Pell in her own
room and was closeted with her for nearly a couple of hours. One result of the
interview was that he sent a groom to bring back Everard Lisle, who, his
morning&rsquo;s work dispatched, had left the Chase some time before.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lisle, I want you to start in the course of a few hours for
America,&rdquo; he said to Everard when the latter had returned. &ldquo;You
will be the bearer of a note to my long-lost eldest son, John Alexander Clare,
who, astounding to relate, I now find, from evidence which it is impossible to
dispute, did not meet his death years ago, as, at the time, I was fully led to
believe. But I need not enter into particulars just now. It is enough to say
that he is still alive. So make your preparations for starting in the morning,
and, when you come to dinner this evening, the note I want you to take will be
ready for you, and I shall then be in a position to give you my final
instructions.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In a matter of such vital importance it did not seem enough to Sir Gilbert to
merely entrust his message to the post. A letter might, or might not, reach
Alec; but he felt satisfied that Lisle would not rest till he had hunted him
down, wherever he might be, and had put his father&rsquo;s message of
forgiveness into his hands.
</p>

<p>
The note Sir Gilbert wrote was a very brief one, and, such as it was, his
nervous excitement was so extreme as to render it all but illegible.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Alec, my son, all is forgiven and forgotten,&rdquo; he wrote.
&ldquo;Come back to me&mdash;come back. I want you. It is your father who asks
this of you.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap44"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.<br />
BACK AT ST. OSWYTH&rsquo;S</h2>

<p>
Our lovers took a tender farewell of each other.
</p>

<p>
No other course had been open to Sir Gilbert than to assume that, after leaving
the Chase, his son would book himself by an early steamer back to America.
Should such prove to be the case, Lisle would be only a few days behind him.
Everard calculated that if he were fortunate enough to light on &ldquo;Mr. John
Alexander&rdquo; immediately after his arrival at Pineapple City, he might
count upon being back at the Chase in a day or two under three weeks. He would
write to Ethel as soon as he landed at New York, and again on reaching
Pineapple City, but he would have to console himself as best he could without
any news of, or from, her between the date of his departure and that of his
return.
</p>

<p>
He left Mapleford at an early hour next morning, which was that of Friday. He
had already settled in his mind to sail by the <i>Arbaces</i>, which was timed
to leave Liverpool at noon on Saturday. Thus he had the whole intervening day
to himself, and he determined to devote it to a purpose about which he said no
word to anyone at the Chase&mdash;not even to Ethel.
</p>

<p>
He had been greatly struck with the story told him by Ethel that afternoon as
they wandered together by the margin of the haunted pool, and since then he had
thought about it much and often. It was a mystery the solution of which, as it
seemed to him, would have to be sought for in the United States. It was from
there Ethel had been brought as an infant, and it could scarcely be doubted
that she had been born there. Now that he was bound for America on another
matter, he had made up his mind, before sailing, to run down to St.
Oswyth&rsquo;s, interview the Miss Thursbys, and satisfy himself as to whether
there was, or was not, a possibility of eliciting from them sufficient
information to enable him to build up a case worth investigating whilst he was
in the States.
</p>

<p>
Ethel had not failed to tell her aunts in her letters about her meeting with
Everard Lisle, nor of her surprise at finding that he was in the service of Sir
Gilbert Clare, who was none other than first cousin to Lady Pell, and
thereafter his name found a mention in nearly all her letters. The sisters were
glad that it should be so, and told themselves that it must be pleasant for
Ethel to be associated with someone who came from St. Oswyth&rsquo;s, and that
the two doubtless found many subjects in common to talk about. Not a suspicion
of what was presently to happen ever found lodgment in their minds until Ethel
informed them of her actual engagement, subject to their approval. It was a
letter full of love and dutiful affection to the aunts, though every word
proved that for all time she had given away her heart to Everard Lisle.
</p>

<p>
The important epistle was delivered at Rose Mount just as the sisters had
finished breakfast, and was brought in by Tamsin when she came to clear the
table. &ldquo;From Miss Ethel,&rdquo; said the old woman as she laid it down in
front of Miss Matilda, whose turn to enact the part of elder sister it happened
to be. Ethel&rsquo;s letters always arrived about breakfast-time and were read
aloud by one or other of the sisters, and, somehow, Tamsin generally contrived
to be present at the reading&mdash;a privilege tacitly accorded her by her
mistresses.
</p>

<p>
Miss Matilda, with characteristic precision, proceeded to slit open the
envelope with the tiny pair of scissors which she always carried in a case in
her pocket. Tamsin, with dilatory fingers, was removing the breakfast things
one by one on to the tray which she had brought in with her.
</p>

<p>
Miss Matilda read the first few lines aloud, and then paused in a tremor of
agitation. A low cry escaped from Miss Jane.
</p>

<p>
The sisters gazed at each other across the table, the same expression of
consternation and distress on the faces of both. &ldquo;Engaged to Everard
Lisle! Oh! who would have thought it?&rdquo; they exclaimed at the same moment,
for not only their thoughts on any given subject, but very often the words by
which they gave expression to them, were identical. Then for a minute or more
both seemed unable to find another word to say.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should have thought,&rdquo; said Miss Matilda at length in her most
dignified tone, in which there was yet an unwonted quaver, as she gave a tug at
the little knitted shawl which she always wore at breakfast time: &ldquo;I
should have thought that, after the wretched experience Ethel went through so
recently, she would have shunned the other sex most assiduously, if not for
ever, in any case for a very long time to come.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Miss Matilda took up the letter again and read aloud to the end. Tamsin had
transferred the breakfast things to her tray, and had deposited the latter on
the sideboard; she now proceeded to draw the cloth off the table and to slowly
fold it. Not a word escaped her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid, sister, that we can but bow to the inevitable,&rdquo; said
Miss Matilda with a sigh as she folded the letter. &ldquo;It seems to me that
we have no right, even if we had the will, to withhold our approval of the step
she has chosen to take.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My own view exactly,&rdquo; replied Miss Jane with a sorrowful shake of
the head. &ldquo;And yet&mdash;oh, dear!&mdash;we shall only have the dear girl
back at home to lose her permanently after a little while. And I was looking
forward&mdash;&mdash; Oh! I was looking forward to so many things.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And then before more could be said Tamsin&rsquo;s voice broke suddenly in.
&ldquo;And is it not a right and proper thing that Miss Ethel should marry and
have a home of her own?&rdquo; demanded the old woman in tones which had
something of an injured ring in them. &ldquo;Why should she not have a husband
to love and cherish her&mdash;some good man to whose life she&mdash;in her
turn&mdash;will be a blessing? Ay, and he is a good man, is Mr. Everard
Lisle&mdash;very different from that other one! If some of us have missed it,
is there any reason why we should begrudge it to her? I trow not,
indeed&mdash;I trow not!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She and her tray were gone before Miss Matilda had sufficiently recovered from
her astonishment to find a word to say.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Really, the way Tamsin presumes on our good nature and her own length of
service is at times most trying. I am afraid that one of these days we shall be
under the necessity of giving her notice.&rdquo; It was not the first time Miss
Matilda had spoken to the same effect; but no one knew better than she how
empty was the threat.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It seems to me, sister,&rdquo; remarked Miss Jane timidly, &ldquo;that
we have been justly rebuked for our selfishness. We have been thinking more of
our own loss than of the dear girl&rsquo;s happiness. That is not as it should
be.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Miss Matilda did not answer for a little while. She seemed intent on tearing up
the envelope of Ethel&rsquo;s letter into the tiniest of fragments. Then she
said gently: &ldquo;You are right, sister. It <i>is</i> the child&rsquo;s
happiness that we ought to consider first of all. But&rdquo;&mdash;with a
sigh&mdash;&ldquo;we are growing old, and the house will seem very lonely
without her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then, somehow, tears sprang to the eyes of both, and for a little space they
wept silently.
</p>

<p>
But there were no traces of tears in their eyes when, about four o&rsquo;clock
the same afternoon, just as they had agreed between themselves that if Ethel
must marry, there was no one to whom they would sooner entrust her than to
Everard Lisle, they were startled by seeing Lisle himself marching up the
garden-path and making direct for the front door.
</p>

<p>
Nor were the sisters less surprised when he informed them of the special
purpose which had brought him there. They willingly entered into all the
details of the story which Ethel had told him, going over it with him step by
step; but in the result he found that he had been unable to add anything of
real consequence to that which he knew already.
</p>

<p>
One thing, however, they were in a position to give him, although he had his
doubts as to its value, seeing that it bore date nineteen years back, and that
was the address of Kirby Griggs, the lawyer&rsquo;s clerk, who had recognised
the portrait of the self-styled Mrs. Montmorenci-Vane as that of his unmarried
sister, Martha Griggs. Miss Matilda had found the address after her
brother&rsquo;s death in his private memorandum book.
</p>

<p>
When, after Everard was gone, Tamsin took in the supper tray, she had to set
her mouth hard in order to suppress the smile which would otherwise have
puckered it. In place of the morning&rsquo;s agitations and tears, the sisters
were now complacently discussing the important question of what material
Ethel&rsquo;s wedding-dress should be made! &ldquo;And now to come to the
pecuniary part of the affair,&rdquo; said Miss Matilda. &ldquo;I should not
like our dear girl to go to her husband quite empty-handed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly not, sister. The same thought has been in my own mind. I do
not suppose that Mr. Lisle&rsquo;s position is a specially lucrative
one.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For my part, I should be quite willing to settle on Ethel my half-share
of the rental of Vale View House, which, now that Mrs. Loftus has taken it on a
seven years&rsquo; lease, will be a sure source of income for that length of
time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would make me very happy to do the same with my half-share. Now that
we have grown used to our humbler style of living, we really don&rsquo;t need
the rent money. And in future there will be only our two selves, you know,
sister.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, only our two selves,&rdquo; echoed Miss Matilda, sadly.
</p>

<p>
That night, when Tamsin went upstairs to her own room, she took out of a drawer
her savings bank book and refreshed her memory as to the sum which stood there
to her credit, and represented the savings of many laborious years. That sum
she made up her mind should be very considerably depleted before she was much
older. To what better use could she put the money than in buying a
wedding-present for the child who had been, and would ever be, as dear to her
rugged, but tender old heart as she could possibly be to the heart of Miss
Matilda or Miss Jane!
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap45"></a>CHAPTER XLV.<br />
&ldquo;COME BACK TO ME&rdquo;</h2>

<p>
Everard left St. Oswyth&rsquo;s by the six o&rsquo;clock train on Saturday
morning. Four hours later he was in Liverpool. Taking a cab for himself and his
portmanteau, he proceeded direct to the shipping office and there booked a
berth on board the <i>Arbaces</i> for New York. Thence he was driven to the
landing-stage, where he found the tender whose duty it was to transfer the
passengers and their luggage on board the huge liner anchored out in
mid-stream.
</p>

<p>
On reaching the <i>Arbaces</i> Lisle at once made his way to the stateroom
which had been allotted him. He knew already that he would have to share it
with a fellow-passenger, and when, on entering it, he found there a
dressing-case and a small portmanteau, a natural curiosity to ascertain the
name of the person who, for the next week or more would be his nightly, if not
his daily companion, led him to turn up one of the labels and read what was
written thereon. Rarely, perhaps never, in his life had Everard Lisle been more
amazed than he was when his eyes took in these words: &ldquo;John Alexander,
Esq. Passenger to New York.&rdquo; By one of those singular coincidences, which
are far more common than the generality of people imagine them to be, he and
the man of whom he was in pursuit, and on whom he had not expected to set eyes
till after a journey of close upon four thousand miles, had crossed each
other&rsquo;s path at the outset. Yet, but for the chance of his having read
the address label when he did, they would probably have been shipmates for some
time before discovering the relation in which each stood to the other, and, in
any case, as the <i>Arbaces</i> did not call at Queenstown, they would have
been compelled in their own despite to make the voyage out and home again.
</p>

<p>
Lisle had not recovered from his astonishment when the cabin door was opened
from without and he saw before him a tall, finely-built man of middle age, with
high aquiline features, dark, grave, earnest-looking eyes, a somewhat worn and
thoughtful-looking face, and a long flowing beard already flecked with white.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My cabin chum, I presume,&rdquo; said the stranger in a deep mellow
voice, and with an exceedingly pleasant smile. &ldquo;I hope we shall have a
good passage, and that at the end of it our companionship will remain a
pleasant recollection in connection with it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Everard smiled and bowed. &ldquo;I have taken the liberty of reading the name
on your luggage,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Pray excuse the question. I have a
special reason for asking it, but are you Mr. John Alexander of Pineapple City
in the State of Michigan?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The other lifted his eyebrows in surprise. &ldquo;That is certainly my address,
and therefore I can only assume that I am the person to whom you refer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then you must be the person whom I was going all the way to Pineapple
City in search of. I am especially glad that I have met you now and
here&mdash;for one thing, because my having done so will save me the necessity
of a voyage to the States and back. Mr. Alexander, I am the bearer of a letter
addressed to you from Sir Gilbert Clare of Withington Chase.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For a moment or two it seemed to Mr. Alexander as if the cabin floor were
rising and sinking, as it might have done in a heavy gale. He seated himself on
the edge of his berth; his face had faded to an ashen grey.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A letter from my&mdash;from Sir Gilbert Clare for me!&rdquo; he said,
speaking like a man in a dream.
</p>

<p>
From the case which he carried in his breast pocket, Everard extracted Sir
Gilbert&rsquo;s missive and handed it to the other. &ldquo;I will see you again
in the course of a few minutes,&rdquo; he said.
</p>

<p>
It will be enough to say that neither one nor the other sailed by the
<i>Arbaces</i>, but caused themselves and their belongings to be transferred
back to shore at the last moment.
</p>

<p>
A few hours later, as they sat together over their coffee and cigars in a
private room of the Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool, John Alexander Clare proceeded to
give his companion an outline of his history from the time of the explosion of
the lake steamer by which he was supposed to have been killed. Of that
narrative all that need be given here is such a summary as will enable the
reader to follow the sequence of events, the outcome of which was the
unpremeditated meeting of himself and Lisle on board the <i>Arbaces</i>.
</p>

<p>
As may perhaps be remembered, Mr. Travis, Alec&rsquo;s business partner, could
not reasonably have come to any other conclusion than that the latter had lost
his life by the explosion of the <i>Prairie Belle</i>, seeing that week after
week passed over without bringing any tidings of him; and, indeed, it was not
till nearly three months had gone by that one day a tall, emaciated, almost
ghastly figure stalked into the office, and for the moment all but made Mr.
Travis&rsquo;s hair stand on end when, in hollow tones, it said: &ldquo;Well,
Frank, old fellow, how are you by now?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It appeared that he had been picked up, clinging to a spar and all but
insensible, nearly an hour after the explosion had taken place. His rescuer, a
farmer who lived on the margin of the lake, caused Alec to be taken to his
house, where he was carefully nursed and tended by the farmer&rsquo;s wife and
daughter. He had been terribly bruised and half blinded by the explosion, and
for several weeks he wandered in his mind and knew neither where he was, nor
what had befallen him.
</p>

<p>
The farmer and his family belonged to the sect known as Quietists, and as they
read no newspapers and held as little communion with the outside world as
possible, it followed that Alec&rsquo;s name was omitted from the published
list of the survivors of the explosion. Small wonder was it that Travis almost
looked upon his partner as on one come back from the grave.
</p>

<p>
Not till then did Alec learn of the inquiries which had been made about him
during his absence. That the man who made them had come specially from England,
Mr. Travis did not doubt, but as he had declined to state the nature of his
business, there was nothing more to tell. The fact interested Alec but faintly,
and soon passed out of his thoughts. He was a banished man; his wife had
deserted him; his child was dead; and to him, after his accident and the
illness which resulted from it, his past life gradually assumed the faded
proportions of a dream, and not a real experience of his own.
</p>

<p>
And so one uneventful year after another dragged out its little span, the
partners meanwhile prospering in business, and never being other than the best
of friends.
</p>

<p>
At length, through the death of a relative, Mr. Travis succeeded to a
considerable property and at once made up his mind to return to England. Alec,
who for some years past had been pining for news from home, and who could not
but remember that his father was getting well advanced in years, begged of his
friend, on his arrival in the old country, to go to Mapleford and make certain
inquiries <i>sub rosa</i>, and communicate the result to him. This Mr. Travis
at once proceeded to do, writing Alec to the effect that his stepmother and his
three half-brothers had all been some years dead, that a tablet to his,
Alec&rsquo;s memory had been put up in the church where so many of his
progenitors were buried, that his son had been adopted by Sir Gilbert as the
latter&rsquo;s heir, and that his wife, under the designation of Mrs. Alexander
Clare, was residing at the house known as Maylings, within a mile of the Chase.
</p>

<p>
Alec was astounded. His child had been a girl, and he had still by him,
carefully preserved, his wife&rsquo;s heartless letter and the certificate of
the infant&rsquo;s death. The result of Mr. Travis&rsquo;s letter was that,
three weeks later, Alec landed at Liverpool.
</p>

<p>
What followed is already known to the reader. Alec&rsquo;s reason for not
denouncing Luigi to Sir Gilbert at an earlier date was owing to his
wife&rsquo;s absence in Italy, of which he had learnt through certain inquiries
made on his account by Martin Rigg. Before taking any positive steps in the
affair he was desirous of obtaining some certain evidence as to how far
Giovanna was implicated in the fraud, his intention being to seek an interview
with her immediately upon her return. Rispani&rsquo;s attempt on the strong
room had brought matters to a climax a little sooner than he had anticipated.
</p>

<p>
He had not failed to hear of Luigi&rsquo;s departure next day from the Chase,
but although his mission was accomplished and there no longer existed any
reason why he should not return to his far-away home, he stayed on day after
day, unable to tear himself from the haunts of his youth and the roof-tree
where he had been born. But at length he had made up his mind that the next day
should be the final one of his stay, and as the evening shadows closed in he
had gone to take his last walk in the grounds and his last look at the old
mansion. It was the evening on which Sir Gilbert, finding himself alone indoors
owing to the absence of Lady Pell and the others on their expedition to
Dunarvon Castle, had gone for a twilight stroll in the shrubbery. From the
shelter of a bank of evergreens he had been watched by his son as he passed
slowly to and fro on the sward, puffing absently at his cigar and buried deep
in thought. Hence it had come to pass that Alec was within a dozen yards of him
when, overcome by a sudden dizziness, he stumbled and sank to the ground. His
son&rsquo;s strong arms had lifted him and carried him into the library by way
of the French window. Then, after depositing him on a couch and pressing a kiss
on his forehead, Alec had rung the bell and made a hurried exit by the way he
had come.
</p>

<p>
Next morning he had decided to delay his departure till he should be able to
ascertain whether his father was suffering from any after effects of the attack
of the previous evening, but the sudden appearance of Sir Gilbert as he emerged
from the spinney on his way to the Tower, to all appearance in his usual
health, had at once dissipated his fears on that score. It was through an upper
window of the Tower that he had seen his father&rsquo;s approach; then had come
the latter&rsquo;s unanswered summons at the door, and after that his departure
across the park in the direction of the lodge. Alec had rightly surmised that
it was a wish to question Martin Rigg that had brought Sir Gilbert to the
Tower, but he had of course no knowledge of the motives which had prompted the
visit. The same evening, a couple of hours after nightfall, he had emerged from
the Tower, and after locking the door and depositing the key in a place where
Rigg on his return would know where to look for it, he had crossed the park, no
longer wearing the robe and cowl of the Grey Monk, but in his ordinary attire,
and after walking to Westwood station, four miles away, had taken the train for
London. After a brief stay in town, where nobody recognised him, and where he
made no effort to seek out any of his old-time friends or acquaintances, he had
journeyed to Liverpool and booked himself as a passenger by the <i>Arbaces</i>.
</p>

<p>
It is not difficult to imagine with what absorbed interest Everard Lisle
listened to the narrative of Alec Clare. There still remained one point, and
others would doubtless crop up later on, as to which his curiosity was
unsatisfied. &ldquo;Now that you have told me so much, Mr. Clare,&rdquo; he
said presently, &ldquo;perhaps you won&rsquo;t mind enlightening me as to the
means by which you were enabled to make your way into and out of the Chase, as
it seemed, whenever you chose to do so, without anyone being a bit the
wiser.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Alec laughed. &ldquo;The explanation is a very simple one, or so it will seem
when you hear it,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The room which used to be my
mother&rsquo;s boudoir, and which has latterly, I believe, been assigned to
Lady Pell, has two windows, both of which were originally of the long, narrow,
old-fashioned kind, but one of which, at my mother&rsquo;s desire, was
modernised into what is called a French window, so that she might have a means
of ready access to the garden&mdash;for she was somewhat of an
invalid&mdash;without having to go round by the corridor and the side door. The
other window was left untouched and, to all appearance, was not intended to
open in any way. But one day, when a lad of ten, I lighted, quite by accident,
on a secret spring which, when pressed in a particular way, caused the window
to turn bodily on a swivel. Through the aperture thus formed any ordinary sized
person could squeeze himself without much difficulty. I kept my discovery to
myself, finding it useful on several occasions, when I was a rackety young
fellow home for my holidays. To what use I put it of late you will have guessed
already.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Next morning Alec Clare set out on his journey back to Withington Chase. As a
rule he was much averse to Sunday travelling, but the present occasion was an
altogether exceptional one. He already felt like another man. The ban which had
been laid on him more than a score years before had at length been taken off.
His father had written, &ldquo;Come back to me&mdash;I want you.&rdquo; The
long breach was about to be healed. All was to be forgiven and forgotten. Not
as a lonely childless old man would his father henceforth drag out his days.
And when he thought of what he himself was going back to, his heart felt full
to the point of overflowing with deep thankfulness and that sort of chastened
elation which, in the case of those who have seen much tribulation and are
imbued with a sense of the unstableness of things mundane, often is all they
dare permit themselves to feel.
</p>

<p>
Everard in the course of the previous afternoon had despatched a telegram to
Sir Gilbert, informing him that he had overtaken &ldquo;Mr. Alexander&rdquo;
before the latter had sailed, and that he, the aforesaid Mr. A., might be
looked for at the Chase in the course of the afternoon of the morrow.
</p>

<p>
He further wrote a brief note to the Baronet informing him that he was called
to London by some special private business, and that he had taken the liberty
of claiming a couple of days&rsquo; release from his duties at the Chase.
</p>

<p>
Everard&rsquo;s telegram arrived at the Chase while Sir Gilbert was at dinner.
When he had read it he passed it to Lady Pell, who, as soon as she had taken in
the message, gave it back to him with a look that was more expressive than
words. Then he got up and left the room. He felt that he could not have spoken
without breaking down. An hour later her ladyship went in search of him and
found him in his study, seated by the fire with the telegram clasped tightly in
his fingers. &ldquo;May I come in?&rdquo; she asked, standing with the handle
of the open door in her hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To be sure, Louisa. I am glad you have come. You are the only person who
can understand what I feel without my needing to say a word about it. Even now
I can scarcely believe that in a few short hours I shall see my boy and hold
his hand in mine. Not till death steps in between us, Louisa, shall anything
part us again!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was Lady Pell who, next afternoon, met Alec at the railway station. Sir
Gilbert would not trust himself to go. He was afraid that his emotion would
overpower him, and he was nervously shy of making a scene in public. Nor was he
at the door to welcome his son when the latter alighted at the Chase, but Lady
Pell&rsquo;s instinct told her where to look for him. &ldquo;Come with
me,&rdquo; she said to Alec, and with that she led the way to the study. On
reaching it she opened the door and motioned him to enter. Sir Gilbert, his
tall, gaunt figure drawn to its fullest height, was standing on the hearthrug,
supporting himself with one hand on the chimney-piece, his face turned
expectantly towards the door. He was trembling in every limb, and as Alec went
quickly forward he put forth his arms and made a faltering step or two to meet
him. &ldquo;Oh, my son&mdash;my son!&rdquo; he cried, his voice breaking into a
sob as the last words left his lips.
</p>

<p>
Lady Pell gently closed the door and left them together.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap46"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.<br />
UNKNITTED THREADS</h2>

<p>
Everard Lisle stayed in Liverpool till Monday, on which day he took an early
train up to town. His object in going to London was to endeavour by means of
the address which Miss Matilda had given him to trace the present
whereabouts&mdash;if he were still alive&mdash;of the man Kirby Griggs. Futile
as the hope seemed that, even if he should succeed in finding him, Griggs would
be able to supply him with any information that would further in the slightest
degree the special purpose he had in view, he yet felt that he could not rest
satisfied till he had interviewed him and heard from his own lips all that he
had to tell.
</p>

<p>
The address supplied him was that of a firm of lawyers in Gray&rsquo;s Inn
Square, in whose employ Kirby Griggs had been at the date of his interview with
Mr. Matthew Thursby.
</p>

<p>
Fortunately for Everard&rsquo;s purpose, Griggs proved not only to be alive,
but still in the service of the same firm&mdash;a third-rate clerk on a very
limited salary. He was a thin, timid, nervous man, with an anxious, hungry sort
of look, as though he rarely had as much to eat as he could have done with.
When told the reason which had induced Everard to seek him out, he at once
expressed his willingness to give him all the information that lay in his
power; but as he was too busy to do so during office hours, he requested
Everard to call upon him between seven and eight o&rsquo;clock the same evening
at an address in the suburbs which he gave him.
</p>

<p>
There Lisle found himself at half-past seven and was at once ushered into the
clerk&rsquo;s little parlour, in which sacred apartment&mdash;hardly ever
entered between one Sunday and another&mdash;a fire had this evening been
lighted in honour of his visit.
</p>

<p>
There proved to be no reticence on Griggs&rsquo; part in discussing in all its
bearings that strange episode of twenty years before, in which his sister had
played so inexplicable and, ultimately, so tragical a part.
</p>

<p>
It appeared that she had always been of a romantic and flighty turn of mind,
and an insatiable devourer of impossible romances and outrageous love-stories
of the very commonest type of penny fiction. She had gone out to the States as
maid to a wealthy elderly lady who had died there shortly after her arrival.
The next news from Martha had been to the effect that she was on the eve of
returning to England by the clipper-ship Pandora, and her brother was requested
to meet the vessel on its arrival in dock. Why she had booked herself under the
fantastical name of Mrs. Montmorenci-Vane her brother could not imagine, unless
it were a name she had picked up in the course of her reading, and had taken a
fancy to. Just as little could he understand why, in the presumed state of her
finances, she should have chosen to travel as a saloon passenger. As for whence
and from whom his sister had obtained the child which she had passed off on
board ship as her own, and what possible object she could have had in view in
perpetrating such a hoax&mdash;if hoax it could be called&mdash;was to Kirby
Griggs still as much an enigma as it had been at the time; nothing had occurred
in the interim to throw even the faintest ray of light on the affair.
</p>

<p>
Everard&rsquo;s heart sank within him. It was evident that the lawyer&rsquo;s
clerk had nothing of consequence to relate beyond what was known to him
already.
</p>

<p>
After musing awhile, he said: &ldquo;I presume that nothing was found among
your sister&rsquo;s luggage&mdash;no letters, or papers, or anything else
which, if placed in the hands of anyone who was willing to devote both time and
patience to following it up, might ultimately furnish a clue to the mystery we
have just been discussing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There was nothing&mdash;nothing whatever found of the kind you
mention,&rdquo; replied Griggs with a shake of the head. Then, after a pause,
he gave a little deprecatory cough and added: &ldquo;As I have no wish to hide
anything in connection with the affair, it may perhaps be as well to mention
that my sister&rsquo;s boxes contained a quantity of wearing apparel such as
seemed, both to me and my wife, far above her station in life, and the only
conclusion we could come to was, that it had most likely been a present to her
from the lady who had died. After keeping it for three or four years in case
any inquiry should be made about it, my wife gradually used it up in the
manufacture of garments for our numerous olive branches.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Although Mrs. Griggs made a third at the interview, as yet she had not spoken
more than a dozen words, but in the pause that now ensued she suddenly said:
&ldquo;The ring, Kirby&mdash;have you forgotten the ring? That might perhaps
supply the gentleman with the clue he is looking for.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Griggs started, and his pale face took on an unwonted blush. &ldquo;I had
indeed forgotten the ring,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but that it will in any way
help to clear up the affair, I don&rsquo;t for one moment believe.&rdquo; Then
turning to Everard, he added: &ldquo;The ring to which my wife refers is a
quite plain hoop of gold, in fact, just like a wedding-ring, except that it is
about four times as massive. It was the only article of jewellery found among
my sister&rsquo;s luggage, although she was said to have been wearing a gold
watch and chain and several dress rings at the time she fell overboard.
Unfortunately, about four years ago I was very much pressed for money and was
compelled to put the ring in pledge, obtaining on it an advance of thirty
shillings. I am sorry to say that I have never since been in a position to
redeem it, but it has not been lost, because I have been careful to pay the
interest as it fell due.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As you say,&rdquo; replied Everard, &ldquo;there is not much likelihood
of a ring such as you describe this one as being helping me in any way to
discover what I am in search of. Still, I should very much like to see and
examine it, and if you will allow me to pay the cost of taking it out of pledge
I shall be greatly obliged to you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Truth to tell, sir,&rdquo; answered Griggs with a shrug, &ldquo;I
haven&rsquo;t money enough of my own to spare to enable me to do so. But in any
case, nothing can be done in the matter till to-morrow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
So Everard left money for the redemption of the ring and went his way.
</p>

<p>
At half-past seven the next evening he was again at the house of Kirby Griggs.
The ring had been redeemed in the interim. It was what the lawyer&rsquo;s clerk
had described it as being, a plain massive hoop of gold, but on the inner side
Lisle&rsquo;s keen eyes detected what seemed to him like a faint tracery of
some kind, but apparently so worn that without the help of a magnifying glass
it was impossible to make out what it was intended to represent. Griggs, who
admitted that he had noticed the marks, but without attaching any value to
them, volunteered to obtain the loan of a lens from a working watchmaker who
lived close by, and accordingly did so. With the aid of the lens and the
exercise of some patience, Everard was enabled to make out that what to the
naked eye had looked like so many meaningless scratches was in reality an
engraved inscription which ran thus: &ldquo;J. A. C. to G. R. <i>Pour tout
temps</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Scarcely had he succeeded in deciphering the inscription before it flashed
across him that the words, &ldquo;<i>Pour tout temps</i>&rdquo; formed the
somewhat arrogant motto of the Clares of Withington Chase, as also that the
letters J. A. C. were the initials of John Alexander Clare.
</p>

<p>
By the time he got away from the house, taking the ring with him, it was too
late to think of going down to the Chase before next morning. So he wandered
about some of the quieter streets till a late hour, turning over and over in
his mind his discovery in connection with the ring, but nowhere finding an
adequate solution of the singular problem which was thus put before him. From
whichever point of view he looked at the matter, it still remained as much a
tangle as at first. Out of a dozen questions which he asked himself, there was
not one he could answer. He turned into his hotel a little before midnight and
went to bed, but sleep came to him only by fits and starts, and all through the
dark hours the same series of questions kept ringing their changes in his
brain.
</p>

<p>
After an early breakfast he caught the eight-thirty train for Mapleford. A fly
took him and his luggage from the station to Elm Lodge, from whence, a few
minutes later, he walked across the park to the Chase.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert had lingered over breakfast, talking to his son, and in the
corridor Everard met him face to face, looking a dozen years younger than when
he had seen him last. The change in him was indeed marvellous.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What! back already?&rdquo; he said beamingly. &ldquo;I thought you were
going to take a few days&rsquo; holiday in London. Why didn&rsquo;t you, eh?
Why didn&rsquo;t you? But we&rsquo;ll have no work to-day, that&rsquo;s
certain. The best thing you can do will be to have the dog-cart out after
luncheon and take your sweetheart for a drive&mdash;lucky dog that you are, to
have won the love of such a girl!&rdquo; Then his voice took on a deeper tone.
&ldquo;What a happy chance for me was that which brought you and my son
together at Liverpool and so gave Alec back to me weeks before I should
otherwise have had him! I cannot help feeling as if I somehow owe it all to
you. Well, well&rdquo;&mdash;laying a kindly hand on his
shoulder&mdash;&ldquo;when your wedding-day is here you will find that I have
not forgotten you.&rdquo; And with a smile and a nod he passed on.
</p>

<p>
Everard&rsquo;s most pressing object was to secure a private interview with Mr.
John Clare&mdash;as he was henceforward to be known to the world, although to
his father he would never be anything but Alec. Not till he should have
recounted to the latter the history of the ring and put it into his hands,
would he go in search of Ethel and surprise her by his unexpected return.
</p>

<p>
Presently he found John alone in the library, hunting up some of the favourite
authors of his youth, from whom he felt that he had been too long parted. Sir
Gilbert was closeted with one of his tenants in the study.
</p>

<p>
John Clare greeted Everard with a smile and a cordial grip of the hand. The
liking he had conceived for him during the few hours they had spent together in
Liverpool had not been, in any degree lessened by what he had heard about him
since, both from his father and Lady Pell.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I thought you were about to give yourself a holiday,&rdquo; he said,
&ldquo;and that we need not look to see you at the Chase for some days to
come.&rdquo; He had already had his grizzled beard and heavy moustache
carefully trimmed, and certainly he presented a much more civilised appearance
than before.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I was able to finish the business which took me to London in much less
time than I expected,&rdquo; replied Everard. &ldquo;The affair, however, has
taken a turn wholly surprising and unexpected&mdash;one that seems to bring
you, Mr. Clare, into connection with it, although as to the mode in which the
connection in question originated I must confess that I am entirely in the
dark.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You excite my curiosity, Lisle. I hope you will not refuse to gratify
it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is there any place where we can secure half-an-hour to ourselves without
fear of interruption?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps we had better go upstairs to my own room. No one will intrude
upon us there.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;May I take the liberty of asking whether you have ever seen this ring
before?&rdquo; said Everard as soon as the two were seated opposite each other
in John&rsquo;s dressing-room.
</p>

<p>
John took the ring and looked at it for a moment or two, as one in doubt. Then
all at once a flash of recognition leapt into his eyes and every nerve in his
body responded with a thrill. &ldquo;Yes, I have seen this ring
before&mdash;many years ago,&rdquo; he said slowly. &ldquo;Have you any
objection to telling me by what strange chance it came into your
possession?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was with that purpose I sought this interview. But the story is a
long one, and at the beginning will doubtless seem irrelevant to the question
you have just put to me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You shall tell it in your way. So long as the end of it furnishes me
with an answer to my question I shall be satisfied.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Some nineteen years ago,&rdquo; began Everard presently, &ldquo;a
certain clipper ship named the <i>Pandora</i> left New York for London having
on board a number of passengers, among them being a certain Mrs.
Montmorenci-Vane (that being the name by which she had booked herself), who,
although she was dressed as a lady and wore a quantity of jewellery, had
neither the manners nor the appearance of one. With her she had a child, a
little girl only a few months old, to attend upon whom during the voyage, her
own nursemaid having deserted her in New York&mdash;so her story ran&mdash;she
engaged a woman from among the steerage passengers. Unfortunately, one dark
night, Mrs. Montmorenci-Vane fell overboard and was lost.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Among other passengers on the <i>Pandora</i> were two maiden ladies,
sisters, of the name of Thursby, who, together with their brother, an elderly
bachelor, were returning home after a brief visit to the States. The forlorn
condition of the lost woman&rsquo;s infant touched the kind hearts of the
sisters, and they made it their business to look after the child&rsquo;s
welfare during the remainder of the voyage, naturally expecting that some
relations of its mother would be there to meet the ship on its arrival in dock.
However, there proved to be no one there to inquire for Mrs. Montmorenci-Vane,
but, instead, a lawyer&rsquo;s clerk of the name of Griggs, who had come to
meet his sister, the latter having written to inform him that she would take
passage by the <i>Pandora</i>. Well, in a photograph of the so-called Mrs. Vane
the clerk at once recognised his unmarried sister Martha, who had gone out to
the States a few months before in the position of lady&rsquo;s-maid. There
could be no possible mistake about the photograph. The captain and the whole of
the cabin passengers were prepared to affirm that it was a likeness of Mrs.
Vane, who had fallen overboard, while Griggs was prepared to swear an affidavit
that it was the likeness of his sister. The poor man was terribly puzzled, as
well he might be. He could not in the least comprehend why his sister had
chosen to call herself Mrs. Vane&mdash;whence she had obtained the fine clothes
and the jewellery in which she had flaunted on board ship&mdash;and, above all,
what possible object she could have had in passing off the child of some one
else as her own offspring. In the result, he declined to have anything whatever
to do with the child, whom he left on the hands of Mr. Matthew Thursby and his
sisters to be dealt with in whatever way they might choose.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What the Miss Thursbys chose to do, was to adopt the child and bring her
up as their niece. As such she grew up, never suspecting that the sisters were
other than her aunts in reality, and not till her nineteenth birthday, when a
letter was put into her hands addressed to her by Mr. Matthew Thursby, who had
died many years before, with instructions that it should be read by her on that
day&mdash;were the facts of her early history, so far as they were known,
revealed to her. That the revelation was a great shock to her cannot be
doubted, but it made no difference whatever in the relations which had
subsisted for so long a time between herself and the sisters. The secret was
still kept to themselves, and to this day, the waif of the <i>Pandora</i>
passes as the niece of the two Miss Thursbys. A little later she became
companion, <i>pro tem</i>., to Lady Pell, and accompanied the latter on her
visit to Withington Chase. Doubtless you have already met Miss Thursby at
luncheon and dinner, and so on, Mr. Clare.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have both met and noticed the young lady; indeed, when she and I are
at table I find it difficult to take my eyes off her. She affects me in quite a
singular way, the like of which I never experienced before. But that is not to
the point just now. Pray proceed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The next fact needful for me to mention as bearing on my
narrative&mdash;in what way you will presently understand&mdash;is, that Miss
Ethel Thursby and I are engaged to be married.&rdquo; He spoke with a
heightened colour and an added sparkle in his eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah! is that indeed so? I congratulate you with all my heart,
Lisle.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When, a few days ago,&rdquo; resumed Everard, &ldquo;Sir Gilbert Clare
placed in my hands a letter addressed to you at Pineapple City, with a request
that I would at once proceed to America, search you out and give it into your
hands, finding myself with a day to spare prior to the sailing of the steamer,
I journeyed down to St. Oswyth&rsquo;s, where the Misses Thursby reside, with
the object of putting certain questions to them. It seemed to me that there was
just a faint chance that, while in the United States, I might be able, as a
consequence of the inquiries I intended to set on foot there, to find the clue
to the mystery surrounding the birth and parentage of her whom I hope shortly
to call my wife; but I was desirous, first of all, to make myself thoroughly
acquainted with every feature of the affair that had come under the cognisance
of the sisters. As it fell out, however, they had nothing of any consequence to
tell me which I did not know already. The only scrap of fresh evidence I
brought away with me was the address of the man Griggs, who, in the portrait of
Mrs. Vane, had recognised his sister. You know already, why I never got any
farther than Liverpool on my way to the States. After parting from you, I went
to London and was fortunate enough to find Griggs without difficulty; but, as
in the case of the sisters, he had nothing to tell me which would in the least
help to further the end I had in view. I was on the point of giving up the
whole business in despair, when Mrs. Griggs happened to mention that among the
luggage which had been claimed by the lawyer&rsquo;s clerk as his
sister&rsquo;s property, there had been found a plain gold ring of very massive
make. On expressing my desire to see the ring, I was told that circumstances
had compelled Griggs to pledge it. But the following day saw it redeemed and
placed in my hands. Perceiving that the inner side bore an inscription of some
kind, I procured a lens and by its means was enabled to make out that part of
the lettering represented the motto of the Clares of Withington Chase, and
another part your own initials. Hence my reason for bringing the ring to
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am glad, Lisle&mdash;very glad indeed that you have done so. For the
present I will ask you to say nothing to anyone about what has passed between
us this morning. You know, of course, that the Mrs. Clare who occupied Maylings
for a short time was my wife?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She was known to everyone in the neighbourhood as Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s
daughter-in-law.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Can you tell me where to find her? It is requisite that I should see her
with as little delay as possible.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have no knowledge of Mrs. Clare&rsquo;s movements; but her nephew,
Luigi Rispani, left me an address at which a letter or message would at any
time find him. It would be no trouble to me to run up to town by the next
train, hunt up Rispani, and obtain from him the address of Mrs. Clare, with
which he is pretty sure to be acquainted.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If you will do that for me, Lisle, I shall be infinitely obliged to
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I will start at once. There is a train at twelve-thirty. If I have good
luck, I ought to be back by seven o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
John Clare held out his hand. &ldquo;Bring me the address at any cost,&rdquo;
he said.
</p>

<p>
The ring thus strangely recovered had been a present from him to Giovanna
Rispani during the period of their brief courtship.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap47"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.<br />
HUSBAND AND WIFE</h2>

<p>
To John Clare&rsquo;s wife the world of late had become a greatly-changed
place. She was alone in London, without a single creature of her own sex whom
she could call an acquaintance, much less a friend. She had broken both with
her uncle and Luigi. For the latter she had never cared. He had impressed her
from the first as being not only morally unscrupulous&mdash;that was a defect
which she might not have experienced much difficulty in condoning&mdash;but as
being sly and deceitful into the bargain, and, in short, one of those people
who are almost as dangerous to, and as little to be trusted by, those whom they
call their friends as by those to whom they owe a grudge which they would
gladly wipe off.
</p>

<p>
Captain Verinder she had learnt to like after a fashion. He was her
mother&rsquo;s brother, and that of itself was enough to create a tie between
them which, under ordinary circumstances, she would have been one of the last
people to ignore. She had liked him for his <i>bonhomie</i>, for his persistent
good-humour and his half-quizzical, half-cynical way of looking at men and
things, and last, but not least, for the frequent doses of flattery he had been
in the habit of administering to her, which, even while conscious that it was
nothing more than flattery, had possessed the delightful property of raising
her in her own estimation, and of causing her to think more highly of herself
than she had ever done before.
</p>

<p>
But this was a state of things which had now come wholly to an end.
Giovanna&rsquo;s feelings were very bitter against her uncle. She blamed him
and him alone for everything that had happened to her; at his door she laid the
entire load of her misfortunes.
</p>

<p>
It was quite true&mdash;and the fact was never lost sight of by her, for she
rarely argued crookedly, as Luigi habitually did&mdash;that, but for the
interest taken by Verinder in her case, in all probability she would never have
become aware that she was daughter-in-law to Sir Gilbert Clare. Yet, granting
that point to the full, it was impossible for her to forget that it was wholly
owing to his influence and persuasions that she had been lured into that career
of fraud and double-dealing which, in her case, had ended in irremediable
disaster. From her present knowledge of Sir Gilbert Clare she felt convinced
that, had she have gone to him at first, as she had proposed to do, and told
him the simple truth, far from turning his back upon her, he would have
welcomed her as his son&rsquo;s widow, and have settled on her a liberal
allowance, which would have been hers to the last day of her life. It made her
hate her uncle when she thought of all that she had lost through weakly
yielding to the glittering temptation he had so persistently dangled before
her. Little by little she had wormed out of Luigi all the particulars of the
Brussels episode, and she rightly argued that if Verinder had never introduced
his nephew to the gaming-table the series of unfortunate events which resulted
therefrom, and culminated in the discovery of Luigi in the strong-room, would
never have come to pass. It was clearly the Captain and he alone who was to
blame.
</p>

<p>
He had called upon her twice since their return to town, but her reception of
him had been of the coldest; and when, on the occasion of his second visit, his
request for a trifling loan of ten pounds was met by a distinct refusal, he
perceived that his wisest course would be to keep away from his niece till time
should in some measure have softened her rancour against him.
</p>

<p>
Giovanna had found a temporary home in one of those boardinghouses which abound
in the neighbourhood of the west-central squares. But already she had begun to
meditate a change. The demands on her purse were too many and, as it seemed to
her, too exorbitant. Should she decide to stay in London, she must find cheaper
rooms and make up her mind to live more economically in many ways. But just
then she could not make up her mind to anything. She was a very lonely and a
very miserable woman; indeed, the loneliness of her life sometimes appalled
her. There were a number of other boarders in the house, and in the general
drawing-room of an evening there was no lack of company of both sexes and of
nearly all ages. But Giovanna, who had always been of a reserved and retiring
disposition, had an utter distaste for associating with a mixed lot of people,
with not one of whom she had anything in common, and, as soon as dinner was
over, invariably went upstairs to her own sitting-room on the third floor. In
the forenoons, when the weather was fine, she took long, solitary walks,
sometimes in the Regents Park, sometimes through the miles of West End shops,
but rarely pausing to glance into a window. Invariably dressed in black, and
with the upper half of her face closely veiled, but leaving visible the firm
and beautiful contours of the mouth and chin, her tall and stately form drew
many eyes to it as she slowly threaded her way through the crowd of
promenaders, so obviously indifferent to everyone and everything around her.
There was about her, or so it seemed, an air of mystery, of romance even, which
many of those who turned to gaze after her would have given something to be
able to penetrate.
</p>

<p class="p2">
On a certain morning, just as Giovanna was getting ready to go for her usual
walk, a message was brought her that there was a gentleman below who was
desirous of seeing her. In the belief that it must be either her uncle or
Luigi, they being the only visitors she had, she requested the servant to show
him upstairs.
</p>

<p>
A minute later John Clare walked into the room.
</p>

<p>
Despite the changes which years had wrought in him, Giovanna knew him again the
moment she set eyes on him, and the same instant a great fear took possession
of her. An inarticulate cry broke from her lips; she shrank away from him with
averting hands and terror-fraught eyes, and, when she could go no farther, she
crouched trembling in a corner of the room. Her face wore the ghastly hue of
death. She had never fainted in her life, and she did not now; but all the
fibres of her being were stretched to that point of tension which touches the
verge of madness. A little more and her brain would have given way. It was a
strange mixture of terror that held her powerless, for, although she had at
once recognised that this was no shadowy visitant from the tomb, there was
about the affair an undoubted element of the supernatural. That her husband had
come in the guise of an avenger one glance at his face had been enough to tell
her, and surely it could be nothing less than a miracle which had brought him
back to life! To Giovanna miracles were far from being the impossibilities
which many of us deem them to be. She had grown up in an atmosphere of
superstition, and not all the experience of after-life had quite served to
eradicate the noxious weeds thus early implanted within her.
</p>

<p>
In the look with which John Clare regarded his wife there was an icy sternness
such as might well strike with dread the heart of the unhappy woman. At that
moment he bore a striking resemblance to his father, as Sir Gilbert had been
before years and trouble had broken him down. For some moments he confronted
his wife in silence as she cowered before him like some hunted creature driven
to bay.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At last we meet again!&rdquo; he said, after a time. &ldquo;You believed
that I had died long years ago, but I am here, a living proof to the contrary.
From me you have nothing to fear. I come neither to accuse nor to condemn. As
you have dealt with the past, so will it deal with you; but certainly it is not
for a fallible being such as I to set myself up as your judge.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He spoke slowly and unemotionally, without a trace of passion or the faintest
tinge of invective.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am here on purpose to ask you certain questions,&rdquo; he resumed,
&ldquo;which I can but trust that you will answer truthfully and to the best of
your ability. Will you not be seated?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She did not answer him in words, but drew herself together as it were, and
crossing to the opposite side of the room sat down. By this she had recovered
from her fright, and her features had settled into a sort of stony hardness
which effectually masked whatever emotions might be at work below.
</p>

<p>
John too sat down, but there was nearly the entire width of the room between
them.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I want you,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;to carry your mind back to that
letter, written by you nearly twenty years ago, in which you told me that our
child was dead, that you had come to the conclusion you and I would be happier
apart, and that you were on the eve of returning to your friends in Italy. You
have not forgotten the letter of which I speak?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have not forgotten it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;After you had left Barrytown and started on your journey, what happened
to you? Did you go direct to New York and at once take ship there?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I went direct to New York, but a few hours before the vessel sailed by
which I had booked my passage I was seized with a fever and conveyed to a
hospital, where I lay for weeks, part of the time out of my mind, and the other
part so weak that speech was an impossibility.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And when you came back to health and strength, it was to find that while
you had been in the hospital your maid, a woman of the name of Martha Griggs,
had absconded with all your belongings.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was a bold guess on John Clare&rsquo;s part, but it told.
</p>

<p>
Giovanna half started to her feet and then sat down again. The mask of apathy
fell from her face and a great wonder and curiosity took the place of it.
&ldquo;How did you discover that?&rdquo; she gasped.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have discovered more than that,&rdquo; was John&rsquo;s unmoved reply.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And the woman&mdash;Martha Griggs&mdash;is she still living? do you know
where to find her?&rdquo; demanded Giovanna with an eagerness she made no
attempt to conceal.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Martha Griggs was lost overboard on the voyage between New York and
London.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lost overboard! And my child&mdash;what became of her?&rdquo; She had
again risen. Voice, eyes, hands&mdash;all asked the question.
</p>

<p>
On the instant a great light of gladness, the source of which Giovanna was at a
loss to comprehend, flamed out of John Clare&rsquo;s eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So I have surprised your secret, have I?&rdquo; he said, speaking very
slowly.
</p>

<p>
For a few seconds she stared at him with bewildered eyes; then the truth dawned
on her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;you have surprised my secret, if that is
the way you choose to put it. But the child&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A child no longer, is alive and well, and at the present moment under
her grandfather&rsquo;s roof at Withington Chase.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At Withington Chase&mdash;she! How strange! How wonderful! But I am very
glad&mdash;oh yes, you may believe me when I tell you that I am very glad! For,
whatever you may think, I am not all bad.&rdquo; She crossed quickly to the
window and stood there with her back towards him for fully three minutes.
</p>

<p>
Not till she had resumed her seat did John Clare speak again. &ldquo;What you
wrote me about the child was a lie?&rdquo; he said presently. It might be taken
either as a question or an assertion.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes&mdash;a lie,&rdquo; she replied with a little shrug. &ldquo;It is as
well at times to call things by their right names.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And the certificate you sent me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A forgery. Five dollars was the price I paid for it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But what was your object, if I may ask, or what was to be gained by
inducing me to believe that the child was dead?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;After I had made up my mind to leave you and go back to Italy, my one
fear was that you would come after me and rob me of the child. To keep you from
doing that I invented the story of its death. Myself alone, after the letter I
had written you, I knew you would not trouble yourself to come after.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Never was there a more heartless and cruel fraud perpetrated on
anyone!&rdquo; For the first time his voice vibrated with a suppressed emotion.
Not for a little while would he trust himself to say more. Giovanna&rsquo;s
only reply was a slight lifting of her brows.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When you grew better and left the hospital did you make no effort to
recover your child?&rdquo; demanded John as soon as he felt that he could
command himself sufficiently to speak again.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I made every effort a woman in my position could make. You must remember
that I had been robbed of money, clothes, everything. I was utterly destitute.
Some charitable people interested themselves in my case and the police were
communicated with, but nothing came of their inquiries. Then a wild notion took
hold of me that the woman, in the belief that I was past recovery, might have
made her way to Italy with the child, and that I should find it under my
father&rsquo;s roof when I got back to Catanzaro. The same charitable people
found me enough money to take me home; but as you know, neither the woman nor
my child was there. After that, rather than be called upon to tell and tell
again the history of that time, I preferred to give it out that my child was
dead. To my father alone was the truth known.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She ceased, and to John Clare it seemed that there was nothing more to be said.
He had learnt all that he had come to learn. The missing links had been found;
not one was wanting; the chain was complete.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There is no reason why I should intrude myself any longer upon
you,&rdquo; he said as he rose and pushed back his chair. &ldquo;You have been
frankness itself with me, and so far I thank you. I know not what your
pecuniary resources are, nor do I seek to know, but I do not forget that you
are still my wife and that, as such, a monetary arrangement of some kind will
have to be come to with you. I will take my father&rsquo;s opinion in the
matter, and in the course of a few days my lawyer shall be instructed to
communicate with you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And my child&mdash;the child of whom I was robbed!&rdquo; It was like
the cry of some animal despoiled of its young made articulate.
</p>

<p>
She had started to her feet as it broke from her lips, and she now confronted
him with heaving bosom and extended hands, her face marble-white and her great
black eyes glowing with intense fire.
</p>

<p>
John had taken up his hat and had reached the door, when her cry caused him to
turn.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>Your</i> child!&rdquo; he said with a quiet concentrated scorn that
made each word seem a stab. &ldquo;<i>My</i> child, you mean. You long ago
forfeited all right to call her yours. What! would you dare to stain her
spotlessness with your guilt? Would you, with such a past as yours, dare to
claim her for your daughter, and look to her to call you mother? Is it your
wish that she should be told the story of your life? Or would you prefer to
pose before her as the innocent victim of circumstances which you could not
control? No, I will not believe you are quite so depraved as that. As you
cannot but know, her way and yours lie wide apart. You did your utmost to rob
me of her when she was a child, and now that I have found her she belongs to me
alone.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As he went out and shut the door behind him, all the strength seemed to go out
of Giovanna&rsquo;s limbs. She sank to the floor and there crouched with
clasped hands and bowed head. &ldquo;He is right&mdash;he is right,&rdquo; she
moaned. &ldquo;I am not fit to tie the latchets of her shoes.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap48"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.<br />
SIR GILBERT&rsquo;S GREAT SURPRISE</h2>

<p>
On leaving his wife John Clare engaged a hansom and was driven direct to
Gray&rsquo;s Inn Square. His object was to find Kirby Griggs and hear again
from his lips the story which had already been told him by Everard Lisle. The
lawyer&rsquo;s clerk was on the point of going out for his midday meal, so John
secured him, and, taking him to a restaurant at which it was possible to engage
a private room, he treated him to what Griggs later termed to his wife &ldquo;a
sumptuous repast,&rdquo; and did not let him go till he had drawn from him
every scrap of information which bore in any way on the facts he was bent on
investigating.
</p>

<p>
With the aid of the light which his wife&rsquo;s narrative had thrown on the
affair, the mystery which had heretofore enshrouded the proceedings and conduct
of Martha Griggs was in a great measure dispelled. There could be no doubt that
when her mistress was seized with fever and taken to the hospital, the
temptation to decamp with the latter&rsquo;s money and luggage had proved too
potent for the woman&rsquo;s ill-balanced mind. Having once crossed the narrow
boundary which divides honesty from its opposite, it was characteristic of her
flighty disposition, surcharged with feminine vanity, that she should
masquerade in her mistress&rsquo;s gowns and jewellery and pass herself off
under a preposterous name culled from one of her favourite penny romances. What
had been her intentions with regard to the disposal of the child after she
should have reached England could not even be surmised. Her death, so sudden
and unforeseen, had put an end to everything as far as she was concerned.
</p>

<p>
It would be a difficult matter to analyse John Clare&rsquo;s thoughts and
feelings as he journeyed homeward after parting from Kirby Griggs. That which
had been no more than a supposition when he left the Chase a few hours before,
had now been converted into an indisputable fact. He was going back home to
greet his new-found daughter, and that daughter was none other than she who had
hitherto been known to the world as Ethel Thursby!
</p>

<p>
Now did he understand how it happened that from the first he had felt himself
so unaccountably drawn towards her. He had read something in her face which had
at once puzzled and attracted him; it had been to him like one of those faces
which sometimes confront one in dreams, which one seems to know vaguely, but
which utterly sets at defiance all one&rsquo;s efforts to endue it with a
personality. But surmise and conjecture were at an end. She was his
child&mdash;his own! He had proved it beyond the possibility of a doubt. So
strange, so bewildering, and yet so wonderfully sweet did it seem, that for the
time he was as a man walking in a phantasy.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Everard Lisle, on reaching London, had found Luigi Rispani and had obtained
from him the address he subsequently gave John Clare, which enabled the latter
to go direct to the boarding-house where his wife was staying.
</p>

<p>
Luigi was in doleful dumps. The bill for one hundred and twenty pounds, which
bore the joint signatures of himself and his uncle, had fallen due, and the sum
total which the pair of them could scrape together towards meeting it did not
amount to much over thirty pounds. To make matters worse for the younger man,
for the last few days Captain Verinder had been missing both from his lodgings
and his usual haunts, nor did anyone seem to know what had become of him. But
pity in such cases is but cold comfort, and he did not content himself with
that. Before parting from Luigi he put into his hand a cheque for the full
amount of the promissory note.
</p>

<p>
Everard Lisle&rsquo;s capital did not amount to much more than three hundred
pounds in all, and was made up of a small legacy bequeathed him by a relative,
supplemented by his own savings, for he had no extravagances and was of a
thrifty disposition. To finish with this incident, it may be recorded that
about a fortnight later John Clare asked Everard to be the bearer of a cheque
for a hundred and twenty pounds from him to Luigi Rispani. He had been reading
over for the second time the notes of the interview between Luigi and Sir
Gilbert, after the former&rsquo;s release from the strong room, as transcribed
by Everard from his shorthand memoranda, after which he had gone to his father
and made certain representations to him, the outcome of which was the cheque in
question.
</p>

<p>
Great was John Clare&rsquo;s surprise when told that the promissory note had
already been met and by whom. He made no attempt to press the cheque on
Everard, but quietly put it back into his pocket. He would not spoil the aroma
of a fine action by bringing it down to a cash level.
</p>

<p>
To return.
</p>

<p>
When Everard got back from London, bringing with him Mrs. Clare&rsquo;s
address, he found that in the course of the afternoon Mrs. Forester had driven
over from the Shrublands&mdash;the house at which Lady Pell had been visiting
previous to coming to the Chase&mdash;and had insisted upon carrying Lady Pell
and Miss Thursby back with her, with the understanding that they were not to
return to Withington till the morrow.
</p>

<p>
Although he had not seen Ethel for a week, not since he had parted from her
before setting out on that journey to America which had been stopped short at
Liverpool, it was yet a secret relief to him to learn that, at the earliest,
they could not meet for another day. And in twenty-four hours much might
happen.
</p>

<p>
Everard Lisle was too clear-sighted not to perceive in what direction, when
duly sifted, the evidence bearing on Ethel&rsquo;s parentage, which he had been
enabled to bring together, all tended. As yet there was one big gap which
required to be filled up, but it might well be that Mr. John Clare&rsquo;s
investigations on the morrow would prove successful in bridging over the
hiatus, or, in other words, in forging the last link in a chain of evidence
which would then be complete and perfect in every part. Well, and what then? he
asked himself. Should the foreshadowed end come to pass, ought he to be
anything but glad, jubilant, happy? Certainly he ought to be all that and more,
because in that case into his darling&rsquo;s life there would come a happiness
greater and richer than her dreams had ever pictured.
</p>

<p>
And yet!&mdash;and yet!&mdash;There are two sides to every question, and when
Everard thought of the other side to this one his heart grew faint within him.
&ldquo;I trust that I shall at least know how to do my duty,&rdquo; he said to
himself with proud bitterness.
</p>

<p class="p2">
After his interview with Kirby Griggs, John Clare got back to the Chase in
ample time for dinner. On leaving home in the morning he had merely told his
father that a pressing matter of business would take him to London for a few
hours, and Sir Gilbert had asked no questions. This evening father and son
dined alone. A note from Lady Pell had come to hand in the course of the
afternoon, stating that she had been persuaded into staying another day at The
Shrublands, but that she and Miss Thursby would be back at the Chase without
fail on the morrow.
</p>

<p>
John Clare kept his news to himself till dinner was over, and Trant had finally
shut the dining-room door, leaving the two gentlemen over their dessert. John
would not tell it before, fearing lest his father&rsquo;s mental excitement on
hearing it might take away his appetite for the time, which, in view of all he
had gone through of late, was not a desirable thing to do.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Father, you would hardly guess where I have been to-day,&rdquo; he
began, in as indifferent a tone as he could assume as he cracked and began to
peel a walnut.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am a poor hand at guessing, Alec.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have been to London and have had a long interview with my wife.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So!&mdash;Only some very strong motive, I should imagine, would have
impelled you to seek such an interview.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would have been next to impossible to find a stronger motive&mdash;as
you shall hear.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He finished peeling his walnut before he resumed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As the result of a vile conspiracy you had been led to believe that
Luigi Rispani was your grandson. In the anonymous letter written by me, which
was the first thing to open your eyes, you were informed that your grandchild
was a girl and that she had died in infancy. Only the day before yesterday
certain facts were brought to my knowledge which led me to doubt whether my
daughter really had died when only a few months old, as I had been induced to
believe, and whether, in point of fact, she might not still be living. It was
the determination to get at the truth of the matter which led me to seek an
interview with my wife.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He had spoken in studiously quiet tones, but already Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s hands
were twitching with nervous excitement.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, Alec, yes. And the result of your interview?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Was to satisfy myself that my long-lost daughter is indeed still
alive!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For a little space Sir Gilbert sat staring straight before him in speechless
astonishment. Not all in a moment could his mind take in and assimilate the
amazing news which had just been told him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Have you fully assured yourself, Alec, of the truth of this?&rdquo; he
said at length. &ldquo;That woman&mdash;&mdash; But I do not wish to speak
further of her. Only, you know how she imposed upon me; may she not have done
the same by you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
John shook his head. &ldquo;There is nothing to apprehend on that score. Not
the least singular part of the affair is that till to-day she herself neither
knew the whereabouts of the child, nor whether it was alive or dead.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You surprise me more and more.&rdquo; He drew a deep breath. &ldquo;Oh!
Alec, does it, can it mean a daughter for you, and a granddaughter for
me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is what it means, father.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And where is she? when shall I see her?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She will arrive at the Chase in the course of to-morrow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Arrive here to-morrow? So soon! Already my heart goes out to meet her. I
long to see her, to embrace her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She is no stranger to you. You know her already.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Alec, you trifle with me. I am an old man, and&mdash;and&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Father, I am not trifling with you. On such a subject I would not for
the world. What I said just now is the truth. Your granddaughter, under the
name of Ethel Thursby, is known and liked by you already.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ethel Thursby my granddaughter!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There cannot be a shadow of doubt about it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As before, Sir Gilbert sat in speechless amazement, but this time, if such a
thing were possible, his amazement was intensified a hundredfold.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is indeed a &lsquo;strange eventful history&rsquo; that I have to
narrate to you,&rdquo; resumed John Clare. &ldquo;Would you rather that I put
off telling it you till to-morrow, or&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly not. There&rsquo;s no time like the time present. Now that you
have told me so much you must tell me all. I shall not sleep a wink to-night
unless you do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Thus adjured, John Clare began the narrative with which the reader is
acquainted.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Lady Pell and Ethel did not reach the Chase till after luncheon next day.
</p>

<p>
Over breakfast father and son agreed that it would be best to entrust her
ladyship with the task of breaking to Ethel the news of her surprising change
of fortune, whom they would see later on.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It seems to me,&rdquo; said Sir Gilbert, &ldquo;that we owe this
discovery, in the first place, entirely to the efforts of young Lisle.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is undoubtedly so,&rdquo; replied John. &ldquo;Had he not first
moved in the affair, the chances are, nay, it is almost a certainty, that the
truth would never have been brought to light.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We owe him an immense debt of gratitude. In what way can we best
contrive to repay at least a part of it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As I understand the affair, he and Ethel are engaged to each
other.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;True. For the moment the fact had escaped my memory. And yet it was only
the other day that I congratulated the pair of them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The two looked at each other for a few moments in silence.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But the heiress of the House of Clare! One has a right to expect that
she should make a very different match.&rdquo; It was Sir Gilbert who spoke.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very true. Still, it may be as well to bear in mind that but for Everard
Lisle, the House of Clare would never have known that it had an heiress.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, yes; of course one can&rsquo;t forget that. As I remarked before,
the debt is an immense one. But as regards this engagement, what do you
advise?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Simply that for the present you and I do nothing at all in the affair,
but wait and see how matters work themselves out between the young
people.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Um&mdash;um. One can pretty well guess the result of that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If Lisle is the man I take him to be, when he finds Ethel acknowledged
as your granddaughter, one of his first acts will be to offer to release her
from her engagement.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you think so? Indeed, I shouldn&rsquo;t wonder if you are right.
Lisle&rsquo;s a gentleman through and through, or else I was never more
mistaken in my life. But in that case, what about the girl?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
John Clare smiled. &ldquo;Being of the sex she is, who can foretell what she
may choose to do, or not to do? But in any case, it appears to me that you and
I must abide by the result, whatever it may be.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I agree to that. Yes, yes, whatever the dear girl may choose to do shall
be fully endorsed by us.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It seemed to John Clare, although he did not say so, that what Ethel would
choose to do in such a contingency admitted of very little doubt. He felt
intensely grateful to Everard Lisle, and he had already made up his mind that
it should be owing to no fault of his if the young folk were not made happy.
</p>

<p>
Everard was not at the Chase this morning, it being his day for collecting the
rents of sundry outlying farms, but he might be expected there in the course of
the afternoon.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap49"></a>CHAPTER XLIX.<br />
PAYMENT IN FULL</h2>

<p>
It had been one of those softly brilliant days in late October, which sometimes
come as if to haunt us with the ghost of the dead and gone summer. The sun had
set in a golden haze, and the amber reaches of the upper sky were darkening
slowly as the shades of advancing night crept upward from the east, when Ethel
and Everard met face to face in the park.
</p>

<p>
Everard had collected his rents and seen to various other matters, and on his
way to the Chase had called at the bank and paid in his day&rsquo;s receipts.
At the Chase he had seen neither Sir Gilbert nor John, but as he had nothing
special to see the Baronet about, he had contented himself with leaving a note
for him on the library table, having reference to one or two matters in which
his employer was specially interested. He was ignorant of the return of Lady
Pell and Ethel from The Shrublands when he set off to walk across the park
home.
</p>

<p>
Scarcely had Lady Pell had time to take off her bonnet and cloak on her return,
before she received a message to the effect that Sir Gilbert would like to see
her in the blue parlour at her earliest convenience, and there she presently
found both the Baronet and his son.
</p>

<p>
Then to her in turn was unfolded the extraordinary story which had been told by
John to his father the night before, followed by a request that she would take
upon herself the office of breaking the news to Ethel before either her father
or grandfather should see the girl, which her ladyship willingly agreed to do.
</p>

<p>
Into the particulars either of that interview, or of the subsequent one between
the astounded girl and the two men we need not enter. They must be left to the
imagination of those readers who have followed our narrative thus far.
</p>

<p>
On one point only is it needful to give the details of what passed. It was
after Lady Pell had broken her news and Ethel&rsquo;s bewildered faculties had
recovered in part from the shock, that the latter said, &ldquo;You have told me
nothing about my mother, Lady Pell. Is she living or dead?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
So wholly unexpected was the question that for a few moments her ladyship was
thoroughly nonplussed. Yet the question Ethel had asked was one natural to her
sex and age. Whenever she had speculated about her unknown parents, or had
indulged in daydreams about them, her silent cry had been, &ldquo;Mother, where
are you? Mother, I want you!&rdquo; It was not a father whom her heart had gone
out in search of. So now, when told that the father from whom she had been
separated when an infant in arms, had in some wonderful and as yet unexplained
way found her again, the question anent her mother sprang involuntarily to her
lips.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have told you all that I was commissioned to tell you, my dear, and
beyond that my lips are sealed,&rdquo; replied her ladyship with an amount of
hesitation quite unusual with her. &ldquo;Of your mother I can tell you
nothing, and if you will take my advice, you will ask no question about her of
either your father or your grandfather. You may rely upon it that you will be
told all it is requisite for you to know, and beyond that I feel sure that you
will not seek to pry.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is almost needless to state that at the ensuing interview the name of
Giovanna Clare was not mentioned. Ethel was still left purposely in the dark as
regarded all those points of her history with which her mother was concerned,
for since John Clare could not have spoken of his wife to their daughter except
in terms of the severest censure, he preferred not to speak of her at all. On
one point, however, Ethel was quite clear, for her father had given her
distinctly to understand that it was entirely due to Everard Lisle&rsquo;s
efforts that they two had been brought together.
</p>

<p>
The moment the interview was over she had hurried to her room. Her eyes were
dim with tears, but they were tears of happiness. She wanted to be
alone&mdash;she wanted to sit quietly with shut eyes and try to realise the
change which had come over her life within the last two hours. So strange and
wonderful did it seem, that more than once she asked herself, in all
seriousness, whether it was true that she was really awake and not the victim
of some inexplicable hallucination.
</p>

<p>
As she stood before the window, she caught sight of Everard Lisle crossing the
park on his way to the Chase. He had left the dog-cart, which had taken him on
his rounds, at Elm Lodge, not knowing how long he might be detained by Sir
Gilbert.
</p>

<p>
Ethel&rsquo;s heart seemed to stop beating for a couple of seconds and then
went on at express pace. She had not seen her lover for a whole week, and now
that they were both back at the Chase what less than a fairy-tale was it that
she had to pour into his ear? Hastily putting on her outdoor things she left
the house by a side door, and crossing the park to a spot where five huge elms
grew within touch of each other, there waited. Close by ran the narrow footpath
which led from the Chase to a door in the boundary wall of the park of which
Everard Lisle possessed a key, and three minutes&rsquo; walk beyond which was
Elm Lodge. It was by this footpath that he went to and from the Chase, and so
saved himself a long detour by way of the main entrance to the park.
</p>

<p>
Not long had Ethel to wait. Presently she saw Everard in the distance, pacing
along with downcast mien and eyes which seemed to see nothing, unless it were
some inward pictures conjured up by his own fancy. As a rule his bearing was so
resolute and self-assured, he fronted the world so confidently, that Ethel
could not help being struck by the change.
</p>

<p>
Not till Everard was within a few yards of her did Ethel emerge from the
umbrage of the trees and go slowly to meet him. He gave a great start the
moment his eyes fell on her, and all his face lighted suddenly up as she had
foretold it would. Three or four quick strides brought him to her side, and the
same instant she was enfolded in his arms and strained close to his heart.
Gently disengaging herself she said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is this the way to treat an unprotected female? You ought really to try
to get the better of your primitive instincts. Marriage by capture went out
centuries ago. But, oh, Everard, I have so much to tell you!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She took his arm and together they began to pace slowly to and fro in the
shadow of the great trees.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you know, sir, in whose company you are?&rdquo; she playfully went on
presently. &ldquo;Do you know that she who is now speaking to you is Miss Clare
of Withington Chase?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Everard stopped dead.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then what I thought must be true has come true!&rdquo; he said; and on
the instant all the gladness died out of his face, and half his youth seemed to
go with it.
</p>

<p>
But Ethel was not looking at him just then and saw nothing of the change.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she resumed, &ldquo;henceforth my name will be Ethel Thursby
Clare. Only an hour ago I was told. I am no longer a waif, a nobody&rsquo;s
child. The mystery of my birth is a mystery no longer. I have found a father, a
grandfather, a home&mdash;though, thanks to my dear aunts, I have never known
the want of the last&mdash;and I owe them all to you&mdash;to you&mdash;to
you!&rdquo; As she spoke she faced him suddenly and gazed at him with deep love
and devotion in her eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But do you not see, cannot you comprehend,&rdquo; cried Everard in deep
dejection, &ldquo;how this change in your fortunes affects the whole position
of affairs as between you and me? When I sought and won from you a promise to
become my wife, I knew you only as Ethel Thursby, a portionless girl no higher
in the social scale than myself. To-day I know you as the descendant of an old
and honoured family, as the granddaughter of a man both proud and rich, who
will naturally be justified in expecting that when Miss Clare marries it will
be some person very different from one of his own salaried dependents.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When you took me for your promised wife, you did so with your eyes open,
knowing me to be what I was&mdash;a nameless waif&mdash;and having no certainty
that one day it might not be shown that I was the offspring of beggars, or
worse. But did you allow that prospect to deter you in the least? You know well
and I know well that you did not; and if it had been proved that I was the
descendant of a family of thieves instead of the Clares of Withington, I have
such faith in your love for me that I believe you would still have said: I care
not whose child you are; you are still my promised wife.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In believing so you do me no more than justice.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then perhaps you will be good enough to explain why the fact that Sir
Gilbert Clare is my grandfather should modify or alter in any way the
conditions of our engagement.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We need scarcely trouble ourselves with the why or the wherefore while
the indubitable fact remains. The revelations of the last few hours have served
to fix a great gulf between you and me. There is no option left me, none, but
to release you from your promise, to give it back to you
unconditionally.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, how bitterly proud you are!&rdquo; cried Ethel, her eyes flashing.
&ldquo;But supposing I refuse to be released, supposing I refuse to take back
my promise, as I most assuredly do&mdash;what then?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In that case I can but lay it at your feet. When a prisoner&rsquo;s
fetters are knocked off he has no option in the matter; he is simply told that
he is free. There is one point which neither you nor I should allow ourselves
for one moment to forget. You can no longer claim to be your own mistress. Your
duty and obedience are due to others. Those others will have views, wishes,
prospects in connection with one so dear to them which you cannot afford to
disregard.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel shook her head. &ldquo;Obedience sometimes degenerates into weakness, and
wrongs done either to oneself or others are none the less wrongs even if
dignified with the name of duty. But I will say no more now, Everard. I see
that it would be useless to argue with you. And I must hurry back, for I have
long outstayed my time. When we next meet it will be my turn to triumph.&rdquo;
Her eyes laughed up at her lover as he stooped and pressed his lips to hers.
Then without pausing she flew towards the house.
</p>

<p>
Merely taking off her hat and jacket, Ethel went direct to the library, where
she found both Sir Gilbert and her father, who had been on the point of going
to their rooms to dress for dinner. They both welcomed her with a glad smile.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I sent in search of you half-an-hour ago, but you were nowhere to be
found,&rdquo; said the Baronet. &ldquo;Where have you been hiding yourself? But
come up to the fire. I can tell the wind has got round to the east again by the
twinge in my left shoulder.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Seating herself on a hassock near the fire, Ethel spread out her hands between
her face and the blaze. One of her father&rsquo;s hands lingered for a moment
caressingly on her hair.
</p>

<p>
Although she did not in the least falter in her purpose, her heart was beating
much faster than was common, and there was an odd little quaver in her voice
when she spoke.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have been for a ramble in the park,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and there
I met Everard Lisle. Indeed, it was on purpose to meet him that I went, for we
had not seen each other since before he set out on that journey which ended so
unexpectedly at Liverpool.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Um&mdash;um,&rdquo; murmured the Baronet.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then, of course, you had much to say to each other,&rdquo; remarked John
Clare. &ldquo;Doubtless Mr. Lisle was greatly surprised at what you had to tell
him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think it came upon him altogether as a surprise. Although
he did not say so, I fancy he suspected the truth before.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have never found Lisle deficient in perspicacity,&rdquo; said Sir
Gilbert as if speaking to himself.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hope neither of you has forgotten that I am Everard Lisle&rsquo;s
promised wife,&rdquo; said Ethel with a little gasp, as her eyes glanced from
one to the other and then were again averted.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is a fact which neither your grandfather nor I would be at all
likely to forget,&rdquo; replied John, gravely.
</p>

<p>
There was a pause. Presently John reached forward and again laid his hand on
her hair. &ldquo;Darling, you have something more to tell us&mdash;I feel sure
of it,&rdquo; he said very gently. &ldquo;Speak. You have nothing to
fear.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I have something more to tell you. Everard insisted on giving me
back my promise and that all should be at an end between us.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The eyes of the two men met across the figure of the crouching girl.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Doubtless he had some more or less valid reason to urge for insisting
that the engagement between you should be broken off.&rdquo; It was her father
who spoke.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, he was quite explicit as to his reasons. I am no longer the
nameless, portionless girl to whom he engaged himself, but the granddaughter of
Sir Gilbert Clare of Withington Chase; whereas, he is only Sir Gilbert
Clare&rsquo;s dependent.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I felt sure from the first that Lisle had all the instincts of a
gentleman,&rdquo; interpolated the Baronet.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, my dear, and what answer did you make this very self-willed young
man?&rdquo; queried John.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I refused to take back my promise, and told him that whatever might be
the alteration in my position and prospects I owed it wholly to him, but that
as between him and me nothing whatever was changed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He had something to say to that, I have no doubt.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He persisted in saying that all was at an end between us, and bade me
remember that there were others whom I must now consider, and who have a right
to expect the duty and obedience which is their due.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The Baronet nodded his head as one in thorough accord with the views thus
enunciated.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes&mdash;and then?&rdquo; said John.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then I left him and came direct to you&rdquo;&mdash;with a gesture that
included both the men.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You acted very rightly, my dear,&rdquo; remarked her grandfather.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Both my father and I are fully conscious of our indebtedness to Mr.
Lisle,&rdquo; said John. &ldquo;And you may take my word that neither of us is
disposed to undervalue it. But that is not the question before us just now. The
points we are anxious to be satisfied upon are, that your happiness is really
bound up with your engagement to Mr. Lisle; that you feel inwardly assured not
merely that you love him, but of the depth and sincerity of his affection for
you, and finally, whether under all the circumstances of the case, it is not
desirable that your engagement should remain in abeyance, say for six months,
or even for three, with the view of proving at the end of that time whether you
really do care for each other as much as you believe you do now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dear father&rdquo;&mdash;she spoke the words with a certain sweet
shyness, which thrilled him as with a sense of exquisite music&mdash;&ldquo;put
us to whatever test may seem best to you. I have no fear for either Everard or
myself. We will submit ourselves to you in every way!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is that so?&rdquo; said John with a smile and a lifting of his eyebrows.
&ldquo;What, then, if I were to say, I will have no more of this engagement;
that it shall come to an end from this hour!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is a question there is no need for me to answer, because I am quite
sure you will never say anything of the kind!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert chuckled.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are no match for the young monkey, that&rsquo;s evident,&rdquo; he
remarked. A second later he pulled the bell-rope that was within reach of his
hand, and to the servant who came in, he said: &ldquo;Order dinner to be put
back half-an-hour, and then have word sent at once to Elm Lodge that I expect
Mr. Lisle to dine here this evening!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As the man left the room, Sir Gilbert turned to Ethel.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There shall be no more talk of broken engagements, nor of putting you
and your lover to the test. The debt which I and your father owe to Everard
Lisle can only be paid in full by giving him our greatest treasure.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel stood up, surprise, doubt, joy, wonder were all expressed in the look she
bent on the old man.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, grandpapa, do you really mean it?&rdquo; she gasped.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Most really and truly I mean it!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
With a sudden impulse she seated herself on his knees and flung both her arms
round his neck.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have made me the happiest girl in England,&rdquo; she murmured
brokenly.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap50"></a>CHAPTER L.<br />
THE VEILED STRANGER</h2>

<p>
It was only to be expected that Ethel&rsquo;s thoughts should often revert to
the conversation with Lady Pell, in the course of which the latter had advised
her to ask no questions about her unknown mother at her forthcoming interview
with her father and grandfather. It was advice which Ethel had accepted and
abided by, but if she had hoped that some mention would be made of that which
she so longed to know by one or other of those two who had so many wonderful
revelations to make to her, then was she doomed to disappointment. Neither then
nor later was the existence of any such person as her mother alluded to in her
presence.
</p>

<p>
It was the only cloud on Ethel&rsquo;s happiness. If her mother were dead, why
had she not been frankly told that such was the case? If she were still alive,
could it be that all mention of her name had been purposely omitted because she
had been guilty of something which must keep her and her daughter for ever
apart? But when Ethel asked herself this question, which she did more than
once, her thoughts at once reverted to that unknown Mrs. Clare about whom she
had heard so much, while staying at the Shrublands, who was said to be the
daughter-in-law of Sir Gilbert Clare, and to be an Italian by birth, who had
lived for a short time at Maylings, but who seemed to have suddenly left the
neighbourhood, for what reason Ethel had never been told, only a few days prior
to the arrival of Lady Pell and herself at Withington Chase.
</p>

<p>
Then came another inevitable question. &ldquo;Was Mrs. Clare of Maylings my
mother?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She had gathered from various remarks which Lady Pell had let drop from time to
time, that Sir Gilbert had had four sons in all, but that only the eldest had
lived to arrive at man&rsquo;s estate. If such were the case, and if the late
tenant of Maylings were really Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s daughter-in-law, then it
seemed to follow as a certainty that she could be the wife of none other than
John Alexander Clare&mdash;of the man whom she, Ethel, now knew to be her
father!
</p>

<p>
It was a startling conclusion to come to, but, under the circumstances, none
other seemed possible.
</p>

<p>
In accordance with the promise he had made Giovanna, and after consultation
with his father, John Clare wrote to a London solicitor empowering him to wait
upon Mrs. Clare and propose certain pecuniary arrangements for her acceptance.
Return of post brought a reply to the effect that on inquiry at Mrs.
Clare&rsquo;s lodgings it had been found that she was temporarily out of town
and that the date of her return was uncertain. Evidently till she should have
returned nothing further could be done in the matter.
</p>

<p>
But at this time John Clare&rsquo;s wife was much nearer him that he was aware
of. The sudden appearance before her of the husband whom she had long believed
to be dead, and the astounding news of which he was the bearer, had combined to
produce in Giovanna&rsquo;s mind a feeling of bitter remorse, as regarded
certain episodes of the past, to which she had heretofore been a stranger. To
know that, as a consequence of her misdeeds, she had forfeited all a
mother&rsquo;s rights and privileges, that her daughter would be taught to
think of her either as of one dead, or, if as still living, as of one the mere
mention of whose name was enough to bring the blush of shame to her cheek, was
to drink deeply of the waters of Marah.
</p>

<p>
Her thoughts did not dwell much upon her husband; she had never greatly cared
for him, and she experienced no particular wish, even had such a thing been
possible, to be reconciled to him now. It was on the image of her unknown
daughter&mdash;of her little brown-eyed Netta, stolen from her so long ago and
now grown to woman&rsquo;s estate, that her mind perpetually dwelt. Her husband
had not deigned to tell her what strange chance had brought him and their
daughter together again, no more than he had condescended to enlighten her
about the facts of his own history from the time of her desertion of him; but
all that mattered nothing. The one fact that her daughter was alive, and, so to
speak, within reach of her hand, was all that concerned her. And yet in this
world they must never meet!
</p>

<p>
Yes, an hour&rsquo;s railway journey would have brought them together, and yet
were they as widely severed as if a thousand leagues of ocean rolled between
them. There was madness in the thought. Day and night it wrought in her brain.
She could neither eat nor sleep except by fits and starts at wide-apart
intervals. In a week&rsquo;s time she seemed to have aged half-a-dozen years.
Her only visitor was Luigi Rispani. Sometimes she welcomed his coming and was
grateful for his company; at others she wished him away that she might have
more leisure to indulge in the long fits of silent brooding to which she was
yielding up herself more day by day.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Luigi <i>mio</i>,&rdquo; she said to him one day, &ldquo;I want you to
go down to Mapleford and make certain inquiries for me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, aunt, with pleasure. What is it you wish me to ascertain?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I want you to pick up all the information you can about my
daughter&mdash;where and how my husband found her, with whom she has been
living all these years, and the name she has been passing under, together with
any other particulars it may be possible to ascertain. If you can, I should
like you to see her, so that you may be able to describe her to me. I would
give fifty sovereigns this moment for a photograph of her. You have a number of
acquaintances in Mapleford, and you ought to be able to bring quite a heap of
information back with you. Here are a couple of pounds for your
expenses.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Luigi pocketed the money with alacrity and departed. He turned over several
plans in his mind for obtaining the information wanted by his aunt, and at
length he decided that he would go down by an evening train on the morrow,
alight at Westwood, the station this side of Mapleford, where there would be
little risk of his being recognised, walk from there to Elm Lodge and seek an
interview with Everard Lisle. The latter had already proved, in a way not one
man out of a thousand would have done, how well disposed he was towards him,
and surely he would scarcely refuse to furnish him with the required
information. In any case, although the task was one he by no means relished, he
would go to Lisle first of all, and get from him all that he was disposed to
give.
</p>

<p>
But, by a curious chance, the need to do so was spared him.
</p>

<p>
The following afternoon as he was turning out of Tottenham-court Road into
Oxford Street, whom should he run against but Miss Jennings, the pretty
barmaid, the drinking of whose health on her birthday, not wisely but too
often, had been the proximate cause of Luigi&rsquo;s getting into such disgrace
with Sir Gilbert, since which occasion neither of them had seen anything of
each other. Miss J., who was nothing if not self-possessed, at once stopped,
smiled, and held out her hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, Mr. Clare, of all people in the world, who would have thought of
meeting you?&rdquo; said the girl.
</p>

<p>
Luigi noticed with a flutter of gratification that she still addressed him as
&ldquo;Mr. Clare,&rdquo; but the fact was that she did not know him by any
other name.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You see, London is such a little village,&rdquo; he smilingly replied,
&ldquo;that we can&rsquo;t very well help coming across everybody in it that we
know. But what brings you, Miss J., so far away from the snuggery of the
<i>King&rsquo;s Head?</i>&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then it came out that the girl was about to be married, and had come to spend a
short time with some relatives in London prior to that important event.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Many things have happened down Mapleford way, Mr. Clare,&rdquo; she
continued volubly; &ldquo;more especially at the Chase&mdash;even in the little
time since you gave us the go-by without saying a word to anybody.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what has happened at the Chase?&rdquo; queried Luigi, with a studied
air of indifference.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Law! haven&rsquo;t you heard? It&rsquo;s in everybody&rsquo;s mouth, how
Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s son that was believed to have been killed years ago has
come back home from foreign parts, and how since then the old gentleman has
discovered his long-lost granddaughter. The young lady had been staying at the
Chase for some time before Sir Gilbert discovered that she was his
granddaughter. But most likely you know her, for she was there part of the time
you were. The name she went by was Miss Ethel Thursby, and&mdash;&mdash; But I
see that you know her,&rdquo; for Luigi had given a violent start.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ethel Thursby Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s granddaughter!&rdquo; he exclaimed.
&ldquo;Are you sure of this, Miss J.?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite sure. As I said before, everybody is talking of it, but as to how
it all came about nobody seems to rightly know. Down at Mapleford you&rsquo;ll
hear half-a-dozen versions of the affair in as many hours, but in my opinion
they are one and all no better than guess-work, and so long as the few people
who know the truth choose to keep their mouths shut, which so far they seem to
have done, guess-work they are likely to remain.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was not till the afternoon of the following day that aunt and nephew met.
Giovanna was intensely interested in all that Luigi had to tell her. She made
him describe to her minutely what Ethel was like, and when she found that for a
short time they had sojourned together under the same roof, she questioned him
again and again about all the details relative to her with which his memory was
stored.
</p>

<p>
Then there came over her an irresistible longing to see her daughter&mdash;just
for once; just for once to gaze into her eyes, and, if it were possible, to
hear her speak. After that, she felt as if she should not greatly care what
became of her. She had settled on no plan for the future. Whether she should
remain, a lost unit, in the huge wilderness of London, or whether she should go
back to Catanzaro, where there still lived some who were related to her, was
just now a matter of no moment. She was consumed with a great thirst, and till
that should be slaked nothing else mattered.
</p>

<p>
On the opposite side of the park of Withington Chase to that on which Mapleford
is situated, in a pleasantly wooded hollow, nestles the obscure hamlet of
Chadswell. Here in an old farmhouse a lady who gave the name of Mrs. Lucas and
her nephew engaged apartments. It was an unusual time of year for anyone to
seek country lodgings, seeing that November was now well advanced, but that was
a matter for those who took the lodgings, and not for those who let them. The
hamlet lies about half-a-mile beyond the precincts of the Chase, and such of
its inhabitants as are desirous of going to and fro between it and Mapleford on
foot are in the habit of utilising a certain ancient right of way across the
lower end of the park, which effects a considerable saving of distance, as
compared with the high road, between the two places.
</p>

<p>
Aunt and nephew were of course none other than Giovanna and Luigi. The former
had been brought to Chadswell by an inordinate longing to set eyes on her
daughter (she could not have taken lodgings in Mapleford or its neighbourhood
without running the risk of recognition, which, above all things, she was
desirous of avoiding), and the latter had accompanied her at her special
request. To Luigi the whole business was insufferably dull and wearisome.
</p>

<p>
Not till the short November days were closing in did Giovanna set foot outside
her lodgings. Then, robed in black and thickly veiled, she made her way to the
park, entering it by the stile made use of by the villagers; but instead of
keeping to the public footpath, she turned sharply to the left in a straight
line for the Hall. At such a season and such an hour there was no one to note
her movements, and not till she reached the belt of shrubbery, intersected by
numerous walks, which sheltered the house on two of its sides, did she deem it
needful to exercise a little more circumspection. Luigi had given her to
understand that Ethel was addicted to rambling about the grounds alone (in
reality, he had known her too short a time to justify him in making any such
statement), and her hope was that she might chance to encounter her while thus
engaged.
</p>

<p>
And encounter her Giovanna did one dusky afternoon after she had been haunting
the precincts of the Chase for more than a week. It was not in what was termed
the shrubbery, but in the spinney that they met. News had been brought to the
Hall that Dulcie Rigg was lying ill at the Tower, and after luncheon Ethel had
walked across to inquire after the sick woman and make sure that she had all
she needed. It was while on her way back that she came face to face with her
mother.
</p>

<p>
Ethel could not help feeling somewhat startled when thus suddenly confronted by
the figure of a tall stranger clothed from head to foot in funereal black. The
stranger came to a halt full in front of her, and the path being of the
narrowest Ethel could not but do the same. It seemed to her that through the
interstices of the veil two eyes of a strangely penetrative quality were
eagerly scanning every feature of her face.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If I mistake not, you are Miss Ethel Clare, till lately known as Miss
Ethel Thursby,&rdquo; said the veiled woman in a low rich voice, which yet had
in it a tone that thrilled the girl, she knew not why.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is my name,&rdquo; replied Ethel with questioning eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have come far to see you and speak with you,&rdquo; went on the other.
&ldquo;Not that I wish to detain you more than a very few minutes,&rdquo; she
hastened to add. Then she paused, as hesitating what to say next. &ldquo;My
excuse for seeking you out and accosting you,&rdquo; she presently resumed,
&ldquo;must be that many, very many years ago I knew your mother.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; came in a low startled cry from Ethel&rsquo;s lips.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You do not remember your mother?&rdquo; said the stranger
interrogatively.
</p>

<p>
Ethel shook her head sadly, while tears gathered in her eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have heard something of your strange story, of how you and your father
have been brought together again after having been separated for so long a
time. But tell me this; does your father ever speak to you about your mother?
nay, has he ever so much as mentioned her name in your presence?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ethel hesitated a moment, then she said proudly, &ldquo;I am at a loss to know
why you, a stranger, should put such questions to me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The stranger sighed; to the girl it sounded like the sigh of an overwrought
heart.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do not ask them as one having a right to do so, but simply because I
knew and loved your mother when she and I were young together, and because I
remember you, an infant, lying in her arms.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If my father does not speak to me of her,&rdquo; said Ethel softly,
&ldquo;it is probably because she is dead.&rdquo; Then with a little catch of
her breath, she added, &ldquo;But you, who were her friend, doubtless know far
more about her than I can tell you; indeed, I can tell you nothing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The stranger&rsquo;s bosom was rising and falling as if with some hardly
suppressed emotion.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she presently said, &ldquo;I think my friend of long ago
must be dead; not that I speak as one who knows; and it must be to spare your
feelings that your father never mentions her name. But you will sometimes think
of her with kindly affection, will you not?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes&mdash;yes&mdash;that I will not fail to do,&rdquo; said Ethel in a
voice which was hardly more than a whisper.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is all you <i>can</i> do. And now I will detain you no longer. Let me
kiss you once; don&rsquo;t refuse me that, and then I will go!
</p>

<p>
As she spoke she lifted her veil, revealing to Ethel a countenance of noble
proportions, but worn and white as that of one newly-risen from a bed of
sickness, illumined by two eyes of midnight blackness, out of which there
looked at her a soul so anguished and fraught with a sort of dumb despair, that
the girl involuntarily recoiled a step. But only for an instant; the next both
her hands went out to those of the other and she felt herself drawn forward,
close&mdash;so close that she could feel the other&rsquo;s heart-beats against
her bosom. Then the beautiful pallid face was bent to hers, and soft kisses, a
dozen or more, such as those a mother bestows on her sleeping infant, were
showered on the lips, the eyes and the brow of the astonished girl,
interspersed with half-whispered exclamations in a language strange to Ethel,
but which sounded far more soft and musical than her own.
</p>

<p>
Then suddenly she felt herself released&mdash;it was all over in a minute at
the most&mdash;except that her hands were still imprisoned. For a space of some
half-dozen seconds the stranger&rsquo;s eyes seemed to be drinking in her every
lineament, as though she would fain fix them for ever in her memory. Then she
suddenly lifted the girl&rsquo;s hands to her lips, imprinted on them two
passionate kisses and dropped them abruptly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Farewell for ever,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Remember me in your
prayers.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As the last word left her lips, the veil fell like a shroud over the
ivory-white face and anguished eyes, and almost before Ethel realised it she
was alone.
</p>

<p class="p2">
It was late when Giovanna got back to her lodgings&mdash;so late that Luigi was
becoming seriously uneasy about her. It had been raining heavily since seven
o&rsquo;clock, and when she did arrive her garments were saturated. She
vouchsafed no explanation, and Luigi knew better than to ask her for any. But
he could not help looking at her, for two large hectic spots burnt in her
cheeks, and her eyes shone with a strange feverish light in which there was yet
a far-away look as though her mind were otherwhere, and she was only
half-conscious of the hour and her surroundings.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Good gracious, aunt, you are wet through!&rdquo; exclaimed Luigi after
watching her for a few moments. &ldquo;You will catch your death of
cold.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She came to herself, as it were, with a start.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is nothing, I never take cold,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;All the same,
I feel rather tired and will say goodnight at once, if you don&rsquo;t mind. I
am sorry if I have kept you up.&rdquo; Then laying a hand affectionately on his
shoulder, she added: &ldquo;I have seen her, Luigi <i>mio</i>, I have talked
with her, my arms have held her, my lips have touched hers! I am very, very
happy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Next mornings when she failed to come down at her usual hour, Luigi sent the
girl of the house to call her; but she was beyond the reach of any earthly
voice. She had died in her sleep peacefully and without a sound.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Disease of the heart of long standing, accelerated by cerebral
excitement,&rdquo; was the verdict of Dr. Mallory.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap51"></a>CHAPTER LI.<br />
SAFE IN PORT</h2>

<p>
The marriage of Everard Lisle and Ethel Thursby Clare did not take place till
the following April.
</p>

<p>
Sir Gilbert, his son, his granddaughter and Lady Pell spent the winter in the
South of France, where they were joined in February by Everard on his return
from Pineapple City, whither he had gone at John Clare&rsquo;s request (for Sir
Gilbert strongly objected to his son&rsquo;s going in person) to wind up his
affairs, which had been looked after during the past few months by a trusted
subordinate, and to dispose of the business.
</p>

<p>
But it now becomes requisite to go back a little, for many things had happened
before Sir Gilbert and the others got back to the Chase.
</p>

<p>
The first to whom our attention is due are the dear twin-sisters of Rose Mount.
</p>

<p>
On the morning of the day following that scene at the Chase when Sir Gilbert
had unconditionally sanctioned the engagement of his granddaughter to Everard
Lisle, Ethel asked her father whether he had any objection to her writing to
her &ldquo;aunts&rdquo; at Mapleford and informing them of all the wonderful
things which had befallen her in the course of the last four-and-twenty hours.
</p>

<p>
Not only had John Clare no objection to the sisters being informed, but he
suggested that instead of Ethel writing to them, Everard Lisle should be sent
to them as a special envoy, not only to tell them the news, but to bring them
back, <i>vi et armis</i>, on a long visit to the Chase.
</p>

<p>
It was a task which Everard accomplished to the satisfaction of everyone
concerned. Of the meeting between Ethel and the sisters, when at length the
latter had been persuaded into accepting Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s hospitality, and
of the genuine welcome accorded them, we have not space left to speak. It will
be enough to say that, a little later, at Sir Gilbert&rsquo;s earnest
persuasion, they agreed to leave Rose Mount and St. Oswyth&rsquo;s and make
their future home at Maylings (of which they were to become the tenants at a
nominal rent), where they would be next door, as one might say, to their
&ldquo;dear girl.&rdquo; That Tamsin should accompany them to their new home
was a foregone conclusion; indeed, it would not have seemed like home without
her.
</p>

<p>
John Clare&rsquo;s Christmas present to the sisters, to whom he felt himself so
deeply indebted, took the form of a pony and basket carriage. It was a luxury
which they had denied themselves ever since the break in their fortunes, but
with Vale View House let on a seven years&rsquo; lease the need for their doing
so no longer existed.
</p>

<p>
In the course of the winter Mrs. Tew was married, the man of her choice being
none other than Dr. Mallory, the most popular of the Mapleford <i>medicos</i>.
As Lady Pell said, the affair was quite a little romance. It appeared that the
canon&rsquo;s widow and the doctor had been in love with each other thirty
years before when they were young folk living in quite a different part of the
country. As is often the case, something had happened to separate them, and for
a quarter of a century or more they had wholly lost touch of each other; so
much so that for aught either of them knew the other might be dead. Chance, or
accident, one day brought them together, and to their mutual surprise they
discovered that the ashes on the altar of their early love which they had
believed to be long extinct, still smouldered, and needed nothing but
propinquity and favouring circumstances to fan them into a flame which one
might pretty safely assume would expire only with life itself.
</p>

<p>
If the canon&rsquo;s widow believed&mdash;which she did firmly&mdash;that Dr.
Mallory had lived unmarried all these years because he had never got over his
early disappointment, it was a charming belief, and certainly the doctor
himself would have been the last man to undeceive her.
</p>

<p>
Little now remains to be done save to furnish the reader with a few brief
particulars of the after fortunes of sundry of the characters with one or more
episodes of whose life-history the foregoing pages have been concerned.
</p>

<p>
First, then, as regards the Keymers, father and son.
</p>

<p>
With Launce Keymer it was the case of the trickster being tricked. Always on
the lookout for a woman with money, he met and was introduced to a widow, still
young and pretty, whose husband had died two years before, leaving her a
fortune of twenty-five thousand pounds. After having obtained a copy of the
late Mr. Witley&rsquo;s will from Somerset House, and so satisfied himself as
to the genuineness of the bequest, Keymer proposed and was accepted. Not till
after his marriage did he discover that nearly the whole of his wife&rsquo;s
fortune had been swallowed up in a huge banking failure which had occurred only
a few weeks prior to his introduction to her. So extreme was his disgust and
disappointment that, after having scraped together every shilling he could lay
hands on, he quietly levanted, presumably to the land of the stars and stripes,
and his newly married wife saw him no more.
</p>

<p>
Of Mr. Keymer, senior, it is enough to state that, partly as a consequence of
his second wife&rsquo;s extravagance, which he was morally too weak to curb;
partly owing to a growing neglect of his business, combined with, or the result
of, an increasing fondness for the cup which, whether it cheers or no, does
inebriate; and, lastly, because he found himself powerless to compete against
the new brewery which a wealthy London syndicate had lately established in St.
Oswyth&rsquo;s, he gradually drifted into the bankruptcy court, in the dreary
morasses of which we will leave him floundering.
</p>

<p>
It was scarcely likely that Ethel, in her good fortune, should forget the
existence of Miss Hetty Blair, the pretty nursery governess of Dulminster, who
once on a time had rendered her such an important service. And when she heard
that she was about to be married to a rising young lawyer of a distant town, a
very substantial proof of her regard accompanied her wishes for her happiness
and welfare.
</p>

<p>
Of Captain Verinder there is nothing pleasant to report. With such men as he it
seems almost inevitable that as they advance in years their failings and vices
should become accentuated, and that whatever virtues or good qualities they may
originally have been possessed of, should grow &ldquo;finer by degrees and
beautifully less.&rdquo; In point of fact, the Captain began to deteriorate and
go down-hill from the date of the collapse of his vile plot. He had built so
much on it that its failure thoroughly disheartened him, and afterwards he
scarcely seemed to care what became of him. His end was a sad one even for such
as he. His body was fished out of the river-ooze down Deptford way. An ugly
wound at the back of his head and his turned-out pockets told unequivocally how
he had come by his death.
</p>

<p>
Everything was done that could be done both by John Clare and Everard Lisle in
the way of benefiting Luigi Rispani and furnishing him with the opportunity of
earning an honourable livelihood, but to no purpose. By means of certain
influence which was brought to bear, three different situations were obtained
for him, not one of which he kept longer than a month or two. Simply to give
him money from time to time was merely helping to demoralise him still further.
At length a situation was found for him as drawing-master in a college of his
mother&rsquo;s sunny clime, and though he would never reach fame or fortune,
aware that he had now only his own endeavours to trust to, he managed to keep
his head above water, and earn a very modest livelihood.
</p>

<p>
Kirby Griggs, to whom, in one sense, John Clare felt that he owed so much, was
not forgotten by him. For the man himself he could do nothing, but he succeeded
in placing two of his sons with excellent City firms, and, by finding the
requisite premium, in having one of his daughters, who had a natural gift that
way, apprenticed to one of the best-known milliners at the West End.
</p>

<p>
In the course of the winter the marble tablet, which had been put up in the
church of St. Michael to the memory of John Alexander Clare, was quietly
removed.
</p>

<p>
When at length Sir Gilbert got back to the Chase, it was declared by everybody
who saw him that he seemed to have taken a fresh lease of life. And so indeed
he had, for when a man&rsquo;s constitution has nothing radically amiss with
it, happiness undoubtedly helps to lengthen our days, and Sir Gilbert had now
everything to render him happy. The MS. of his County History, so long laid
aside, was enthusiastically taken in hand again as soon as his grandson-in-law
returned from his honeymoon, and in the course of the following winter was
brought to a triumphant conclusion. The title-page records that it is the joint
production of &ldquo;Sir Gilbert Clare, Bart., and Everard Lisle Clare,&rdquo;
for before the marriage took place Sir Gilbert insisted upon the young man
taking out letters-patent authorising him to add to his own name the surname of
the ancient and honourable family of which he was about to become a member.
</p>

<p>
During the years of his expatriation, John Clare had devoted much of his spare
time to experimental physics. It is a study which exercises a potent charm over
such of its votaries as venture beyond the threshold of its temple of severe
delights, and in the laboratory, which John caused to be fitted up at the
Chase, he spent many happy hours in the effort to master those more abstruse
secrets, and to arrive at a more correct knowledge of those subtler elements of
the material universe, than the conditions of his life had heretofore allowed
of his doing.
</p>

<p>
A few parting words are due to Lady Pell. As soon as the wedding was over she
set out to pay a long-deferred round of visits, but by the middle of autumn she
was back at the Chase, which henceforward was <i>de facto</i> her home. It was
not to be expected that her restless proclivities would quite desert her, and
occasionally she would start off at an hour&rsquo;s notice, or no notice at
all, for some place a couple of hundred miles away, but always to come back
with increasing satisfaction, as time went on, to the old roof-tree, under
whose shadow, the romance of her life had had its beginning and its end.
</p>

<p>
Of Ethel and Everard what can be said in conclusion save that theirs was the
quiet happiness of well-ordered lives, of duties conscientiously performed, and
of unselfish devotion to the well-being of others? In such a soil the sweet
flower of content blooms perennially and changes not with the seasons as they
come and go.
</p>

<h4>THE END.</h4>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57950 ***</div>

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