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diff --git a/75876-0.txt b/75876-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..55bab5c --- /dev/null +++ b/75876-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7532 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75876 *** + + + + + + Transcriber’s Note + Italic text displayed as: _italic_ + + + + + LUCIUS DAVOREN + + OR + + PUBLICANS AND SINNERS + + A Novel + + BY THE AUTHOR OF + + ‘LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET’ + + ETC. ETC. ETC. + + IN THREE VOLUMES + + VOL. II. + + [Illustration] + + LONDON + + JOHN MAXWELL AND CO. + + 4 SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET + + 1873 + + [_All rights reserved_] + + + + + LONDON: + ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. II. + +[Illustration] + + + Book the First. + + (_Continued_). + + CHAP. PAGE + + XIV. GEOFFREY LEARNS THE WORST 1 + + XV. THE BEGINNING OF A MYSTERY 20 + + XVI. AN UNPLEASANT DISCOVERY 41 + + + Book the Second. + + I. GEOFFREY BEGINS A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY 64 + + II. LADY BAKER 82 + + III. LADY BAKER TELLS THE STORY OF THE PAST 91 + + IV. LUCIUS MAKES A CONFESSION 115 + + + Book the Third. + + I. A CHANGE CAME O’ER THE SPIRIT OF MY DREAM 132 + + II. LUCIUS IS PUZZLED 143 + + III. HOMER SIVEWRIGHT’S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT 151 + + IV. WHAT LUCIUS SAW BETWIXT MIDNIGHT AND MORNING 171 + + V. LUCIUS AT FAULT 183 + + VI. THE PLUNDER OF THE MUNIMENT CHEST 191 + + VII. THE HIDDEN STAIRCASE 217 + + VIII. MR. OTRANTO PRONOUNCES AN OPINION 228 + + IX. THE MYSTERY OF LUCILLE’S PARENTAGE 237 + + X. MYSTIC MUSIC 256 + + XI. AT FAULT 264 + + XII. TROUBLES THICKEN 273 + + + + +LUCIUS DAVOREN + + + + +Book the First. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +GEOFFREY LEARNS THE WORST. + + +They had dined, and the letter was written. A week-old moon shone +in the placid heaven; the tender night-stillness had descended upon +the always quiet town; lights twinkled gaily from the casements of +surrounding villas; like a string of jewels gleamed the lamps of the +empty High-street. The slow river wound his sinuous course between the +rushes and the willows with scarce a ripple. No sweeter air could have +breathed among the leaves, no calmer sky could have o’er-canopied this +earth on that night in Verona when young Romeo stole into Capulet’s +garden under the midnight stars. It was a night made for lovers. + +The clock struck the half hour after nine as Geoffrey left the hotel, +with his friend’s letter in his pocket; assuredly a strange hour in +which to visit a lady who had forbidden him to visit her at all. But a +man who feels that he is taking a desperate step will hardly stop to +consider the details of time or place which may render it a little more +or less desperate. + +To approach the woman he loved armed with a letter from another man; to +bring a stranger’s influence to bear upon her who had been deaf to his +most passionate pleading; to say to her, ‘I myself have failed to touch +your heart, but here is my bosom friend’s prayer in my behalf: will you +grant to his vicarious wooing the grace you have persistently denied to +me?’—what could seem madder, more utterly desperate, than such a course +as this? + +Yet women are doubtless strange creatures—a fact which those classic +poets and satirists whose opinions it had been his pleasing task to +study had taken pains to impress on Mr. Hossack’s mind. He remembered +Mrs. Bertram’s agitation in that brief scene with Lucius, her exalted +sense of gratitude. It was just possible that she really might regard +him, even at this hour, as the preserver of her child’s life—second +only to Providence in that time of trouble. And if she thought of him +thus, his influence might have some weight. + +‘Dear old fellow!’ thought Geoffrey affectionately; ‘he wouldn’t let me +see the letter. I daresay he has given me no end of a character,—like +other written characters, which are generally of the florid +order—praised me up to the skies. Will his eloquence move her to pity +me, I wonder? I fear not. And I feel odiously caddish, going to deliver +my own testimonials.’ + +If he could have faced Lucius with any grace, it is possible that he +would have turned back, even on the very threshold of Mrs. Bertram’s +tiny garden. But after bringing his friend down from London, could he +be so churlish as to reject his aid, let it be offered in what manner +so ever? + +He plucked up his courage at sight of the lamp in her window—a gentle +light. The upper half of the casement was open, and he heard the dreamy +arpeggios of one of Mendelssohn’s Lieder played by the hand whose +touch even his untutored ear knew so well. In another minute he was +admitted by a neat little servant, who opened the door of the parlour +unhesitatingly, and ushered him straightway in, assured that he had +come to propose a new pupil, and regarding him as the harbinger of +fortune. + +‘A gentleman, if you please ’m, to see you.’ + +Mrs. Bertram rose from the piano, the graceful figure he knew so well, +in the plain black dress, just as he had seen her the first time at the +morning concert in Manchester-square—a certain lofty pose of the head, +the dark eyes looking at him with a grave steady look, after just one +briefest flash of glad surprise, just one faint quiver of the perfect +lips. + +‘Mr. Hossack!’ + +‘Yes, I know you have forbidden me to call upon you, and yet I dare to +come, at this unseasonable hour, in defiance of your command. Forgive +me, Mrs. Bertram, and for pity’s sake hear me. A man cannot go on +living for ever betwixt earth and heaven. A time has come when I feel +that I must either leave this place, and,’ with a faint tremble in his +voice, ‘all that makes it dear to me, or remain to be happier than I +am—happy, at least, in the possession of some sustaining hope. You +remember my friend Davoren—’ + +Remember him! Her cheek blanched even at the mention of his name. + +‘The doctor who came down to see your daughter?’ + +‘Yes,’ she said, looking at him strangely; ‘I am not likely to forget +Mr. Davoren.’ + +‘You are too grateful for a trifling service. Well, Davoren, my dear +old friend, the best and truest friend I have, is here again.’ + +‘Here!’ she cried, looking towards the door as if she expected to see +it open to admit him. ‘O, I should so like to see him again.’ + +‘He will be only too proud to call upon you to-morrow; but in the mean +time he—Mrs. Bertram, you must forgive me for what I am going to say. +Remember, Davoren is my friend, as near and dear to me as ever brother +was to brother. I have told him the story of my hopeless love—’ + +‘O, pray, pray, not that subject!’ she said, with a little movement of +her hand, half in warning, half entreaty. + +‘I have told him all,’ continued Geoffrey, undeterred by that +deprecating gesture, ‘and he has written to you, believing that his +influence might move you a little in my favour. You will not refuse +to read his letter, will you, Mrs. Bertram, or feel offended by his +interference?’ + +‘No,’ she said, holding out her hand to receive the letter; ‘I can +refuse him nothing.’ + +She betrayed neither surprise nor anger, but read the letter, which was +somewhat long, with deepest interest. Her countenance, as she read, +watched closely by her lover, betrayed stronger emotion than he had +ever yet seen in that inscrutable face. Tears gathered on her eyelids +ere she had finished, and at the end a half-stifled sob burst from that +proud bosom. + +‘_His_ eloquence has more power than mine,’ said Geoffrey, with +kindling jealousy. + +‘He pleads well,’ she answered, with a slow sad smile—‘pleads as few +men know how to plead for another. He urges me to be very frank with +you, Mr. Hossack; bids me remember the priceless worth of a heart as +true and noble as that you have offered me; entreats me, for the sake +of my own happiness and of yours, to tell you the wretched story of +my past life. And if, when all is told, wisdom or honour counsels you +to leave me, why,’ with a faint broken laugh, ‘you have but to bid me +good-bye, and go away, disenchanted and happy.’ + +‘Happy without you! Never; nor do I believe your power to disenchant +me.’ + +‘Do not promise too much. My—this letter bids me do what, of my own +free will, I never could have done—tell you the story of my life. +Perhaps I had better write to you; yet no, it might be still more +difficult. I will tell you all, at once. And then hate me or despise +me, as you will. You must at least remember that I have never courted +your love.’ + +‘I know that you have been the most cruel among women, the most +inexorable—’ + +‘I was not so once, but rather the weakest. Hear my story, as briefly, +as plainly as I can tell it. Years ago I was a guest at a great lady’s +house—a visitor among people who were above me in rank, but who were +pleased to take a fancy to me, as the phrase goes, because I had some +little talent for music. I sang and played well enough to amuse them +and their guests. The lady was an amateur, raved about music, and +delighted in bringing musical people about her. Among her favourites +when I visited her was one who had a rare genius—a man with whom +music was a second nature, whose whole being seemed to be absorbed +by his art. Violinist, pianist, organist, with a power of passionate +expression that gave a new magic even to the most familiar melodies, he +seemed the very genius of music. I heard him, and, like my patroness, +was enchanted. She was amused to see my delight; threw us much +together; wove a little romance out of our companionship; made us play +and sing together; and in a word, with the most innocent and kindly +intentions, prepared the way for my deepest misery.’ + +‘You loved this man!’ cried Geoffrey, ready to hate him on that ground. + +‘Loved him! I thought so then. There are times when I believe I never +really loved him, that the glamour which he cast around me was only the +magic of his art. But for the time being my mind was utterly subjugated +by his influence; I had no thought but of him, and, fascinated by his +genius, deemed him worthy of a self-sacrificing love. He was a creature +of mystery—a mere waif and stray, admitted to the house where I met him +on no better recommendation than his genius. He had the manners and +education of a gentleman, the eccentricities of an artist. He asked me +to be his wife, disregarded my refusal, pursued me with an unwearying +persistence, and, aided by the wondrous power of his genius, triumphed +over every argument, conquered every opposition, wrung from me my +consent to a secret union. It would be useless to repeat his specious +statements—his pretended reasons for desiring a secret marriage. I was +weak enough, wicked enough, to consent to the arrangement he proposed; +but not until after many a bitter struggle.’ + +‘Why pain yourself by these wretched memories?’ exclaimed Geoffrey. +‘Tell me nothing except that you will be my wife. I will take all the +rest upon trust. There is no such thing as truth or purity in woman if +you are not worthy of an honest man’s love.’ + +‘You shall hear me to the end,’ she answered quietly, ‘and then +pronounce whether I am or not. The house in which we were visitors was +only two miles from a cathedral city. He of whom I have been speaking—’ + +‘Mr. Bertram.’ + +‘I will call him Bertram, although I am bound to tell you that name is +not the true one. Mr. Bertram proposed a marriage before the registrar +in the cathedral town. We both had been long enough resident in the +neighbourhood for the necessary notice. Indeed, that notice had been +given some days before I gave my most reluctant consent. At the last, +harassed by Mr. Bertram’s importunity, loving him with a girl’s first +romantic fancy, and believing that I was the object of a most devoted +love, without an adviser or friend at hand to whom I could appeal, +conscious that I was guilty of ingratitude and disobedience towards the +dearest and best of parents, I suffered myself to be hurried into this +wretched union. We walked across the park early one morning, and went +to the registrar’s office, where the brief form was gone through, and +my lover told me I was his wife. I went home that very day, for the +necessity of a fortnight’s notice to the registrar had deferred the +marriage to the last day of my visit. I went back to the parents who +loved and trusted me, weighed down by the burden of my guilty secret.’ + +‘Was Mr. Bertram’s rank superior to yours? and was that his reason for +secrecy?’ asked Geoffrey. + +‘He made me believe as much. He told me that he hazarded position and +fortune by marrying me, and I believed him. I was not quite nineteen, +and had been brought up in a small country town, brought up by people +to whom falsehood was impossible. You may suppose that I was an easy +dupe. Some time after my return he appeared in our little town. I +implored him to tell my father and mother, or to let me tell them of +our marriage. He refused, giving me his reasons for that refusal; using +the same arguments he had employed before, and to which I was obliged +to submit, reluctantly enough, Heaven knows. But when he claimed me as +his wife, and reminded me that I was bound to follow his fortunes, I +refused to obey. I told him that the marriage before the registrar had +to me seemed no marriage at all, and that I would never leave home and +kindred for his sake until I had stood before God’s altar by his side. +This, which he called a mere school-girl prejudice, made him angry; +but after a time he gave way, and told me that I should be satisfied. +He would marry me in my father’s church, but our union must not the +less remain a secret. He had a friend, a curate in a London parish, who +would come down to perform the ceremony quietly one morning, without +witnesses. The marriage before the registrar was ample for all legal +purposes, he told me. This marriage in the church was to be only for +the satisfaction of my conscience, and it mattered not how informal it +might be. No witnesses would be wanted, no entry need be made in the +Register.’ + +‘Never shall I forget that day—the empty church wrapt in shadow, the +rain beating against the great window over the altar, the face of the +stranger who read the service, the dreary sense of loneliness and +helplessness that crept about my heart as I stood by the side of him +for whom I was now to forsake all I had loved. Never, surely, was there +a more mournful wedding. I felt guilty, miserable, despairing, my heart +at this last hour clinging most fondly to those from whom I was about +to sever myself, perhaps for life. When the service ended, the stranger +who had read it looked at me in a curious way and left the church, +after a little whispered talk with my husband. When he had gone, +Bertram went straight to the organ—that organ on which he had played +for many an hour during the last few weeks—and struck the opening +chords of the “Wedding March.” + +“Come, Janet,” he cried, “let us have our triumphal music, if we have +no other item in the pageantry of a wedding.” + +‘He played, as he always played, like a man who, for the time being, +lived only in music; but for my overburdened heart even that magic had +no soothing influence. I left the organ-loft, and went down-stairs +again. Here, in the dimly-lighted aisle, I almost stumbled against the +stranger who had read the marriage-service. + +“I was anxious to see you,” he began, in a nervous hesitating way, and +very slowly—“anxious to be assured that all was right. You have been +already married before the registrar, your husband informs me, and +this ceremonial of to-day is merely for the satisfaction of your own +conscience; yet I am bound to inform you—” + +‘The last notes of the “Wedding March” had pealed out from the old +organ before this, and I heard my husband’s footstep behind me as the +stranger spoke. He came quickly to the spot where we stood, and put my +arm through his. + +“I thought I told you, Leslie, that my wife has had the whole business +fully explained to her,” he said. + +‘The stranger muttered something which sounded like an apology, bowed +to me, wished my husband good-bye, and hurried away. If he had come +back to the church to give me friendly counsel or timely warning, he +quitted it with his intention unfulfilled. + +‘I left my father’s house secretly at daybreak next morning, half +heartbroken. I have no excuse to plead for this wicked desertion of +parents who had loved me only too well; or only the common excuse that +I loved the man who tempted me away from them—loved him above duty, +honour, self-respect. I left the dear old home where I had been so +happy, conscious that I left it under a cloud. Only in the future could +I see myself reestablished in the love and confidence of my father and +mother; but Mr. Bertram assured me that future was not far off. Of the +bitter time that followed, I will speak as briefly as possible. Mine +was a wretched wandering life, linked with a man whom I discovered but +too soon to be utterly wanting in honour or principle; a life spent +with one whose only profession was to prey upon his fellow men; who +knew no scruple where his own advantage was in question; whom I soon +knew to be relentless, heartless, false to the very core. Heaven knows +it is hard to say all this of one I had so deeply loved, for whom I +had hazarded and lost so much. Enough that the day came when I could +no longer endure the dishonour of association with him; when I felt +that I would sooner go out into the bleak world of which I knew so +little, and commit my own fate and my child’s to the mercy of God, than +share the degradation of a life sustained by fraud. I told my husband +as much: that finding all my endeavours to persuade him to alter his +mode of life worse than useless, since they led only to bursts of +scornful anger on his part, I had resolved to leave him, and live as I +best might by my own industry, or, if God pleased, starve. He heard my +decision with supreme indifference, and turning to me with the bitter +smile I knew so well, said: + +“I congratulate you on having arrived at so wise a decision. The +matrimonial fetters have galled us both. I thought you a clever woman, +and a fitting helpmeet for a man who has to live by his wits. I find +you a puling fool, with a mind cramped by the teaching of a country +parsonage. Our union has been a mistake for both; but I am happy +to inform you that it is not irrevocable. Our marriage before the +registrar and our marriage in the church are alike null and void; for +I had a wife living at the time, and, for aught I know, have still.”’ + +‘The consummate scoundrel,’ cried Geoffrey, with a smothered curse; +‘but why do you tell me these things? why torture yourself by recalling +them? However wronged by this villain, in my eyes you are purest among +the pure.’ + +‘I have little more to tell. He took the initiative, and left me with +my child in furnished lodgings in a garrison town, where he had found +profitable society among the officers of the regiment then quartered +there, and had distinguished himself by his skill at billiards. He left +me penniless, and at the mercy of the lodging-house-keeper, to whom +he owed a heavy bill. I will not trouble you with the details of my +life from this point. Happily for me, the woman was merciful. I freely +surrendered the few trinkets I possessed, and she suffered me to depart +unmolested with my own and my child’s small stock of clothes. I removed +to humbler lodgings, gave lessons in music and singing, struggled +on, paid my way, and after some time left the town with my child and +came straight to London, glad to be lost in that ocean of humanity. +I had heard before this of the death of both my parents—heard with a +remorseful grief which I shall continue to suffer till my dying day: +the sin of ingratitude such as mine entails a lifelong punishment. +I was therefore quite alone in the world. I think if it had not been +for my little girl I could hardly have survived so much misery, hardly +have faced a future so hopeless. But that one tie bound me to life—that +sweet companionship made sorrow endurable—lent a brightness even to my +darkest days. I have no more to tell; God has been very good to me. All +my efforts have prospered.’ + +‘I know not how to thank you for this confidence,’ said Geoffrey, ‘for +to my mind it removes every barrier between us, if you only can return, +in some small measure, the love I have given you, and which must be +yours till the end of my life.’ + +‘You forget,’ she said sadly, ‘he who is in my estimation my husband +still lives; or, at least, I have had no evidence of his death.’ + +‘What! you would hold yourself bound by a tie which he told you was +worthless?’ + +‘I swore before God’s altar, in my father’s church, to cleave to him +till death should part us. If he perjured himself, there is no reason +why I should break my vow. I left him because to live with him was to +participate in a life of fraud and dishonour, but I hold him not the +less my husband. If you have any doubt of the story I have told you, +the books of the registrar at Tyrrelhurst, in Hampshire, will confirm +my story.’ + +‘If I doubt you!’ cried Geoffrey. ‘I am as incapable of doubting you +as you are of falsehood. But for Heaven’s sake abandon this idea of +holding by a marriage which was from first to last a lie!’ + +Then followed passionate pleading, met by a resolution so calm, yet +so inflexible, that in the end Geoffrey Hossack felt his prayers were +idle, and farther persistence must needs degenerate into persecution. + +‘Be it so!’ he exclaimed at last, angry and despairing; ‘you have been +consistently cruel from the first. Why did you suffer me to love you, +only to break my heart? Since it must be so, I bid you farewell, and +leave you to the satisfaction of remaining true to a scoundrel.’ + +He hurried from the room and from the house, not trusting himself +with a last look at the face which had wrought this fever in his +brain; rushed away through the tranquil summer night, neither knowing +nor caring where he went, but wandering on by the grassy banks that +followed the sinuous river, by farm and homestead, lock and weir, under +the shadow of hill and wood. It was nearly three hours after midnight +when the sleepy Boots admitted Mr. Hossack to the respectable family +hotel, and Lucius Davoren was waiting for him, full of anxiety and even +fear. + +‘If I had known anything of this place, I should have come out in +search of you, Geoffrey,’ he said. ‘It isn’t the kindest thing in the +world to ask a man to come down here to see you, and then leave him +for five mortal hours under the apprehension that you have come to an +untimely end.’ + +Geoffrey wiped the travel stains from his forehead with a long-drawn +sigh. + +‘I was too downhearted to come straight home,’ he said, ‘so I went for +a walk. I suppose I walked a little too far, but don’t be angry, old +fellow. I’m as nearly broken-hearted as a man can be.’ + +‘Did she tell you all?’ + +‘Everything; a dismal story, but one that proves her to be all I have +ever believed her—sinned against but sinless. And now, Lucius, can you +explain how it was that your letter could influence her to do what she +would have never done for my sake?’ + +‘Easily. You have proved yourself a true-hearted fellow, Geoffrey, and +I’ll trust you with a secret—Mrs. Bertram is my sister.’ + +‘Your sister?’ cried Geoffrey, with supreme astonishment. + +‘Yes, the sister whose name I have not uttered for years, but whom I +have never ceased to love. My sister Janet, who left her home eight +years ago under a cloud of mystery, and whose wrongs I then swore to +avenge.’ + +‘How long have you known this—that my Mrs. Bertram and your sister were +one and the same person?’ + +‘Only since I came to Stillmington to see the little girl.’ + +‘Then this explains her emotion that night. Thank God! Dear old +Lucius—and now, as you love her, as you love me, your friend and +companion in the days of our youth—use your influence with her, +persuade her to abandon all memory of that villain, to blot him out of +her life as if he had never been.’ + +‘I have tried that already, and failed. I thought your love might +accomplish what my arguments could not achieve. I fear the case is +hopeless. But my duty as a brother remains, to find this man, if +possible, and ascertain for myself whether the marriage was legal or +not. He may have told Janet that story of another wife out of pure +malice.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +THE BEGINNING OF A MYSTERY. + + +Lucius had a long interview with Mrs. Bertram on the following morning, +and he and Geoffrey left Stillmington together in the afternoon; to the +despair of the proprietor of the family hotel, who had not had such a +customer as Mr. Hossack for many years, not even during that halcyon +period which he spoke of fondly as ‘our ’untin’ season.’ They travelled +to London by the same express-train, having a long and friendly talk on +the way, Geoffrey _en route_ for Christiana, with a view to shooting +grouse among the Norwegian hills, and if it were possible in some +measure to stifle the pangs of hopeless love in the keen joys of the +sportsman; Lucius to return to the beaten round of a parish doctor’s +life, brightened only by those happy hours which he spent in the old +house with Lucille. + +It was too late to visit Cedar House on the evening of his return from +Stillmington, so Lucius and Geoffrey dined, or supped, together at the +Cosmopolitan, and had, what the latter called, ‘a gaudy night;’ a +night of prolonged and confidential talk rather than of deep drinking, +however; for Lucius was the most temperate of men, and with Geoffrey +pleasure never meant dissipation. They talked of the future; and hope +kindled in Geoffrey’s breast as they talked. Not always would Fate be +inexorable; not always would the woman he loved be inaccessible to his +prayers. + +‘I could hardly bear my life if it were not for one fond hope,’ he +said; ‘and even that is, perhaps, a delusion. I believe that she loves +me.’ + +‘I know she does,’ replied Lucius; and the two men grasped hands across +the table. + +‘She has told you!’ cried Geoffrey, rapture gleaming in his honest face. + +‘She has told me. Yes, Geoffrey, a love such as yours deserves some +recompense. My sister confessed that you had made yourself only too +dear to her; that but for the tie which she deems binding until death +she would have been proud to become your wife.’ + +‘God bless her! Yes, I have been buoyed up by the belief in her love, +and that will sustain me still. Did she tell you nothing of that +wretch—her husband—nothing that may serve as a clue for you to hunt him +down?’ + +‘Very little; or very little more than I already knew. She gave me a +general description of the man; but she possesses no likeness of him, +so even that poor clue is wanting. The name he bore was doubtless an +assumed one, therefore that can help us little. But the strangest part +of all this strange story is—’ + +‘What, Lucius?’ + +‘That the description of this man, Vandeleur—that was the name +under which he married my sister—tallies in many respects with the +description of another man, whose fate I have pledged myself to +discover; a man who had the same genius for music, and was as complete +a scoundrel.’ + +Hereupon Lucius told his friend the story of his engagement to Lucille +Sivewright, and the condition attached to its fulfilment, to which +Geoffrey lent an attentive ear. + +‘You say this man sailed for Spanish America in the year ’53. Your +sister was married in ’58. How, then, can you suppose that Lucille’s +father and the man calling himself Vandeleur are one and the same +person?’ + +‘There would have been ample time for Sivewright to have grown tired of +America between ’53 and ’58.’ + +‘So there might. Yet it seems altogether gratuitous to suppose any +identity between the two men. Musical genius is not so exceptional a +quality; nor is scoundrelism the most uncommon of attributes to be +found among the varieties of mankind.’ + +They discussed the subject at length in all its bearings. It was a +relief to Lucius to unburden his mind to the friend he loved and +trusted; the chosen companion of so many adventures; the man whose +shrewd sense he had never found wanting in the hour of difficulty. +They talked long and late, and Lucius slept at the Cosmopolitan, and +returned to the Shadrack district at an hour when the domestics of that +popular hotel were only just opening their weary eyelids on the summer +morning. + +He spent his day in the accustomed round of toil; had double work +to do in consequence of his brief holiday; found the atmosphere +of the Shadrack-road heavy and oppressive in the sultry noontide, +after the clearer air and bluer skies of the hills and woods round +Stillmington. And that all-pervading aspect of poverty which marked +the streets and alleys of his parish struck him more keenly after +the smug respectability and prosperous trimness of Stillmington’s +dainty High-street and newly-erected villas. He travelled over the +beaten track somewhat wearily, and felt ever so little inclined to +envy Geoffrey, who was by this time hurrying across the face of the +sun-dappled country-side, in the Hull express, on the first stage to +Norway. But he was no whit less patient than usual in his attention to +the parish invalids; and when the long day was done he turned homeward +hopefully, to refresh himself after his labours before presenting +himself at Cedar Lodge. + +It was dusk when Mrs. Wincher admitted him into the blossomless +courtyard. Mr. Sivewright had retired for the night, but Lucille was at +work in the parlour, Mrs. Wincher informed him, with her protecting air. + +‘You never come anigh us yesterday, nor yet the day before, Dr. +Davory,’ she said, ‘and Mr. Sivewright was quite grumptious about +it—said as he began to feel you was neglecting of him. “It serves me +right,” he said, “for believin’ as any doctor would go on caring for +his patient without the hope of a fee;” but I took him up sharp enough, +and told him he ought to know you’d never looked at your attendance +here from a fanatical pint of view.’ + +‘Meaning financial, I suppose, Mrs. Wincher?’ + +‘O lor, yes, if you like it better pernounced that way. I gave it him +up-right and down-straight, you may be sure.’ + +‘It was very good of you to defend the absent. Nothing but absolute +necessity would have kept me away from this house even for two days. +Has Miss Sivewright been quite well?’ + +Mrs. Wincher hesitated before replying, and Lucius repeated his +question anxiously. + +‘Well, yes; I can’t say as there’s been anythink amiss with her. Only +yesterday evening,’ here Mrs. Wincher dropped her voice, and came very +close to him, with a mysterious air, ‘between the lights—blind man’s +holiday, as my good gentleman calls it in his jocose way—she gave me +a bit of a turn. She’d been walking in the garden, and down by that +blessed old wharf, where there’s nothink better than stagnant mud and +strange cats for anybody to look at, and it might be just about as dark +as it is now, when she came past the window of the boothouse, where I +happened to be scouring my saucepans and such-like; for the work do get +behindhand in this great barrack of a place. You know the boothouse, +don’t you, Dr. Davory,—the little low building with the peaky roof, +just beyond the laundry?’ + +‘Yes, I know. Go on, pray.’ + +‘Well, she came past the window, looking so pale and strange, with her +hands clasped upon her forehead, as if she’d been struck all of a heap +by somethink as had frightened her. I bounced out upon her sudding, +and I suppose that scared her all the more; for she gave a little +skreek, and seemed as if she’d have dropped on the ground. “Lor, Miss +Lucille,” says I, “it’s only me. What in goodness name’s the matter?” +But she turned it off in her quiet way, and said she’d only felt a +little dull and lonesome-like without you. “Miss Lucille,” says I, +“you look for all the world as if you’d seen a ghost.” And she looks +at me with her quiet smile, and says, “People do see ghosts sometimes, +Wincher; but I’ve seen none to-night;” and then all of a sudding she +gives way, and busts out crying. “Astaricall,” says I; and I takes her +into the parlour, and makes her lie down on the sofa, and biles up the +kittle with half a bundle of wood, and makes her a cup of tea, and +after that she comes round again all right. You mustn’t let out to her +that I’ve told you about it, Dr. Davory; for she begged and prayed of +me not to say a word, only I thought it my bonding duty to tell you.’ + +‘And you were right, Mrs. Wincher. No, I’ll not betray you. This dismal +old house is enough to blight any life. How I wish I could take her to +a brighter home without delay!’ + +‘I’m sure I wish you could,’ answered Mrs. Wincher heartily; ‘for I +must say there never was a house that less repaid the trouble of +cleaning, or weighed heavier on the spirits.’ + +This little exchange of confidences had taken place in the forecourt, +where Mrs. Wincher had detained Mr. Davoren while she disburdened her +bosom of its weight. + +Lucius went straight to the parlour, where Lucille was seated before +a formidable pile of household linen—table-cloths in the last stage +of attenuation, sheets worn threadbare, which she was darning with a +sublime patience. She looked up as Lucius entered the room, and a faint +flush lighted up the pale face at sight of her lover. Yet, despite +her pleasure at his return, he saw that she had changed for the worse +during his brief absence. The transient glow faded from her cheek, and +left her paler than of old; the hand Lucius held in both his own was +burning with a slow fever. + +‘My dearest,’ he said anxiously, ‘has anything been amiss in my +absence?’ + +‘Was not your absence itself amiss?’ she asked, with the faintest +possible smile. ‘I have been very dull and very sad without you; that +is all.’ + +‘And you have fretted yourself into a fever. O, Lucille, end all +difficulties; make no impossible conditions, and let me take you +away from this great lonely house very soon. I cannot give you the +fair home we have talked about yet awhile—it may even be long before +prosperity comes to us; but all that patience and courage can do to +achieve fortune, I will do for your dear sake. I would not ask you to +share debt or poverty, Lucille; I would not urge you to link your fate +with mine if I did not see my way to a secure position, if I had not +already the means of providing a decent home for my sweet young bride.’ + +‘Do you think that the fear of poverty has ever influenced me? No, +Lucius, you must know me better than that. But I will not let you +burden yourself too soon with a wife. Believe me, I am more than +content. I am very happy in my present life, for I see you nearly every +day. And I would not leave my poor old grandfather in his declining +years. Let us think of our marriage as something still a long way +off—in that happy future which it is so sweet to talk and dream about. +Only, Lucius,’ she went on in a faltering tone, and with a downward +look in the eyes that were wont to meet his own so frankly, ‘you spoke +just now of my having imposed too hard a condition upon you—you meant, +of course, with regard to my father?’ + +‘Yes, dear.’ + +‘I have been thinking a great deal about this subject in your absence, +and have come to see it in a new light. The condition was too +difficult; forget that I ever imposed it. I am content to know no more +of my father’s fate than I know already.’ + +‘This change is very sudden, Lucille.’ + +‘No, it is not sudden. I have had ample time for thought in these two +long days. I had no right to ask so much of you. Let my father’s fate +be what it may, neither you nor I could have power to alter it.’ + +It happened somewhat strangely that this release was not altogether +welcome to Lucius. He had thought his mistress unreasonable before; he +thought her capricious now. + +‘I have no desire in this business except to obey you,’ he said +somewhat coldly. ‘Am I to understand, then, that I am absolved from my +promise? I am to make no farther effort to discover Mr. Sivewright’s +fate.’ + +‘No farther effort. I renounce altogether the idea of tracing out my +father’s life.’ + +‘You are content to remain in utter ignorance of his fate—not to know +whether he is living or dead?’ + +‘He is in God’s hands. What could my feeble help do for him?’ + +‘And after cherishing the idea of finding him all these years, you +abandon the notion at once and for ever?’ + +‘Yes. You think me changeable—frivolous, perhaps?’ with a faint sigh. + +‘Forgive me, Lucille. I cannot help thinking you just a little +capricious. I am naturally very glad to be released from the task you +imposed upon me, which I felt was almost impossible. Yet I can but +wonder that your opinions should undergo so complete a change. However, +I do not question the wisdom of your present decision. I have placed +the business in the hands of Mr. Otranto, the detective. You wish me to +withdraw it—to forbid farther inquiries on his part.’ + +‘Yes! It will be better so. He is not likely to discover the truth. He +would only raise false hopes, to end in bitter disappointment.’ + +‘His manner was certainly far from hopeful when I put the case before +him. But these men have an extraordinary power of hunting up evidence. +He might succeed.’ + +‘No, no, Lucius. He would only lure you on to spend all your +hardly-earned money, and fail at last. Tell him your inquiry is at an +end. And now let us say no more about this painful subject. You are +not angry with me Lucius, for having caused you so much trouble?’ + +‘It is impossible for me to be angry with you, Lucille,’ answered the +surgeon; and then followed the foolish lovers’ talk, at which Mrs. +Wincher (presently appearing with the supper tray, whereon was set +forth a banquet consisting of a plate of hard biscuits and a tumbler of +London milk, for Lucille’s refreshment), assisted in her capacity of +duenna and guardian angel, for half an hour of unalloyed bliss; after +which she escorted Lucius to the grim old gate, like a state prisoner +led across the garden of the Tower on his way to execution. + +‘I shall come early to-morrow to see your grandfather,’ said Lucius to +Lucille at parting. + +He went home lighter-hearted than usual. It was a relief to be rid of +that troublesome search for a man who seemed to have vanished utterly +from human ken. He wrote to Mr. Otranto, the detective, that very +night, bidding him abandon the inquiry about Ferdinand Sivewright. + +Mr. Sivewright received his medical attendant with a somewhat fretful +air next morning, and Lucius was both shocked and surprised to discover +that a change for the worse had occurred in his patient during his +absence. There was a touch of fever that was new to the case—a nervous +depression, such as he had not found in the invalid for some time past. +But this change seemed the effect of mental excitement rather than of +physical weakness. + +‘Why did you leave me so long?’ asked Mr. Sivewright peevishly. ‘But +I am a fool to ask such a question. I pay you nothing, and it is not +likely you would allow any consideration for my comfort to stand in the +way of your pleasures.’ + +‘I have not been taking pleasure,’ answered Lucius quietly, ‘nor +could I give you more honest service than I do now were you to pay me +five hundred a year for my attendance. Why are you always so ready to +suspect me of sordid motives?’ + +‘Because I have never found mankind governed by any other motives,’ +replied the old man. ‘However, I daresay I wrong you. I like you, +and you have been very good to me; so good that I have come to lean +upon you as if you were indeed that staff of my age which I ought to +have found in a son. I am glad you have come back. Do you believe in +sinister influences, in presentiments of approaching misfortune? Do you +believe that Death casts a warning shadow across our path when he draws +near us?’ + +‘I believe that invalids are fanciful,’ answered Lucius lightly; ‘you +have been thinking too much during my absence.’ + +‘Fanciful!’ repeated Mr. Sivewright with a sigh, ‘yes, it may have +been nothing more than a sick man’s fancy. Yet I have seemed to feel a +shadowy presence in this house—the unseen presence of an enemy. There +have been strange sounds too in the long sleepless night—not last +night, all was quiet enough then—but on the previous night; sounds of +doors opening and shutting; stealthily opened, stealthily closed, but +not so quietly done as to cheat my wakeful ears. Once I could have +sworn that I heard voices; yet when I questioned both the Winchers next +morning they declared they had heard nothing.’ + +‘Did you say anything to Lucille about these noises?’ + +‘Not a word. Do you think I would scare that poor lonely child? No, +the house is dreary enough. I won’t put the notion of ghosts or other +midnight intruders into her head; girls’ brains are quick enough to +grow fancies.’ + +‘There was wisdom in that reserve,’ said Lucius; and then he went on +thoughtfully, ‘The noises you heard were natural enough, I have no +doubt. Old houses are fruitful of phantoms; doors loosely fastened, +old locks that have lost their spring; given a strong wind, and you +have a ghostly promenade.’ + +‘But there was no wind the night before last. The air was hot and +sultry. I had my window open all night.’ + +‘And you may therefore have imagined the noises in yonder road to +be sounds proceeding from the interior of this house. Nothing is so +deceptive as the sense of hearing, especially in nervous subjects.’ + +‘No, Davoren, I made no such mistake. Nothing you or any one else can +say will convince me that I did not hear the shutting of the heavy +outer door, a door in the back premises that opens upon the garden. I +should, perhaps, have thought less of this fact, strange and alarming +as it is in itself, were it not for my own feelings. From the hour +in which I heard those sounds I have had an overpowering sense of +approaching evil. I feel that something, or some influence inimical to +myself, is near at hand, overshadowing and surrounding my life with its +evil power. I feel almost as I felt twelve years ago, when I woke from +my drugged sleep to find that my son had robbed me.’ + +‘The delusion of an overwrought brain,’ said Lucius. ‘I must give you a +sedative that will insure better sleep.’ + +‘No, for pity’s sake,’ cried the old man eagerly, ‘no opiates. Let me +retain my natural sense to the last. If there is danger at hand I need +it all the more.’ + +‘There can be no such thing as danger,’ said Lucius; ‘but I will +examine the fastenings of that back door, and of all other external +doors, and, if necessary, have the locks and bolts made more secure.’ + +‘The locks and bolts are strong enough. You need waste no money on +them. I used to fasten all the doors myself every night before my +illness.’ + +‘You have every reason to trust the Winchers, I suppose?’ + +‘As much reason as I can have to trust any human being. They have +served me upwards of five-and-twenty years, and I have never yet found +them out in any attempt to cheat me. They may have been robbing me all +the time, nevertheless, as my son robbed me, and may wind up by cutting +my throat.’ + +‘A crime that would hardly repay them for their trouble, I imagine,’ +said Lucius, with his thoughtful smile, ‘since you possess nothing but +your collection, and the assassins could hardly dispose of that.’ + +‘Perhaps not. But they may think that I am rich—in spite of all I have +ever told them of my poverty—just as you may think that I am rich, and +that the penniless girl you have chosen may turn out a prize by and by.’ + +‘I have no such thought,’ answered Lucius, meeting his patient’s +cunning look with the calm clear gaze of perfect truth; ‘wealth or +poverty can make no difference in my love for your granddaughter. For +her own sake I might wish that she were not altogether portionless; for +mine I can have no such desire. I value no fortune but such as I can +win for myself.’ + +‘You speak like a proud man, and a foolish one into the bargain. To +say you do not value money is about as wise as to say you do not value +the air you breathe; for one is almost as necessary to existence as +the other. What does it matter who makes the money, or how it is made, +so long as it finds its way to your pocket? Will a sovereign buy less +because it was scraped out of a gutter? Is wealth one whit the less +powerful though a man crawls through the dirt to win it? Let him +squeeze it from the sweat and toil of his fellow men, it carries no +stain of their labour. Let him cheat for it, lie for it, betray his +brother or abjure his God for it, his fellow men will honour him none +the less, so long as he has enough of it. The gold won on a racecourse +or at a gaming-table, though broken hearts and ruined homes went +along with it, has as true a ring as your honourable independence, by +whatever inspiration of genius or toil of brain you may earn it.’ + +‘You speak bitterly, like a man who has been accustomed to contemplate +humanity “the seamy side without,”’ said Lucius coldly; ‘but be assured +I have never calculated on being enriched by the fruits of your +industry.’ + +‘Not even upon finding yourself the inheritor of my collection?’ +inquired Mr. Sivewright, his keen eyes peering into the surgeon’s face. + +‘I have not even aspired to that honour,’ replied Lucius, with a +somewhat contemptuous glance at the outer shell of painted canvas, +inscribed with hieroglyphics, which encased the defunct Pharaoh. + +‘So much the better,’ said the old man. ‘I should be sorry to think you +might be disappointed by and by, when this shrunken form is clay, and +you come to grope among my art treasures, thinking to find some hidden +hoard—the miser’s hoard of slowly-gathered wealth which he loved too +well to spend, and yet was obliged to leave behind him at the last.’ + +Lucius looked at the speaker curiously. The old man’s pale gray eyes +shone with a vivid light; his thin tremulous hands were spread above +the bedclothes, as if they had been stretched over a pile of gold, +protecting it from a possible assailant. + +‘Yes,’ thought Lucius, ‘I have often fancied this man must be a miser; +I am sure of it now. Those words, that gesture, tell their own story. +In spite of all his declarations to the contrary, he is rich, and these +groundless fears spring from the thought of some concealed hoard which +he feels himself powerless to protect.’ + +He felt some pity, but more contempt, for the subject of these +thoughts, and no elation at the idea that this hoarded wealth might +possibly descend to him. He did his best to soothe the old man’s +excited nerves, and succeeded tolerably well. He had taken up his hat, +and was on the point of hurrying off to begin his daily round—delayed +considerably by the length of this interview—when Mr. Sivewright called +him back. + +‘Will it trouble you to return here after your day’s work?’ he asked. + +‘Trouble me? very far from it. I had counted on spending my evening +with Lucille—and you, if you are well enough to be plagued with my +company.’ + +‘You know I always like your company. But to-night I have something to +do; some papers that I want to look over, of no particular importance +either to myself or those that come after me; old documents connected +with my business career and what not. But I want to set my house in +order before I leave it for a narrower one. Now, Davoren, I want you +to hunt up some of these papers for me. I have sent that old fumbler, +Jacob Wincher, to look for them, but the man is purblind, I suppose, +for he did not succeed in finding them. They are in an old oak cabinet +in a loft where I keep the dregs of my collection. Lucille will show +you the place. Here is the key—the lock is a curious one—and the papers +are stowed away in odd corners of the cabinet; inner drawers which +brokers call secret, but which a child might discover at the first +glance. Bring me all the papers you find there.’ + +‘Do you wish me to make the search now, sir, or in the evening?’ + +‘In the evening, of course. It is a business to be done at your +leisure. But you must have daylight for it. Come back as early as you +can, like a good fellow; I have a fancy for looking over those papers +to-night. Heaven only knows how many days remain to me.’ + +‘The same doubt hangs over the lives of all of us,’ answered Lucius. +‘Your case is by no means alarming.’ + +‘I don’t know that. I have a presentiment of evil, an instinctive +apprehension of danger, like that which all nature feels before the +coming of a storm.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +AN UNPLEASANT DISCOVERY. + + +The thought of this conversation with Mr. Sivewright followed Lucius +all through the day’s work. He meditated upon it in the intervals +of his toil, and that meditation only tended to confirm him in his +opinion as to the lonely old man. Soured and embittered by his son’s +ingratitude, Homer Sivewright had consoled himself by the indulgence +of that passion which is of all passions the most absorbing—the greed +of gain. As he beheld his profits accumulate he became more and more +parsimonious; surrendered without regret the pleasures for which he had +no taste; and having learned in his poverty to live a life of hardship +and deprivation, was contented to do without luxuries and even comforts +which had never become necessary to his existence. Thus the sole +delight of his days had been the accumulation of money, and who could +tell how far the usurer’s exorbitant profits had gone to swell the +tradesman’s honest gains? The art collection might have been little +more than a cover for the money-lender’s less reputable commerce. + +Thus reasoned Lucius. He returned to Cedar House at about five in the +afternoon, having dined hastily at a coffee-house in the Shadrack-road, +in the midst of his day’s work. + +He found the table in the spacious old parlour laid for tea, and drawn +into one of the open windows. Lucille had contrived, even with her +small means, to give a look of grace to the humble meal. There were a +few freshly-cut flowers in a Venetian goblet, and some fruit in an old +Derby dish; the brown loaf and butter and glass jar of marmalade had a +fresher and daintier look than anything Mrs. Babb the charwoman ever +set before her master. Lucius thought of the fair surroundings that +wealth could buy for the girl he loved; thought how easy their lives +would be if he were only rich enough to give her the home he dreamed +of, if there were no question of waiting and patience. True that he +might give her some kind of home—a home in the Shadrack district—at +once, but was it such a shelter as he would care to offer to his fair +young bride? Would it not be a dreary beginning of wedded life? + +Yes, Mr. Sivewright’s hoarded wealth might give them much, but could +he, Lucius, as an honest man, feel any satisfaction in the possession +of a fortune gained in such crooked ways as the miser treads in his +ruthless pursuit of gold? He tried to put all thought of that possible +wealth out of his mind. That way lay temptation, perhaps dishonour; for +in his mind it was impossible to disassociate the miser’s wealth from +the means by which it had been amassed. + +Lucille had the same pale troubled look which had alarmed him on the +previous evening, but this he ascribed to a natural anxiety about her +grandfather. He did his best to cheer her, as they drank tea together +at the little table by the open window, ministered to by the devoted +Wincher, whose bonnet hovered about them throughout the simple meal. + +‘She’s fidgety about the old gentleman, poor child,’ said Mrs. Wincher. +‘I’m sure she’s been up and down that blessed old staircase twenty +times to-day, that restless she couldn’t settle to nothink. And he is +a bit cranky I’ll allow, not knowing his own mind about anythink, and +grumbling about as beautiful a basin of broth as was ever sent up to +a ninvalid. But sickness is sickness, as I tell our missy, and she +mustn’t be surprised if sick folks is contrairy.’ + +When Mrs. Wincher had departed with the teatray, Lucius told Lucille +of the search he had undertaken for Mr. Sivewright. + +‘My grandfather told me about it,’ she said. ‘I am to show you the +cabinet in the loft. He would have sent me up to fetch the papers +alone, he said, only there is so much lumber crowded together that he +doubted if I should be able to get at the cabinet. We had better go at +once before the light begins to fade, for it is rather dark up there.’ + +‘I am ready, dear.’ + +Lucille produced a great bunch of rusty keys from the desk at which +Mr. Sivewright had been wont to transact the mysterious business of +his retirement, and they went up the old staircase side by side in the +afternoon sunlight, which had not yet begun to wane. The wide corridor +which led to the invalid’s room, with the doors of other rooms on +either side of it, was familiar enough to Lucius; but he had never yet +ascended above this story, and Lucille had told him that the upper +floor was a barren desert—the undisputed territory of mice and spiders. +She unlocked a door which opened on a narrow flight of stairs—the steep +steps worn by the tread of departed generations, and of various levels. +This staircase brought them to the topmost story, above which rose the +loft they had to explore. The ceiling of the landing on this upper +floor was low, blotched and swollen here and there with the rain of +many a winter, the dilapidated roof being in some parts little better +than a filter. There were curious old panelled doors on either side of +this landing, which was lighted by one melancholy window, across whose +narrow panes the spider had woven her cloudy tapestries. + +‘Are all those rooms empty?’ asked Lucius, looking at the numerous +doors. + +‘Yes,’ answered Lucille hurriedly. ‘My grandfather fancied the floors +unsafe, and would put nothing into them. Besides, he had room enough +down-stairs. The things he has stowed away in the roof are things upon +which he sets no value—mere rubbish which almost any one else would +have given away. Come, Lucius.’ + +There was a steep little staircase leading up to the loft, only +one degree better than a ladder. This they mounted cautiously in +semi-darkness, and then Lucius found himself in a vast substantially +floored chamber, just high enough in the clear to admit of his standing +upright, and amidst a forest of massive beams leaning this way and +that, evidently the roof of a house built to defy the grim destroyer +Time. + +For some moments all was darkness; but while Lucius was striving to +pierce the gloom, Lucille raised a sloping shutter in the centre of +the roof, and let in a burst of western sunlight. Then he beheld the +contents of the place—a chaos of ancient lumber, the wreck of time. It +was like standing among the bruised and battered timbers of a sunken +vessel at the bottom of the sea. + +The objects around him were evidently the merest waste and refuse of +a large and varied collection—broken armchairs, dilapidated buffets, +old oak-carving in every stage of decay, odd remnants of mildewed and +moth-eaten tapestry, fragments of shattered plaster casts; the head +of a Diana, crescent crowned, lying amidst the tattered remains of a +damask curtain; an armless Apollo, leaning lopsided and despondent of +aspect against an odd leaf of a Japanese screen; old pictures whose +subjects had long become inscrutable to the eye of man; stray cushions +covered with faded embroidery, which had once issued bright and +glowing from the fair hands that wrought it—on every side the relics +of perished splendour, the very dust and sweepings of goodly dwellings +that had long been empty. A melancholy picture, suggestive of man’s +decay. + +Lucille peered into the shadows which filled the angles of the loft, in +quest of that oaken cabinet, of which she had but a faint remembrance. + +‘It used to stand in the back-parlour in Bond-street when I was a +child,’ she said. ‘Yes, I remember, a curious old thing, with the +figures of Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel. There are little folding-doors +that open the gates of Eden, with the angel and his flaming sword. +There are carvings on each side; on one side the expulsion from +Paradise, on the other the death of Abel. See, there it is, behind that +pile of pictures.’ + +Lucius looked in the direction she indicated. In the extreme corner +of the loft he saw a clumsy cabinet of the early Dutch school, much +chipped and battered, with several old frameless canvases propped +against it. He clambered over some of the more bulky objects which +blockaded his way, cleared a path for Lucille, and after some minutes’ +labour they both reached the corner where the cabinet stood. + +The western light shone full upon this corner. The first task was to +remove the pictures, which were thickly coated with dust, and by no +means innocent of spiders. Lucille drew back with a shudder and a +little girlish scream at the sight of a black and bloated specimen of +that tribe. + +Lucius put aside the pictures one by one. They were of the dingiest +school of art, old shopkeepers doubtless, for which Mr. Sivewright had +vainly striven to find a customer. Here and there an arm or a head +was faintly visible beneath the universal brown of the varnish, but +the rest was blank. It was, therefore, with considerable surprise that +Lucius perceived beneath this worthless lumber a picture in a frame, +and, by the appearance of the canvas, evidently modern. He turned it +gently to the light, and saw—What? The face of the man he killed in the +pine forest. + +Happily for Lucius Davoren, he was kneeling on the ground, and with +his back to Lucille, when he made this discovery. A cry of surprise, +pleasure, terror, he knew not which, broke from her lips as he turned +that portrait to the light; but from his there came no sound. + +For the moment the blow stunned him; he knelt there looking at the +too-well-remembered face—the face that had haunted him sleeping and +waking—the face that he would have given years of his life utterly to +forget. + +It was the same face; on that point there could be no shadow of doubt. +The same face in the pride of youth, the bloom and freshness of early +manhood. The same keen eyes; the same hooked nose, with its suggestion +of affinity to the hawk and vulture tribe; the unmistakable form of the +low brow, with its strongly marked perceptives and deficiency in the +organs of thought; the black hair, growing downward in a little peak; +the somewhat angular brows. + +‘My father’s portrait,’ said Lucille, recovering quickly from that +shock of surprise. ‘To think that my grandfather should have thrust it +out of sight, here amongst all this worthless rubbish. How bitterly he +must have hated his only son!’ + +_‘Your father!’_ cried Lucius, letting the picture drop from his +nerveless hands, and turning to Lucille with a face white as the +plaster head of Diana. ‘Do you mean to tell me that man was your +father?’ + +‘My dear father,’ the girl answered sadly; ‘my father, whom I shall +love to the end of my life, whom I love all the better for his +misfortunes, whom I pity with all my heart for the ill fate that +changed his father’s natural affection into a most unnatural hate.’ + +She took up the portrait, and carried it to a clearer spot, where she +laid it gently down upon an old curtain. + +‘I will find a better place for it by and by,’ she said. ‘It was too +cruel of my grandfather to send it up here. And I have so often begged +him to show me a picture of my father.’ + +‘I wonder you can remember his face after so long an interval,’ said +Lucius, who had in some measure regained his self-possession, though +his brain seemed still full of strange confused thoughts, amidst which +the one horrible fact stood forth with hideous distinctness. + +The man he had slain yonder was the father of the woman he loved. True +that the act had been a sacrifice, and not a murder; the execution +of ready-handed justice upon a criminal, and not an act of personal +revenge. But would Lucille ever believe that? She who, in spite of +all her grandfather’s dark hints and bitter speeches, still clung +with a fond belief to the father she had loved. She must never know +that fatal deed in the western wilderness; never learn what a wretch +man becomes when necessity degrades him to the level of the very +beasts against which he fights the desperate fight for life. Take from +man civilisation and Christianity, and who shall say how far he is +superior, either in the capacity to suffer or in kindliness of nature, +to the tiger he hunts in the Indian jungle, or the wolf he shoots in +the Canadian backwoods? And this was the man whose fate, until last +night, he had stood pledged to discover; the man whose lost footsteps +he was to have tracked through the wilderness of life. Little need of +inquiry. This man’s troubled history had been brought to an abrupt +ending, and by the seeker’s rash hand. + +‘Come,’ said Lucille anxiously; ‘we must find those papers for my +grandfather. He will not rest unless he has them this evening.’ + +Lucius began his task without another word; he could not trust himself +to speak yet awhile. He unfastened the clumsy folding-doors of the +cabinet, with a hand that trembled a little in spite of his effort to +be calm, and opened the drawers one after another. They came out easily +enough, and rattled loosely in their frames, so shrunken was the wood. +Outer drawers and inner drawers, and papers in almost all of them—some +were mere scrappy memoranda, scrawled on half sheets or quarter sheets +of letter paper; other documents were in sealed envelopes; others were +little packets of letters, two or three together, tied with faded red +tape. Lucius examined all the drawers and minute cupboards, designed, +one would suppose, with a special view to the accumulation of rubbish; +emptied them of their contents, tied the papers all together in his +handkerchief, and gave them into the custody of Lucille. The light had +faded a little by the time this was done, and the corners of the loft +were wrapped in deepening shadow—a gruesome ghostly place to be left +alone in by this half-light. Lucille looked round her with a shudder as +she turned to leave it. + +They were on the perilous staircase—Lucius in front, Lucille behind +him, half supported by his uplifted arm, both obliged to stoop to avoid +knocking their heads against the low sloping ceiling—when Lucius saw +and heard something sufficiently startling. + +In the half dusk of the landing below them, he saw the door of one of +those empty rooms which Lucille had declared to be locked opened—ever +so little way—and then closed again quickly but softly, as if shut by a +careful hand. He distinctly saw the opening of the door; he distinctly +heard the noise of the lock. + +‘Lucille,’ he said, in an eager whisper, ‘you are wrong. There is some +one in that room—the door exactly facing these stairs. Look.’ + +He pointed, and her eyes followed the direction of his finger. For a +few moments she stood speechless, looking at the door with a scared +face, and leaning upon him more heavily than before. + +‘Nonsense, Lucius! you are dreaming. There can be no one there; the +rooms are empty; the doors are all locked.’ + +‘I am quite certain, dearest,’ he answered, still in a whisper, and +with his eyes fixed upon the door that had opened, or seemed to open. +‘Don’t be alarmed; it may be nothing wrong. It is only old Wincher +prowling about this floor, I daresay, just as he prowls about the +down-stair rooms. I’ll soon settle the question.’ + +‘I tell you, Lucius, the doors are all locked,’ cried Lucille, in a +tone far louder than her wonted accents—a voice of anger or of alarm. + +Lucius tried the door with a strong and resolute hand—shook it till it +rattled in its time-worn frame. It was locked certainly, but locked on +the inside. The keyhole was darkened by the key. + +‘It is locked on the inside, Lucille,’ he said; ‘there is some one in +the room.’ + +‘Impossible! Who should be there? No one ever comes up to this floor. +There is nothing here to tempt a thief, even if thieves ever troubled +this house. I keep the keys of all these rooms. Pray come down-stairs, +Lucius. My grandfather will be impatient about those papers.’ + +‘How can that door be locked on the inside if you have the key of it?’ + +‘I have not the key of that particular door. There is a door of +communication between that room and the next, and I keep one locked on +the inside. It saves trouble.’ + +‘Let me see the two rooms; let me satisfy myself that all is right,’ he +said, stretching out his hand for the keys. + +‘I will not encourage any such folly,’ answered Lucille, moving quickly +towards the staircase leading to the lower story. ‘Pray bring those +papers, Lucius. I could not have imagined you were so weak-minded.’ + +‘Do you call it weak-minded to trust my own senses? And I have a +special reason for being anxious upon this point.’ + +She was on her way down-stairs by this time. Lucius lingered to listen +at the door, but no sound came from the room within. He tried all +the doors one after another: they were all locked. He knelt down to +look through the keyholes. Two of the rooms were darkened by closed +shutters, only faint gleams of light filtering through the narrow +spaces between them. One was lighter, and in this he saw an old +bedstead and some pieces of dilapidated furniture. It looked a room +which might have been used at some time for a servant’s bedroom. + +After all, that opening and shutting of the door had been, perhaps, a +delusion of his overwrought mind. Only a few minutes before there had +been a noise like the spinning of a hundred Manchester cotton-looms in +his brain. The horror and anguish of that hideous discovery in the loft +still possessed him as he descended those stairs: what more likely than +that, in such a moment, his bewildered senses should cheat him? + +And could he doubt Lucille’s positive assurance as to the condition of +those rooms? Could he doubt her whose truth was the sheet-anchor of his +life? Or could he mistrust her judgment whose calm good sense was one +of the finest qualities of her character? + +Had it not been for Homer Sivewright’s strange story of noises heard +in the dead of the night, he could have dismissed the subject far more +easily. As it was he lingered for some time; listening for the faintest +sound that might reach his ear, and hearing nothing but the scamper of +a mouse within the wainscot, the fall of a dead fly from a spider’s web. + +He found Lucille waiting for him in the corridor below, very pale, and +with an anxious look, which she tried to disguise by a faint smile. + +‘Well,’ she asked, ‘you have kept me waiting long enough. Are you +satisfied now?’ + +‘Not quite. I should very much like to have the keys of yonder rooms. +Such a house as this is the very place to harbour a scoundrel.’ + +The girl shuddered, and drew back from him with a look of absolute +terror. + +‘Don’t be frightened, Lucille. I daresay there is no one there; a +strange cat, perhaps, at most; yet cats don’t open and shut locked +doors. There may be no one; only in such a house as this, so poorly +occupied by two helpless women and two feeble old men, one cannot be +too careful. Some notion of your grandfather’s wealth may have arisen +in the neighbourhood. His secluded eccentric life might suggest the +idea that he is a miser, and that there is hoarded money in this +house. I want to be assured that all is secure, Lucille; that no +evil-intentioned wretch has crept under this roof. Give me your keys +and let me search those rooms. It will only be the work of a few +minutes.’ + +‘Forgive me for refusing you anything, Lucius,’ she said; ‘but my +grandfather told me never to part with those keys to any one. You +know his curious fancies. I promised to obey him, and cannot break my +promise.’ + +‘Not even for me?’ + +‘Not even for you. Especially as there is not the slightest cause for +this fancy of yours. That staircase door is kept always locked, the +keys locked up in my grandfather’s desk. It is impossible that any +living creature could go up to that attic-floor without my knowledge. +Nor is it possible for any one to get into the lower part of the house +unseen by me or by the Winchers.’ + +‘I don’t know about that. It would be easy enough for any one to get +from the wharf to the garden. There are half-a-dozen doors at the back +of the house, and more than a dozen places in the stables and outhouses +where a man might lie hidden, so as to slip into the house at any +convenient moment.’ + +‘You forget how carefully Mrs. Wincher turns all the keys, and draws +all the bolts at sunset. Pray be reasonable, Lucius, and dismiss this +absurd fancy from your mind. And instead of standing here with that +solemn face, arguing about impossibilities, come to my grandfather’s +room with those papers.’ + +Never had she spoken more lightly. Yet a minute ago her cheek had +been blanched, her eye dilated by terror. Lucius gave a little sigh +of resignation and followed her along the corridor. After all it was +a very foolish thing that he had been doing; raising fears, perhaps +groundless, in the breast of this lonely girl. Her grandfather had +studiously refrained from any mention of his suspicions lest he should +alarm Lucille. Yet he, the lover, had been so reckless as to suggest +terrors which might give a new pain to her solitary life. + +Mr. Sivewright received the bundle of papers with evident satisfaction, +and turned them over with hands that trembled in their eagerness. + +‘Documents of no moment,’ he said; ‘a few old records of my business +life, put away in that disused piece of lumber up-stairs, and half +forgotten. But when, at the gates of the tomb, a man reviews his past +life, it is a satisfaction to be able to try back by means of such poor +memorials as these. They serve to kindle the lamp of memory. He sees +his own words, his own thoughts written years ago, and they seem to him +like the thoughts and words of the dead.’ + +He thrust the papers into a desk which was drawn close to his bedside. + +‘You have been better to-day, I hope?’ said Lucius, when Lucille had +left the room in quest of the old man’s evening meal. + +‘No; not so well. I don’t like your new medicine.’ + +‘My new medicine is the medicine you have been taking for the last five +weeks—a mild tonic, as I told you. But you are tired of it, perhaps. +I’ll change it for something else.’ + +‘Do. I don’t like its effect upon me.’ + +And then he went on to state symptoms which seemed to indicate +increasing weakness, nausea, lassitude, and that unreasonable +depression of mind which was worse than any physical ailment. + +‘It seems like a forecast of death,’ he said despondently. + +Lucius was puzzled. For some time past there had been a marked +improvement, but this change boded no good. The thread of life had been +worn thin; any violent shock might snap it. But Lucius had believed +that in supreme rest and tranquillity lay the means of recovery. +He could not vanquish organic disease; but he might fortify even a +worn-out constitution, and make the sands of life drop somewhat slower +through the glass. + +To the patient he made light of these symptoms, urged upon Mr. +Sivewright the necessity of taking things quietly, and above all of not +allowing himself to be worried by any groundless apprehensions. + +‘If you have a notion that there is anything going wrong in this house, +let me sleep here for a few nights,’ said Lucius. ‘There are empty +rooms enough to provide lodgings for a small regiment. Let me take up +my quarters in one of them—the room next this one, for instance. I am +a light sleeper; and if there should be foul play of any kind, my ear +would be quick to discover the intruder.’ + +‘No,’ said the old man. ‘It is kind of you to propose such a thing, but +there’s no necessity. It was a nervous fancy of mine, I daresay; the +effect of physical weakness. Say no more about it.’ + +Lucius went home earlier than usual that evening, much to the amazement +of Mrs. Wincher, who begged him to give them a ‘toon’ before departing. +This request, however, was not supported by Lucille. She seemed anxious +and restless, and Lucius blamed his own folly as the cause of her +anxiety. + +‘My dearest,’ he said tenderly, retaining the icy-cold hand which she +gave him at parting, ‘I fear those foolish suspicions of mine about +the rooms up-stairs have alarmed you. I was an idiot to suggest any +such idea. But if you have the faintest apprehension of danger, let me +stay here to-night and keep guard. I will stay in this room, and make +my round of the house at intervals all through the night. Let me stay, +Lucille. Who has so good a right to protect you?’ + +‘O no, no,’ she cried quickly, ‘on no account. There is not the +slightest occasion for such a thing. Why should you suppose that I am +frightened, Lucius?’ + +‘Your own manner makes me think so, darling. This poor little hand is +unnaturally cold, and you have not been yourself all this evening.’ + +‘I am a little anxious about my grandfather.’ + +‘All the more reason that I should remain here to-night. I can stay in +his room if you like, so as to be on the spot should he by any chance +grow suddenly worse, though I have no fear of that.’ + +‘If you do not fear that, there is nothing to fear. As to your stopping +here, that is out of the question. I know my grandfather wouldn’t like +it.’ + +Lucius could hardly dispute this, as Mr. Sivewright had actually +refused his offer to remain. There was nothing for him to do but to +take a lingering farewell of his betrothed, and depart, sorely troubled +in spirit. + +He was not sorry when the old iron gate closed upon him. Never till +to-night had he left the house that sheltered Lucille without a pang +of regret, but to-night, after the discovery of the portrait in the +loft, he felt in sore need of solitude. He wanted to look his situation +straight in the face. This man—the man his hand had slain—was the +father of his promised wife. The hand that he was to give to Lucille +at the altar was red with her father’s blood. Most hideous thought, +most bitter fatality which had brought that villain across his path +out yonder in the trackless forest. Was this world so narrow that they +two must needs meet—that no hand save his could be found to wreak God’s +vengeance upon that relentless savage? + +Her father! And in the veins of that gentle girl, who in her innocent +youth had seemed to him fair and pure as the snowdrop unfolding its +white bells from out a bed of newly-fallen snow, there ran the blood +of that most consummate scoundrel! All his old theories of hereditary +instincts were at fault here. From such a sire so sinless a child! The +thought tortured him. Could he ever look at that sweet pensive face +again without conjuring up the vision of that wild haggard visage he +had seen in the red glare of the pine-logs, those hungry savage eyes, +gleaming athwart elf-locks of shaggy hair, and trying to find a strange +distorted likeness between the two faces? + +And this horrible secret he must keep to his dying day. One hint, one +whisper of the fatal truth, and he and Lucille would be sundered for +ever. Did honour counsel him to confess that deed of his in the forest? +Did honour oblige him to tell this girl that all her hopes of reunion +with the father she had loved so dearly were vain; that his hand had +made a sudden end of that guilty life, cut off the sinner in his +prime, without pause for repentance, without time even to utter one +wild appealing cry to his God? True that the man had declared himself +an infidel, that he was steeped to the lips in brutish selfishness, +grovelling, debased, hardened in sin. Who should dare say that +repentance was impossible, even for a wretch so fallen? Far as the +east is from the west are the ways of God from the ways of man, and +in His infinite power there are infinite possibilities of mercy and +forgiveness. + +‘I was mad when I did that deed,’ thought Lucius; ‘mad as in the time +that followed when I lay raging in a brain fever; yet, Heaven knows, +I believed it was but stern justice. There was no tribunal yonder. We +were alone in the wilderness with God, and I deemed I did but right +when I made myself the instrument of His wrath. All that followed that +awful moment is darkness. Schanck never spoke of that villain’s fate, +nor did I. We instinctively avoided the hideous subject, and conspired +to hide the secret from Geoffrey. Poor, good-natured old Schanck! +I wonder whether he has found his way back from the Californian +gold-fields. If I had leisure for such a pilgrimage, I’d go down to +Battersea and inquire. I doubt if a rough life among gold-diggers would +suit him long.’ + + + + +Book the Second. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +GEOFFREY BEGINS A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY. + + +Not very far did Geoffrey Hossack proceed upon his Norwegian voyage. +At Hull he discovered that—perusing his Bradshaw with a too rapid +eye, and a somewhat disordered mind—he had mistaken the date of the +steamer’s departure, and must waste two entire days in that prosperous +port, waiting for the setting forth of that vessel. Even one day in +that thriving commercial town seemed to him intolerably long. He +perambulated King William-street and the market-place, Silver-street, +Myton-gate, Low-gate, and all the gates; stared at the shipping; lost +his way amidst a tangle of quays and dry docks and wet docks and +store-houses and moving bridges, which were for ever barring his way; +and exhausted the resources of Kingston-upon-Hull in the space of two +hours. Then, in very despair, he took rail to Withernsea, and dined at +a gigantic hotel, where he was ministered to by a London waiter, who +provided him with the regulation fried sole and cutlet. Having washed +down these too familiar viands with two or three glasses of Manzanilla, +he set forth in quest of a solitude where to smoke his cigar in +communion with that vast waste of waters—the German Ocean—and his own +melancholy thoughts. + +Go to Norway; try to forget Janet Bertram amid those lonely hills, +with no companions save the two faithful lads who carried his guns, +and performed the rough services of life under canvas? Try to forget +her amidst the solitude of nature? Vain hope! An hour’s contemplation +of the subject on that lonely shore, remote from the parade and the +band and all the holiday traffic of a popular watering-place, was +enough to make a complete change in Mr. Hossack’s plans. He would not +go to Norway. Why should he put the North Sea betwixt himself and his +love? Who could tell what might happen in his absence, what changes +might come to pass involving all his chances of happiness, and he, +dolt and idiot, too far away to profit by their arising? No; he would +stay in England, within easy reach of his idol. He might write her a +little line now and then, just to remind her of the mere fact of his +existence, and to acquaint her with his abode. She had not forbidden +him to write. Decidedly, come what might, he would not leave England. + +This decision arrived at, after profound cogitation, he breathed more +freely. He had been going forth like an exile—unwillingly, as if driven +by Nemesis, that golden-winged goddess who made such hard lines for the +Greeks. He had set forth in the first rush and tumult of his passion, +deeming that in the wild land of the Norse gods he might stifle his +grief, find a cure for his pain. He felt more at ease now that he had +allowed love to gain the victory. ‘It is a privilege to inhabit the +same country with her,’ he told himself. + +Not long did he linger in Hull. The next morning’s express carried him +back to London, uncertain as to how he should spend his autumn; willing +even to let his guns rust so that he need not drag himself too far away +from Janet Bertram. + +‘Janet,’ he repeated fondly, ‘a prettier name than Jane; a name made +for simplest tenderest verse. I’m glad I have learnt to think of her by +it.’ + +There were letters waiting for him at the Cosmopolitan, forwarded +from Stillmington, nearly a week’s arrears of correspondence; letters +feminine and masculine; the feminine bulky, ornamental as to +stationery, be-monogramed, redolent of rose and frangipani; cousinly +epistles which Geoffrey contemplated with a good-humoured indifference. + +He looked over the addresses eagerly, lest by remotest chance—yet he +could not even hope so much—there might be a letter from Mrs. Bertram. +There was none; so he opened one of the cousinly epistles with a +profound sigh. + +Hillersdon Grange, Hampshire. _Her_ county and his. He and Lucius +had been born and bred not twenty miles apart, and had begun their +friendship at Winchester School. Mr. Hossack’s people lived in +Hampshire, and were unwearying in their invitations, yet he had not +revisited his native place since his return from America. + +‘I can’t understand why a man should be attached to the place where +he was born,’ he used to say in his careless fashion when his cousins +reproached him for his indifference. ‘In the first place, he doesn’t +remember the event of his birth; and in the second, the locality is +generally the most uninteresting in creation. Wherever you go, abroad +or at home, you are always dragged about to see where particular +people were born. You knock your head against the low timbers of +Shakespeare’s birthplace at Stratford; you go puffing and panting up +to a garret to see where Charlotte Corday was first admitted to the +mystery of existence; you drive through Devonshire lanes to stare at +the comfortable homestead where Kaleigh blinked at life’s morning sun; +you mount a hill to admire the native home of Fox; you go stages out of +your way to contemplate the cradle of Robespierre. And when all that +a man loved in his boyhood lies under the sod, and the home where he +spent his early life seems sadder than a mausoleum, people wonder that +he is not fond of those empty rooms, haunted by the phantoms of his +cherished dead, simply because he happened to be born in one of them.’ + +Thus had argued Mr. Hossack when his cousins reproached him with his +want of natural affection for the scenes of his childhood. Hillersdon +Grange was within three miles of Homefield, where Geoffrey’s father had +ended his quiet easy life about ten years ago, leaving his only son +orphaned but remarkably well provided for. Squire Hossack of Hillersdon +was the elder scion of the house, and owner of a handsome landed +estate, and the Miss Hossacks were those two musically-disposed damsels +whom it had been Geoffrey’s privilege to escort to various concerts and +matinees in the winter season last past. + +The letter now in Geoffrey’s hand was from the elder of the damsels, a +hard-riding good-looking young woman of four-and-twenty, who kept her +father’s house, domineered over her younger sister, and would have had +no objection to rule Geoffrey himself with the same wise sway. + + Her letter was a new version of the oft-repeated invitation. ‘Papa + says, if you don’t come to us this year, he shall think you have quite + left off caring about your relations, and declares he really never + will ask you again,’ she wrote. ‘It does seem a hard thing, Geoffrey, + that you can go scampering about the world, and living in all manner + of outlandish places—Stillmington, for instance, a place which I am + told is abominably dull out of the hunting season, and what you can + have found to amuse you all these months in such a place, I can’t + imagine—and yet, excuse the long parenthesis, can’t find time to come + to us, although we are so near dear old Homefield, which you must be + attached to, unless your heart is much harder than I should like to + suppose it. The birds are plentiful this year, and papa says there are + some snipe in Dingley marsh. Altogether he can promise you excellent + sport after the first of next month. + + ‘But if you want to oblige Jessie and me’ (Jessie was the younger + sister) ‘you will come at once, as there are to be grand doings at + Lady Baker’s next week; and eligible young men being scarce in this + neighbourhood, we should be glad to have a good-looking cousin to show + off. Papa escorts us, of course; but as he always contrives to get + among the old fogies who talk vestry and quarter-sessions, we might + almost as well be without any escort at all. So do come, dear Geoff, + and oblige your always affectionate cousin, + + ARABELLA HOSSACK. + + ‘P.S. Please call at Cramer’s, Chappell’s, and a few more of the + publishers before you come, and bring us down anything they may + recommend. Jessie wants some really good songs, and I should like + Kalbé’s fantasias upon the newest Christy melodies.’ + +Lady Baker! Lucius had named this lady as one of the friends of his +sister Janet; one of the county people whose notice had been the +beginning of the fatal end. It was at Lady Baker’s house that Janet had +met the villain who blighted her life. + +This was an all-sufficient reason for Geoffrey’s prompt acceptance +of his cousin’s invitation. It was only by trying back that he could +hope to discover the after-life of that man who had called himself +Vandeleur, only by going back to the very beginning that he could +hope to track his footsteps to the end. Could he but discover this +scoundrel’s later history, and find it end in a grave, what happiness +to carry the tidings of his discovery to Janet, and to say, ‘I bring +you your freedom, and I claim you for my own by the right of my +devotion!’ + +He knew that she loved him. That knowledge had power to comfort and +sustain him in all the pain of severance. True love can live for a long +time upon such nutriment as this. + +He wrote to Lucius, telling him where he was going, and what he was +going to do, and started for Hillersdon next morning, laden with a +portmanteau full of new music for those daughters of the horseleech, +his cousins. + +Hillersdon Grange was, as Geoffrey confessed with the placid approval +of a kinsman, ‘not half a bad place’ for an autumn visit. The house +was old, a fine specimen of domestic architecture in the days of the +Plantagenets. It had been expanded for the accommodation of modern +inhabitants; a ponderous and somewhat ugly annex added in the reign of +William the Third; a cloister turned into a drawing-room at a later +period—as the requirements of civilised people grew larger. The fine +old hall, with its open roof, once the living room of the mansion, +was now an armoury, in which casques that had been hacked at Cressy, +and hauberks that had been battered in the Wars of the Roses, were +diversified by antlers and stuffed stags’ heads, the trophies of the +hunting field in more pacific ages. + +The Hossacks were not an old family. They could not boast that +identity with the soil which constitutes rural aristocracy. They had +been bankers and merchants in days gone by, and their younger sons +were still merchants, or bankers. Geoffrey’s father, and the Squire +of Hillersdon Grange, had succeeded, one to the patrimonial acres, +acquired a few years before his birth; the other to the counting-house +and its wider chances of wealth. Both had flourished. The Squire living +the life that pleased him best, farming a little in a vastly expensive +and vastly unprofitable fashion; writing a letter to the _Times_ now +and then about the prospects of the harvest, or the last discovery in +drainage; quoting Virgil, sitting at quarter-sessions, and laying down +parochial law in the vestry. The younger making most money, working +like a slave, and fancying himself the happier and the better man; to +be cut off in his prime by heart-disease or an overworked brain, while +Geoffrey was a lad at Winchester. + +The grounds at Hillersdon were simply perfection. The place was on +the borders of the New Forest, and the Squire’s woods melted into that +wider domain. A river wound through the park, and washed the border of +the lawn; a river which had shadowy willow-sheltered bends where trout +abounded, rushy coves and creeks famous for jack, a river delightful +alike to the angler and to the landscape painter. + +‘Not half a bad place,’ said Geoffrey, yawning and looking at his watch +on the first morning after his arrival; ‘and now, having breakfasted +copiously upon your rustic fare—that dish of cutlets _à la Soubise_ was +worthy of mention—may I ask what I am to do with myself? Just eleven! +Three hours before luncheon! Do you do anything in the country when you +are not eating or sleeping?’ + +This inquiry was addressed to the sisters Belle and Jessie—good-looking +young women, with fine complexions, ample figures, clear blue eyes, +light brown hair, and the freshest of morning toilets, in the nautical +style, as appropriate to the New Forest—wide blue collars flung back +from full white throats, straw hats bound with blue ribbon, blue serge +petticoats festooned coquettishly above neat little buckled shoes, with +honest thick soles for country walking; altogether damsels of the order +called ‘nice,’ but in no manner calculated to storm the heart of man. +Good daughters in the present, good wives and mothers, perhaps, in the +future, but not of the syren tribe. + +‘I don’t suppose Hillersdon is much duller than the backwoods of +America,’ said Arabella, the elder, with some dignity; ‘and I hope you +may be able to endure life until the 1st with no better company than +ours.’ + +‘My dearest Belle, if you and Jessie had paid me a visit on the banks +of the Saskatchewan, I should have been unutterably happy, especially +if you had brought me a monstrous hamper of provisions—a ham like that +on the sideboard for instance, and a few trifles of that kind. I didn’t +mean to depreciate Hillersdon; the hour and a half or so I spent at +the breakfast table was positively delightful. But the worst of what +people call the pleasures of the table is that other pleasures are apt +to pall after them. Perhaps the best thing you could do would be to +drive me gently about the park in your pony carriage till luncheon. I +don’t suppose for a moment that I shall be able to eat any more at two +o’clock; but the country air _might_ have a revivifying effect. One can +but try.’ + +‘You lazy creature! drive you indeed!’ exclaimed Jessie. ‘We’ll do +nothing of the kind. But I tell you what you shall do if you like—and +of course you will like—you shall be coxswain of our boat, and we’ll +row you up to Dingley.’ + +‘_You’ll_ row? Ah, I might have known those blue collars meant +something rather desperate. However, steering a wherry isn’t wery hard +labour, as the burlesque writers would say. I’ll come.’ + +The sisters were delighted. A good-looking cousin to damsels in a rural +district is like water-brooks in a dry land. In their inmost hearts +these girls doated on Geoffrey, but artfully suppressed all outward +token of their affection. Many a night during the comfortable leisure +of hairbrushing, when their joint maid had been dismissed, had the +sisters speculated on their cousin’s life, wondering why he didn’t +marry, and whom he would marry, and so on; while the real consideration +paramount in the mind of each was, ‘Will he ever marry _me_?’ + +They strolled across the lawn (not a croquet lawn of a hundred and +twenty feet square, after the manner of ‘grounds’ attached to suburban +villas, but a wide undulating tract of greensward, shaded here and +there by groups of picturesque old trees—maple and copper beech, and +ancient hawthorns on which the berries were beginning to redden) to a +Swiss boathouse with pointed gables and thatched roof, ample room for +a small flotilla below, and a spacious apartment above—a room which, +had young men been dominant in the household, would doubtless have been +made a _tabagie_ or a billiard room, but which, under the gentler sway +of young ladies, had been gaily decorated with light chintz draperies +and fern cases, innocent-looking maple furniture, easels, piano, and +workbaskets. + +That winding river reminded Geoffrey of the weedy ditch at Stillmington +on which he had spent many a summer afternoon, pulling against the +stream with disconsolate soul, thinking of his implacable divinity. He +gave a little sigh, and wished himself back in Stillmington; to suffer, +to hope, to despair—only to be near her. + +‘I must make an end of this misery somehow,’ he said to himself, ‘or it +will make an end of me.’ + +‘What a sigh, Geoffrey; and how thoughtful you look!’ exclaimed Jessie, +who had an eye which marked every mote in the summer air. + +‘Did I sigh? I may have eaten too much breakfast. Look here, Belle, +you’d better let me take a pair of sculls, while you and Jessie dabble +your hands in the water and talk of your last new dresses. It isn’t +good for a man to be idle. I shall have the blues if I sit still and +steer.’ + +‘What a strange young man you are!’ said Belle. ‘Ten minutes ago you +wanted to loll in a pony carriage and be driven.’ + +‘I might have endured the pony carriage, but I can’t endure the boat +unless I make myself useful. There, get in please, and sit down. What +a toyshop affair! and as broad as a house! I should think the man who +built Noah’s Ark must have designed this.’ + +The sisters exclaimed against this disparagement of their bark, +which a local boatbuilder had adorned with all the devices of his +art—cane-work, French polish and gilding, crimson damask-covered +cushions, dainty cord and tassels—all those prettinesses which the +Oxonian, who likes a boat that he can carry on his shoulder, regards +with ineffable contempt. + +The stream was narrow but deep, and pleasantly sheltered, for the most +part, with leafage; the banks clothed in beauty, and every turn of the +river disclosing a new picture. But neither Geoffrey nor his companions +gave themselves up to the contemplation of this ever-varying landscape. +Geoffrey was thinking of Janet Bertram; the girls were wondering what +made their cousin so silent. + +Mr. Hossack plied his sculls bravely, despite his abstraction, but +even in this was actuated less by a desire to gratify his cousins +than by a lurking design of his own. Six miles up this very stream +lay Mardenholme, the mansion of the Bakers. Lady Baker’s famous +gardens—gardens on which fabulous sums were annually lavished—sloped +down to the brim of this very river. If he could row as far as +Mardenholme, he might induce the girls to take him in to Lady Baker +forthwith, and thus obtain the interview he sighed for. To hope for any +confidential conversation with that lady on the day of a great garden +party seemed foolish in the extreme; nor did it suit his impatient +spirit to wait for the garden party. + +‘When are these high-jinks to come off at Lady Baker’s?’ he inquired +presently, in his most careless manner. + +‘Next Tuesday. It’s to be such a swell party, Geoffrey—croquet, +archery, a morning concert, a German tea, _tableaux vivants_, and a +dance to wind up with.’ + +‘_Tableaux vivants_,’ said Geoffrey with a yawn; ‘the Black Brunswicker +and the Huguenot, I suppose. We have grown too æsthetic for the Juan +and Haydee, and the Conrad and Medora of one’s youth. Are you two girls +in the tableaux?’ + +‘O dear no,’ exclaimed Belle, bridling a little. ‘We are not Lady +Baker’s last mania. We are neighbours, and she always invites us to her +large parties, and begs us to come to her Thursday kettledrum, and is +monstrously civil; but in her heart of hearts she doesn’t care a straw +for humdrum country people. She is always taking up artists and singers +and actors, and that kind of thing. She positively raves about _them_.’ + +‘Ah, I’ve heard something of that before,’ said Geoffrey thoughtfully. +‘She’s musical, isn’t she?’ + +‘She calls herself so—goes to the opera perpetually in the London +season, and patronises all the local concerts, and gives musical +parties—but nobody ever heard her play a note.’ + +‘Ah,’ said Geoffrey, ‘I don’t think people with a real passion for +music often do play. They look upon the murder of a fine sonata as a +species of sacrilege, and wisely refrain from the attempt, but not the +deed, which would confound them. By the way, talking of Lady Baker and +her protégées, did you ever hear of a Miss Davoren, who was rather +distinguished for her fine voice, some years ago?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Belle, ‘I have heard Lady Baker rave about her. She was a +clergyman’s daughter at Wykhamston. And I have heard other people say +that Lady Baker’s patronage was the ruin of her, and that she left her +home in some improper way, and broke her poor old father’s heart.’ + +This little speech sent a sharp pang through another heart, the honest +heart that loved the sinner so fondly. + +‘You never saw Miss Davoren, I suppose?’ + +‘Of course not,’ cried Belle. ‘It was before I was out of the nursery.’ + +‘But you were not blind when you were in the nursery; you might have +seen her.’ + +‘How could I? I didn’t go to Lady Baker’s parties before I was out, and +papa doesn’t know many Wykhamston people.’ + +‘Ah, then you never saw her. Was she pretty?’ + +‘Perfectly lovely, according to Lady Baker; but all her geese are +swans.’ + +‘She must be a very enthusiastic person, this Lady Baker. Do you think +you could contrive to introduce me to her?—to-day, for instance. I can +row you down to Mardenholme by one o’clock.’ + +‘It would be so dreadfully early to call,’ said Jessie, ‘and then, you +see, Thursday is her day. But she’s always extremely kind, and pretends +to be glad to see us.’ + +‘Why pretends? She may be really glad.’ + +‘O, she can’t possibly be glad to see half the county. There must be +some make-believe about it. However, she gives herself up to that kind +of thing, and I suppose she likes it. What do you think, Belle? Would +it look very strange if we called with Geoffrey?’ + +‘We might risk it,’ said Belle, anxious to indulge the prodigal. ‘She’s +almost sure to be somewhere about the garden if she’s at home. She +spends half her life in the garden at Mardenholme.’ + +‘Then we’ll find her, and approach her without ceremony,’ replied +Geoffrey, sending the boat swiftly through the clear water. ‘Depend +upon it, _I_ shall make myself at home.’ + +‘We’re not afraid of that,’ answered Belle, who was much more disturbed +by the idea that this free-and-easy young man might forget the homage +due to a county magnate such as Lady Baker—a personage who in a manner +made the rain or fine weather in this part of Hampshire. A summer which +her ladyship did not spend at Mardenholme was regarded as a bad and +profitless season. People almost wondered that the harvest was not +backward, that the clover and vetches came up pretty much the same as +usual. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +LADY BAKER. + + +It was hardly one o’clock when they beheld the terraced gardens +of Mardenholme; gardens that were worth a day’s journey to see; a +thoroughly Italian picture, set in a thoroughly English landscape; +marble balustrades surmounting banks of flowers; tall spire-shaped +conifers ranged at intervals, tier above tier; marble steps and marble +basins, in every direction; and below this show-garden, sloping down +to the river, a lawn of softest verdure, bordered by vast shrubberies, +that to the stranger seemed pathless, yet where a fallen leaf could +hardly have been found, so exquisite was the order of the grounds. + +Geoffrey tied his boat to the lower branch of a mighty willow which +dipped its green tresses in the stream, leaped out and landed his +cousins as coolly as if he had arrived at an hotel. No mortal was to +be seen for the first moment, but Jessie’s sharp eyes beheld a white +shirt-sleeve gleaming athwart a group of magnolias. + +‘There’s a gardener over there,’ she said: ‘we’d better ask him if Lady +Baker is in the grounds.’ + +They made for the gardener, who, with the slow and philosophic air of +a man whose wages are not dependent on the amount of his labour, was +decapitating daisies that had been impertinent enough to lift their +vulgar heads in this patrician domain. This hireling informed them that +he had seen her ladyship somewheres about not ten minutes agone. She +was in the Chaney temple, perhaps, and he volunteered to show them the +way. + +‘You needn’t trouble yourself,’ said Jessie. ‘I know the way.’ + +‘What does he mean by the Chaney temple?’ asked Geoffrey, as they +departed. + +‘It is a garden-house Lady Baker has had sent over from China,’ +answered Belle. ‘I know she’s fond of sitting there.’ + +They entered a darksome alley in the shrubbery, which wound along the +river-bank some little way, opening into a kind of wilderness; a very +tame wilderness, inhabited by water-fowl of various tribes, which +stretched out their necks and screamed vindictively at the intruders. +Here on the brink of the river was the garden-house, an edifice of +bamboo and lattice-work, adorned with bells, very much open to all the +winds of heaven, but a pleasant shelter on a sultry day in August. When +the breeze shook them, the numerous bells rang ever so faintly, and the +sound woke echoes on the farther bank of the stream. + +Lady Baker was reclining in a bamboo-chair, reading, with a young lady +and gentleman, and a Japanese pug in attendance upon her. + +‘Dear Lady Baker,’ cried Belle, anxious to make the best of her +unceremonious approach, ‘I hope you won’t think it very dreadful of us +to come into the gardens this way like burglars; but my cousin Geoffrey +was so anxious to be presented to you, that he insisted on rowing us +here this morning.’ + +‘I do think it extremely dreadful,’ replied the lady with a pleasant +laugh. ‘And so this is the cousin of whom I have heard so much. Welcome +to Mardenholme, Mr. Hossack. We ought to have known each other long +before this, since we are such near neighbours.’ + +‘I have the honour to possess a small estate not far from your +ladyship’s,’ answered Geoffrey; ‘but, being hitherto unacquainted +with the chief attraction of the neighbourhood in your person, I have +ignorantly given a lease of my place to a retired sugar-broker.’ + +‘That’s a pity, for I think we should have been good neighbours. Mr. +Hossack, Mrs. Wimple; Mr. Wimple, Mr. Hossack,’ murmured Lady Baker +in a parenthesis; at which introduction the young lady and the young +gentleman, newly married, and indifferent to the external world, +honoured Geoffrey with distant bows, and immediately withdrew to a +trellised balcony overhanging the river, to gaze upon that limpid +stream, or, in Geoffrey’s modern vocabulary, ‘to spoon.’ ‘You are a +wonderful traveller, I understand,’ continued her ladyship. + +‘Hardly, in the modern sense of the word,’ said Geoffrey, with becoming +modesty. ‘I have hunted the bighorn on the Rocky Mountains, and shot +grouse in Norway; but I have neither discovered the source of a river, +nor found an unknown waterfall; in short, as a traveller, I am a very +insignificant individual. But as a rule I keep moving, locomotion being +about the only employment open to a man to whom Providence has denied +either talent or ambition.’ + +‘You are at any rate more modest than the generality of lions, Mr. +Hossack,’ Lady Baker replied graciously. + +She was a little woman, sallow and thin, with a face which in any one +less than the mistress of Mardenholme would have been insignificant. +But she had fine eyes and teeth, and dressed with the exquisite taste +of a woman who studied the fitness of things and not the fashion-book. +She had a manner that was at once stately and caressing, and could +confer a favour with the air of a princess of the blood royal. She +had spent all her life in society, and, except when she slept, knew +not what it was to be alone. She could have had but scanty leisure +for reading, yet she knew, or seemed to know, everything that society +knew. Her detractors declared that she never read anything but the +newspapers, and thus, by a zealous study of the _Times_ and the +critical journals, kept herself far in advance of those stupid people +who wade through books. She skimmed the cream of other people’s +knowledge, shrugged her shoulders in mild depreciation of books she +had never read, and wore the newest shades of opinion as she wore the +newest colours. For the rest, she was of an uncertain age, had been in +society for about a quarter of a century, and looked five-and-thirty. +Her light-brown hair, which she wore with almost classic simplicity, as +yet revealed no tell-tale streak of silver. Perhaps, like Mr. Mivers in +_Kenelm Chillingly_, Lady Baker had begun her wig early. + +Sir Horatio Veering Baker, the husband of this distinguished personage, +was rather an appanage of her state than an entity. She produced him +on ceremonial occasions, just as her butler produced the parcel-gilt +tankards and gigantic rosewater salvers on the buffet; and at other +times he retired, like the moon on those dark nights when earth knows +not her gentle splendour. He was a mild-faced old man, who devoted +his days to various ologies, in which no one but himself and his old +servant seemed to take the faintest interest—and the servant only +pretended. He inhabited, for the most part, a distant wing of the +mansion, where he had a vast area of glass cases for the display of +those specimens which illustrated his ologies, and represented the +labour of his life. Sometimes, but not always, he appeared at the +bottom of his dinner table; and when, among her ladyship’s guests, a +scientific man perchance appeared, Sir Horatio did him homage, and +carried him off after dinner for an inspection of the specimens. Lady +Baker was amiably tolerant of her husband’s hobbies. She received him +with unvarying graciousness when he hobbled into her drawing-room in +his dress-coat and antique tie, looking hardly less antediluvian than +the petrified jawbone of a megatherium, which was one of the gems in +his collection; and she was politely solicitous for his well-being when +he pronounced himself ‘a little fagged,’ and preferred to dine in his +study. + +Geoffrey soon found himself on the friendliest terms with the mistress +of Mardenholme. Lady Baker liked good-looking young men who had no +unpleasant consciousness of their good looks, and liked the modern easy +manner of youth, provided the ease never degenerated into insolence. +She took Geoffrey under her wing immediately, walked nearly a mile with +him under the midday sun, protected by a huge, white silk umbrella, +to show him the lions of Mardenholme; that profound hypocrite, Mr. +Hossack, affecting an ardent admiration of ferneries and flower beds, +in the hope that this perambulatory exhibition might presently procure +him the opportunity for which his soul languished. + +‘Let me once find myself alone with this nice old party,’ he said to +himself, ‘and I won’t let the chance slip. She shall tell me all she +knows about the villain who wronged Janet Davoren.’ + +To his infinite vexation, however, his cousins, who worshipped the +mistress of Mardenholme, followed close upon her footsteps throughout +the exposition, went into raptures with every novelty among the ferny +tribes, and made themselves altogether a nuisance. Geoffrey was +beginning to struggle with dreary yawns when the Mardenholme luncheon +gong relieved the situation. + +‘And now that I’ve shown you my latest acquisition, let us go to +luncheon,’ said Lady Baker, who was never happier than when feeding a +new acquaintance. In fact, she liked her friends very much as she liked +her orchids and ferns—for the sake of their novelty. + +Nobody ever refused an invitation from Lady Baker. It was almost the +same thing as a royal command. Jessie and Belle murmured something +about ‘papa,’ and the voice of duty which called them back to +Hillersdon. But Lady Baker waived the objection with that regal air of +hers, which implied that any one else’s inconvenience was a question of +smallest moment when her pleasure was at stake. + +‘I should be positively unhappy if you went away,’ she said; ‘I have +only that Mr. and Mrs. Wimple, whom you just now saw in the garden +house. This is their first visit since their honeymoon, and their +exhibition of mutual affection is almost unendurable. But as it is a +match of my own making I am obliged to tolerate the infliction. They +are my only visitors until to-morrow. So if you don’t stop, I shall be +bored to death between this and dinner. I actually caught that absurd +child, Florence Wimple, in the very act of spelling “YOU DARLING” +in the deaf-and-dumb alphabet to that simpleton of a husband of hers +across the breakfast table this morning.’ + +Moved by this melancholy picture, Jessie and Belle consented to remain. +Geoffrey had meant to stay from the outset. Indeed, he had landed on +the greensward of Mardenholme determined to attain his object before he +left. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +LADY BAKER TELLS THE STORY OF THE PAST. + + +The luncheon party was gay enough, in spite of Mr. and Mrs. Wimple’s +infatuation for each other, which rendered them, as it were, +non-existing for the rest of the party. They gazed upon each other +with rapt admiring eyes, and handed each other creams and jellies, and +smiled at each other upon the smallest provocation. But to-day Lady +Baker suffered them to amuse themselves after their own fashion, and +gave all her attention to Geoffrey. If he was not distinguished in the +realms of art, he was at least an agreeable young man, who knew how to +flatter a lady of fashion on the wrong side of forty without indulging +in that florid colouring which awakens doubts of the flatterer’s good +faith. He improved his opportunities at luncheon to such good purpose, +that when that meal was over, and the devoted Mr. Wimple had been +carried off by his wife and the other two ladies to play croquet, Lady +Baker volunteered to show Geoffrey the Mardenholme picture-gallery—a +very fair collection of modern art, which had been acquired by her +ladyship’s father, a great Manchester man; for it was commerce in soft +goods which had created the wealth wherewith this lady had endowed +Sir Horatio Veering Baker, and whence had arisen all the splendours +of Mardenholme. This was the very thing Geoffrey desired, and for +which he had been scheming, with the _finesse_ of a Jesuit, during the +hospitable meal. He had affected an enthusiast’s love of art, declaring +how, from his earliest youth, he had languished to behold the treasures +of the Mardenholme gallery. + +Lady Baker was delighted. + +‘My father lived all his later life among artists,’ she said. ‘He made +his fortune in commerce, as I daresay you have heard; but in heart he +was an artist. I myself have painted a little.’ (What had Lady Baker +not done a little?) ‘But music is my grand passion. The pictures were +almost all bought off the easel—several of them inspired by my father’s +suggestions. He was full of imagination. Come, Mr. Hossack, while those +foolish people play croquet we will take a stroll in the gallery.’ + +She led the way through the wide marble-paved hall, whence ascended a +staircase of marble, like that noble one in the Duke of Buccleuch’s +palace at Dalkeith, and thence to the gallery, a spacious apartment +lighted from the roof. It was here Lady Baker gave her concerts and +musical kettledrums, to which half the county came to sip black coffee +and eat ices and stare at the pictures, while the lady’s latest +discovery in the world of harmony charmed or excruciated their ears, as +the case might be. + +To-day this apartment looked delightfully cool and quiet after the +sunlit brightness of the other rooms. A striped canvas blind was drawn +over the glass roof, gentle zephyrs floated in through invisible +apertures, and a tender half-light prevailed which was pleasant for +tired eyes, if not the best possible light for seeing pictures. + +‘I’ll have the blinds drawn up,’ said Lady Baker, ‘and you shall see +my gems. There is an Etty yonder that I would not part with if a good +fairy offered me five additional years of life in exchange for it.’ + +‘With so long a lease of life still in hand, five years more or less +can seem of no consequence,’ said Geoffrey gallantly; ‘but I think an +octogenarian would accept even a smaller bid for the picture.’ + +‘Flatterer!’ exclaimed Lady Baker. ‘If you wish to see pictures, you +must be good enough to ring that bell, in order that we may get a +little more light.’ + +‘A moment, dear Lady Baker,’ pleaded Geoffrey; ‘this half-light +is delightful, and my eyes are like a cat’s. I can see best in a +demi-obscurity like this. Yes, the Etty is charming. What modelling, +what chiaroscuro, what delicious colouring!’ + +‘You are looking at a Frost,’ said Lady Baker, with offended dignity. + +‘A thousand pardons. I recognise the delicacy of his outlines, the +purity of his colour. But forgive me, Lady Baker, when I tell you that +my devotion to art is secondary to my desire to be alone with you!’ + +Lady Baker looked at him with a startled expression. Was it possible +that this young Oxonian had been seized with a sudden and desperate +passion for a woman old enough to be his mother? Young men are so +foolish; and Lady Baker was so accustomed to hear herself talked of +as a divinity, that she could hardly suppose herself inferior in +attractiveness to Cleopatra or Ninon de l’Enclos. + +‘What do you mean, Mr. Hossack?’ + +‘Only that, presuming on your ladyship’s well-known nobility of +soul and goodness of heart, I am about to appeal to both. Women of +fashion have been called fickle, but I cannot think _you_ deserve that +reproach.’ + +‘I am not a woman of fashion,’ answered Lady Baker, still very much in +the dark; ‘I have lived for art—art the all-sufficing, the eternal—not +for the pretty frivolities which make up the sum of a London season. +If I have lived in the midst of a crowd, it is because I have sought +intellect and genius wherever they were to be found. I have striven to +surround myself with great souls. If sometimes I have discovered only +the empty husk where I had hoped to find the precious kernel, it is not +my fault.’ + +‘Would that the world could boast of more such women!’ exclaimed +Geoffrey, feeling that he had cleared an avenue to the subject he +wanted to arrive at. ‘Amongst your protégées of years gone by, Lady +Baker, there was one in whose fate I am profoundly interested. She is +the sister of my most valued friend. I speak of Janet Davoren.’ + +Lady Baker started, and a cloud came over her face, as if that name had +been suggestive of painful recollections. + +‘O, Mr. Hossack, why do you mention that unfortunate girl’s name? I +have been so miserable about her—have even felt myself to blame for +her flight, and all the trouble it brought on that good old man her +father. He never would confess that she had run away from home; he +spoke of her always in the same words: “She is staying with friends in +London;” but every one knew there was some sad mystery connected with +her disappearance, and I was only too well able to guess the nature of +that mystery. But you speak of her as if you knew her—as if you could +enlighten me as to her present position. If it is in your power to do +that, I shall be beyond measure grateful to you; you will take a load +from my mind.’ + +‘I may be able to do that by and by,’ answered Geoffrey; ‘at present +I can say very little, except that the lady lives, and that her +brother is my friend. From you, Lady Baker, I venture to ask all the +information you can give me as to those circumstances which led to Miss +Davoren’s disappearance from Wykhamston.’ + +Lady Baker sighed and paused before she responded to this inquiry. + +‘All I can tell you amounts to but little,’ she said; ‘and even that +little is, for the greater part, conjecture or mere guess-work. But +what I can tell shall be freely told, and if I can be of any service +to that poor girl, either now or in the future, she may rely on my +friendship; and, whatever the circumstances of her flight, she shall +have my compassion.’ + +‘Those circumstances reflect no shame upon her, Lady Baker,’ answered +Geoffrey with warmth. ‘She was a victim, but not a sinner.’ + +‘I am most thankful to hear that. And now sit down, Mr. Hossack, +and you shall hear my story. I think I can guess the nature of your +interest in this lady, in spite of your reserve; and if I can help you +towards any good result, I shall be delighted to do so. There are few +girls I ever met more worthy of admiration, and, I believe, of esteem, +than Janet Davoren.’ + +They sat down side by side in a recess at the end of the gallery; and +here Lady Baker began her story. + +‘I first met Miss Davoren,’ she said, ‘at the Castle. The Marchioness +had taken her up on account of her fine voice; although Lady Guildford +had no more soul for music than a potato; but, like the rest of the +world, she likes to have attractive people about her; and so she had +taken up Miss Davoren. The dear girl was as beautiful as she was +gifted.’ + +‘She is so still!’ cried Geoffrey with enthusiasm. + +‘Ah, I thought I was right!’ said Lady Baker; at which Geoffrey blushed +like a girl. ‘Yes, she was positively beautiful; and if she had sat +like a statue to be looked at and admired, she would have been an +attraction; but her talent and beauty together made her almost divine. +My heart was drawn to her at once. I called at Wykhamston vicarage next +day, and invited Mr. Davoren and his daughter to my next dinner-party; +and then I asked Janet to spend a long day with me alone—not a creature +to be allowed to disturb us—for, as I told her, I wanted really to know +her. We spent that day together in my boudoir, giving ourselves up to +the delight of music and intellectual conversation. I found Janet all +soul; full of imagination and poetry, romantic, enthusiastic, a poet’s +ideal heroine. I made her sing Mozart’s Masses to me until my soul was +steeped in melody. In a word, we discovered that there was perfect +sympathy between us, and I did not rest till I had persuaded Mr. +Davoren to let his daughter come to stay with me. He was averse from +this. He talked of the disparity in our modes of life, feared that the +luxury and gaiety of Mardenholme would make the girl’s home seem poor +and dull by comparison; but I overruled his objections, appealed to the +mother’s pride in her child, hinted at the great things which might +come of Janet’s introduction to society, and had my own way. Fatal +persistence! How often have I looked back to that day and regretted my +selfish pertinacity! But I really did think I might be the means of +getting the dear girl a good husband.’ + +‘And you succeeded in uniting her to a villain,’ said Geoffrey +bitterly; then remembering himself he added hastily, ‘Pray pardon my +impertinence, Lady Baker, but this is a subject upon which I feel +strongly.’ + +‘You foolish young man!’ exclaimed Lady Baker in her grand way, that +air of calm superiority with which she had gone through the world, the +proud serenity of mind which accompanies the possession of unlimited +means. ‘Do you think if I had not read your secret at the very first +that I should take the trouble to tell you all this? Well, the dear +girl came to stay with me. I was charmed with her. Sir Horatio even +liked her, although he rarely takes notice of any one unconnected +with ologies. He showed her his specimens, recommended her to study +geology—which he said would open her mind—and made himself remarkably +pleasant whenever he found her with me.’ + +Lady Baker paused, sighed thoughtfully, and then took up the thread of +her recollections. + +‘How happy we were! I should weary you if I described our intercourse. +We were like girls together, for Janet’s society made me younger. +I felt I had discovered in this girl a mind equal to my own, and I +was not too proud to place myself on a level with her. I had very +few people with me when she first came, and we lived our own lives +in perfect freedom, wandering about the grounds—it was in early +summer—staying up till long after midnight listening to that dear +girl’s singing, and thoroughly enjoying ourselves. One afternoon I +drove Janet in my pony carriage to Hillsleigh, where I daresay you know +there is a fine old Gothic church, and a still finer organ.’ + +‘I can guess what is coming,’ said Geoffrey, frowning. + +‘Yes, it was at Hillsleigh we first met the man whose baneful influence +destroyed that poor child’s life; and O, Mr. Hossack, I blame myself +for this business. If it had not been for my folly, he could never have +possessed himself of Janet’s mind as he did. I saw the evil when it was +too late to undo what I had done.’ + +‘Pray go on,’ said Geoffrey eagerly; ‘I want to know who and what that +man was.’ + +‘A mystery,’ answered Lady Baker. ‘And unhappily it was the mystery +which surrounded him that made him most attractive to a romantic girl. +Please let me tell the story my own way. How well I remember that June +afternoon, the soft warm air, the birds singing in the old churchyard! +We wandered about among the tombstones for a little while, reading the +epitaphs, and, I am afraid, sometimes laughing at them, until all at +once Janet caught hold of my arm and cried “Hark!” her face lighted up +with rapture. Through the open windows of the church there came such a +burst of melody, the opening of the _Agnus Dei_ in Mozart’s Twelfth, +played by a master-hand. “O,” whispered Janet, with a gasp of delight, +“isn’t that lovely?”’ + +‘It was that scoundrel!’ cried Geoffrey. + +‘“I told you the Hillsleigh organ was worth hearing,” said I. “Yes,” +said Janet, “but you did not tell me that the organist was one of +the finest players in England. I’m sure that man must be.” “Why, my +dear,” said I, “when I was last here the man played the usual droning +voluntaries. This must be a new organist. Let’s go in and see him.” +“No,” said Janet, stopping me, “let us stay here till he has done +playing. He may leave off if we go in.” So we sat down upon one of the +crumbling old tombstones and listened to our hearts’ content. The man +played through a great part of the Mass, and then strayed off into +something else; wild strange music, which might or might not be sacred, +but which sounded to me like a musical version of the great Pandemonium +scene in _Paradise Lost_. Altogether this lasted nearly an hour, and +then we heard the church door open and saw the player come out.’ + +‘Pray describe him.’ + +‘He was tall and thin. I should think about five-and-thirty, with a +face that was at once handsome and peculiar; a narrow oval face with a +low forehead, an aquiline nose, a complexion pale to sallowness—like +ivory that has yellowed with age—and the blackest eyes I ever saw.’ + +‘And black hair that grew downward into a peak in the centre of the +forehead,’ cried Geoffrey breathlessly. + +‘What, you know him, then?’ exclaimed Lady Baker. + +‘I believe I met with him in the backwoods of America; your description +both of the man and of his style of music precisely fits the man I +am thinking of. That peculiarity about the form of the hair upon the +forehead seems too much for a coincidence. I wonder what became of that +man?’ he added, thinking aloud. + +‘Let me finish my story, and then I will show you Mr. Vandeleur’s +photograph,’ said Lady Baker. + +‘You have a photograph of him?’ cried Geoffrey; ‘how lucky!’ + +‘Yes; and my possession of that portrait arises from the merest +accident. I had a couple of photographers about the place at the time +of Mr. Vandeleur’s visits, photographing the gardens and ferneries +for me, and one afternoon I took it into my head to have my guests +photographed. We had been drinking tea in the river-garden, and I sent +for the men and told them to arrange us in a group for a photograph. +They pulled us about and moved and fidgeted us till we were all half +worn out; but they ultimately produced half-a-dozen very fair groups, +in a modern Watteau style, and Janet and Mr. Vandeleur are striking +figures in all the groups. But this is anticipating events. I’ll show +you the photos by and by.’ + +‘I await your ladyship’s pleasure,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and am calm as a +statue of Patience; but I would bet even money that this Vandeleur is +the self-same scoundrel Lucius Davoren and I fell in with in America.’ + +‘Extraordinary coincidences hardly surprise me. My life has been made +up of them,’ said Lady Baker. ‘Well, Mr. Hossack, enchanted with his +playing, I was foolish enough to introduce myself to this stranger, +whom I found a man of the world, and, as I believed, a gentleman. He +was on a walking tour through the south-west of England, he told us, +and having heard of the Hillsleigh church and the Hillsleigh organ, had +come out of his way to spend a day or two in the quiet village to which +the church belongs. His manners were conciliating and agreeable. I +asked him to breakfast at Mardenholme on the following day, promising +to show him my gardens and to let him hear some fine music. He came, +heard Janet play and sing after breakfast, and, at my request, stayed +all day. I daresay you would think me a very foolish woman if I were +to attempt to describe the influence this man soon began to exercise +over me. I knew nothing of him except what he chose to tell, and that +was rather hinted than told. But he contrived to make me believe that +he was the son of a man of position and of large wealth; that his +passion for music, and his somewhat Bohemian tendencies, had made +a breach between him and his father; and that he was determined to +live in freedom and independence upon a small income which he had +inherited from his mother rather than sacrifice his inclinations to the +prejudices of a tyrannical old man who wanted his son to make a figure +in the House of Commons.’ + +‘You made no attempt to discover who and what the man really was?’ + +‘No. It seemed painful to him to speak of his father; and I respected +his reserve. At the risk of being thought very foolish, I must confess +that I was fascinated by the air of romance, and even mystery, which +surrounded him; perhaps also somewhat fascinated by the man himself, +whose very eccentricities were attractive. He was so different from +other people; followed in no way the conventional model by which most +men shape themselves; took so little trouble to make himself agreeable. +Again, he entered my house only as a passing stranger. His genius, and +not the importance and respectability of his connections, gave him the +right of admission to my circle. If I tried to lure a butterfly into my +drawing-room for the sake of its brilliant colouring, I should hardly +trouble myself about the butterfly’s parentage or antecedents. So with +Mr. Vandeleur. I accepted him for what he was—an amateur musician of +exceptional powers. I daresay, if he had been a professional artist, I +should have taken more pains to find out who he was.’ + +‘I daresay,’ retorted Geoffrey bitterly, ‘if he had confessed to +getting his living by his talents, you would have been doubtful as to +the safety of your plate. But a fine gentleman, strolling through the +country for his own pleasure, is a different order of being.’ + +‘Mr. Hossack, I fear you are a democrat! That dreadful Oxford is the +cradle of advanced opinions. However,’ continued Lady Baker, ‘Mr. +Vandeleur took up his quarters at our village inn, and spent the +greater part of his time in this house. I take some credit to myself, +being by nature sadly impulsive, for not having asked him to stay here +altogether. For my own part, I had no doubt as to his respectability. +Vandeleur was a good name. True, it might be assumed; but then the +man himself had a superior air. I thought I could not be mistaken. +Mardenholme filled with visitors soon after Mr. Vandeleur’s appearance +among us. Every one seemed to like him. His genius astounded and +charmed the women. The men liked his conversation, and admired, and +even envied, him for his billiard playing, which I believe was _hors +ligne_. “The time I have not given to music I have given to billiards,” +he said when some one wondered at his skill. This must have been +exaggeration, however, for he had read enormously, and could talk upon +every possible subject.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey thoughtfully, ‘the description tallies in every +detail—allowing for the difference between a man in the centre of +civilisation, and the same man run wild and savaged by semi-starvation. +I know this Vandeleur.’ + +‘You know where he is, and what he is doing?’ asked Lady Baker eagerly. + +‘No. At a random guess I should think it probable that his skeleton +is peacefully mouldering under the pine-trees somewhere between the +Athabasca and the Pacific—unless he was as lucky as my party in falling +across better furnished travellers.’ + +Geoffrey had entertained her ladyship with a slight sketch of his +American adventures during luncheon, so she understood this allusion. + +‘You must tell me all about your meeting with him by and by,’ she +said. ‘I have very little more to say. Those two, Janet and Mr. +Vandeleur, were brought very much together by their common genius. He +accompanied her songs, taught her new forms of expression, showed her +the mechanics of her art; and her improvement under this tuition, even +in a little less than three weeks, was marvellous. They sang together, +played concertante duets for violin and piano, and sometimes spent +hours together alone in this room, preparing some new surprise for the +evening. You will say that I ought to have considered the danger of +such companionship for a romantic inexperienced girl. I should have +done so, perhaps, had I not believed in this Mr. Vandeleur, and had +there not been lurking in my mind a dim idea that a marriage between +him and Janet would be the most natural thing in the world. True, that +according to his own showing his resources were small in the present; +yet there could be no doubt, I thought, that he would ultimately +be reconciled to his father, and restored to his proper position. +But remember, Mr. Hossack, this was only a vague notion, an idea of +something that might happen in the remote future, when we should have +become a great deal better acquainted with Mr. Vandeleur and his +surroundings. Of present danger I had not a thought.’ + +‘Strange blindness,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But then Fortune is blind, and in +this instance you were Fortune.’ + +‘Bear in mind,’ replied Lady Baker, ‘that this man was full fifteen +years Janet’s senior, that she was immensely admired by men who were +younger, and, in the ordinary sense of the word, far more attractive. +Why should I think this man would exercise so fatal an influence over +her? But towards the end of her visit my eyes were opened. I came into +this room one morning and found Janet in tears by yonder piano, while +Mr. Vandeleur bent over her, speaking in a low earnest voice. Both +started guiltily at sight of me. This, and numerous other trifling +indications, told me that there was mischief at work; and when Mr. +Davoren wrote to me a few days afterwards, urging his daughter’s +return, I was only too glad to let her go, believing that the end +of her visit would be the end of all danger. When she was gone, I +considered it my duty, as her friend, to ascertain the real state of +the case. I told Mr. Vandeleur my suspicions, and assured him of my +sympathy and my interest if he were, as I believed, anxious to win +Janet for his wife. But to my utter astonishment and indignation he +repudiated the idea; declared his profound esteem and admiration for +Miss Davoren, and talked of “fetters” the nature of which he did not +condescend to explain. “Yet I found you talking to that young lady in +a manner which had moved her to tears,” I said doubtfully. “My dear +madam, I had been telling her the troubles of my youth,” he answered +with perfect self-possession, “and that gentle heart was moved to +pity.” “A gentle heart, indeed,” I replied; “who would not hate the +scoundrel who could wound it?” I was by no means satisfied with this +conversation, and from that moment lowered my opinion of Mr. Vandeleur. +He may have perceived the change in my feelings; in any case, he +speedily announced his intention of travelling farther westward, +thanked me for my friendly reception, and bade me good-bye. Only a few +weeks after that I heard of Janet Davoren’s disappearance. You can +imagine, perhaps, what I suffered, blaming my own blindness, my foolish +neglect, as the primary cause of her ruin.’ + +‘There is a fate in these things,’ said Geoffrey gloomily. + +‘I called upon Mr. Davoren, hinted at my fears, and entreated him to be +candid with me. But he evaded my questions with a proud reserve, which +I could but admire, and kept the secret of his daughter’s disgrace, +even though it was breaking his heart. Thus repulsed, what could I do? +And the claims upon my time are so incessant. Life is such a whirligig, +Mr. Hossack. If I had had more leisure for thinking, I should have been +perfectly miserable about that poor girl.’ + +‘You never obtained any clue to her fate?’ + +‘No. Yet at one moment the thread seemed almost in my hand, had I been +but in time to follow it. Three years after that fatal summer, a cousin +of Sir Horatio’s, a young lieutenant in the navy, who had been with us +at the time of Miss Davoren’s visit, came here for the shooting. “What +do you think, Lady Baker?” he drawled out at dinner the first day in +his stupid haw-haw manner, “I met that fellow Vandeleur last Christmas, +at Milford, in Dorsetshire. I was down there to look up my old uncle +Timberly—you remember old Timberly, Sir Horatio, the man from whom I’m +supposed to have expectations; revolting old fellow, who has gout in +his stomach twice a year and never seems any the worse for it. Well, +Lady Baker, I found a fellow I knew down at Milford, an ensign in the +regiment quartered there, and he was dooced civil, and asked me to +dine with him on their guest night, and there, large as life, I beheld +our friend Vandeleur. He seemed uncommonly popular in the mess, but he +wasn’t overpleased to see me; and my friend Lucas told me afterwards +that in his opinion the man was no better than an adventurer, and the +colonel was a fool to encourage him. He was always winning everybody’s +money, and never seemed to lose any of his own; altogether there +was something queer about him. There was an uncommonly pretty woman +with him—his wife, I suppose—but she never went anywhere, or visited +anybody, and she looked very unhappy, Lucas told me. I came back to +London next day, and I had a letter from Lucas a week afterwards to say +that there’d been an awful burst-up at Milford; that Vandeleur had been +caught in the act of cheating at whist—the stakes high, and so on—and +had been morally, if not physically, kicked out of the mess-room; after +which he had bolted, leaving the poor little wife and no end of debts +behind him.”’ + +‘Did you act upon this information, Lady Baker?’ asked Geoffrey. + +‘I went to Milford next day, and with some difficulty found the house +in which the Vandeleurs had lodged; but Mrs. Vandeleur had left the +town within the last few weeks with her little girl, and no one could +tell me what had become of her. She was very good, very honourable, +very unhappy, the landlady told me; had lived in the humblest way, and +supported herself by teaching music after her husband left her. I made +the woman describe her to me, and the description exactly fitted Janet.’ + +‘You have not heard a Mrs. Bertram, a singer who appeared at a good +many concerts in London last winter?’ + +‘No. I spent last winter in Paris. Do you mean to tell me that this +Mrs. Bertram is Janet Davoren under an assumed name?’ + +‘I hardly feel myself at liberty to tell you even as much as that +without permission from the lady herself. But since you have been so +very good to me, Lady Baker, I cannot be churlish enough to affect +secrecy in anything that concerns myself alone. You have guessed +rightly. I am attached to this lady, and my dearest hope is that I may +win her for my wife; but to do this I must discover the fate of her +infamous husband, since she refuses to repudiate a tie which I have +strong reason to believe is illegal. And now, Lady Baker, pray show me +those photographs, and let me see if the man who ruined Janet Davoren’s +bright young life is really the man I met in the American backwoods.’ + +‘Come to my room,’ said Lady Baker, ‘and you shall see them.’ + +She led the way to a charming apartment on the upper story, and at +one end of the house, spacious, luxurious, with windows commanding +every angle of view—bow-windows overhanging the river on one side, an +oriel commanding the distant hills on another, long French windows +opening upon a broad balcony on the third. Here were scattered those +periodicals with which Lady Baker fortified her mind, and supplied +herself with the latest varieties in opinion; here were divers +davenports and writing-tables at which Lady Baker penned those +delightful epistles which were doubtless destined to form part of the +light literature of the next generation, printed on thickest paper, and +sumptuously bound, and adorned with portraits of her ladyship after +different painters, and at various stages of her distinguished career. + +Here, on a massive stand, were numerous portfolios of photographs, one +of which was labelled ‘Personal Friends.’ + +‘You will find the groups in that, Mr. Hossack,’ she said, and looked +over Geoffrey’s shoulder while he went slowly through the photographs. + +They came presently to a garden scene, a group of young men and women +against a background of sunlit lawn and river; light rustic chairs +scattered about, a framework of summer foliage, a tea table on one +side, a Blenheim spaniel and a Maltese terrier in the foreground. + +Janet’s tall figure and noble face appeared conspicuously among figures +less perfect, faces more commonplace, and by her side stood the man +whom Geoffrey Hossack had seen in the flesh, wild, unkempt, haggard, +famished, savage, amidst the awful solitude of the pine-forest. + +‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is the man.’ + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +LUCIUS MAKES A CONFESSION. + + +It was nearly six o’clock when Geoffrey and his cousins left +Mardenholme. On descending from Lady Baker’s apartments in quest of +Belle and Jessie, Mr. Hossack had found those two damsels wandering +among the shrubberies in the forlornest manner, vainly striving to +stifle frequent yawns, so unentertaining had been the society of the +devoted Mr. and Mrs. Wimple, ‘who scarcely did anything but whisper +and titter to each other all the time we were with them,’ Belle said +afterwards. + +‘I thought you were playing croquet,’ said Geoffrey, when he found this +straggling party in a grove of arbutus and magnolia. + +‘We _have_ been playing croquet,’ answered Jessie, with some asperity; +‘but one can’t play croquet for ever. There’s nothing in Dante’s +infernal regions more dreadful than that would be. We played as long +as we could; Mr. and Mrs. Wimple were tired ever so long before we +finished.’ + +‘No, indeed,’ exclaimed the Wimples simultaneously. + +‘What have you been doing all this time, Geoffrey?’ asked Belle. + +‘Lady Baker has been so kind as to show me her pictures.’ + +‘Yes, of course; but you needn’t have been hours looking at them. We +must get back directly, or we shall be late for dinner. Ah, there is +Lady Baker,’ cried Belle, as her ladyship appeared on the terrace +before the drawing-room windows. ‘Come and say good-bye, Jessie, and +get the boat ready, Geoff. You’ll have to row us back in an hour. +Nothing vexes papa so much as any one being late for dinner. I don’t +think he would wait more than ten minutes for an archbishop.’ + +‘I’ll row like old boots,’ answered Geoffrey; whereupon the young +ladies ran off to take an affectionate leave of Lady Baker, while their +cousin sauntered down to the weeping willow to whose lowest branch he +had moored the wherry. In five minutes they had embarked, and the oars +were dipping in the smooth water. + +They were at Hillersdon in time to dress, somewhat hurriedly, for +the all-important eight-o’clock dinner, which went off pleasantly +enough. All that evening cousin Geoffrey made himself particularly +agreeable—listened to Belle’s breakneck fantasias and Jessie’s newest +ballads with every appearance of rapture; played chess with Belle, and +bézique with Jessie, and allowed himself to be beaten by both. + +‘What a delightful evening we have had!’ said Belle, as she wished him +good-night. ‘Why don’t you come to us oftener, Geoffrey?’ + +‘I mean to come very often in future,’ replied the impostor, hardly +knowing what he said. + +At breakfast next morning there was no sign of Geoffrey; but just as +Belle had seated herself before the urn, the butler appeared with a +letter. + +‘Mr. Geoffrey left this for you, ma’am,’ said the domestic, ‘when he +went away.’ + +‘Went away! My cousin, Mr. Hossack, gone!’ cried Belle, aghast, while +Jessie rushed to her sister’s side, and strove to possess herself of +the letter. + +‘Yes, ma’am. Mr. Geoffrey left by the first train; Dawson drove him +over in the dog-cart. The letter would explain, Mr. Geoffrey said.’ + +‘Belle, read the letter, for goodness’ sake!’ cried Jessie impatiently; +‘and don’t sit staring like a figure in a hairdresser’s window.’ + +The butler lingered to give a finishing touch to the well-furnished +sideboard, and to hear the contents of Geoffrey’s letter. + +It was brief, and, in the opinion of the sisters, unsatisfactory—the +style spasmodic, as of one accustomed to communicate his ideas by +electric telegraph, rather than in the more ornate form of a letter. + + ‘Dearest Belle,—Most unfortunate. Have received telegram summoning me + to town. Most particular business. Must go. Regret much. Thought I + was in for no end of fun down here. Hope to return shortly. Make my + excuses to my uncle, and be lenient yourself towards your affectionate + cousin + + ‘GEOFF.’ + +‘Was there ever anything so annoying?’ cried Belle, ‘and after Lady +Baker’s politeness to him yesterday! Particular business! What can he +have to do with business?’ + +‘I daresay it’s horse-racing or something dreadful,’ said Jessie. ‘I +saw a great change in him. He has such a wild look sometimes, and +hardly ever seems to know what one says to him.’ + +‘Jessie,’ exclaimed Belle with solemnity, ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if +Geoffrey were going to be married.’ + +‘O, Belle,’ cried Jessie with a gasp, ‘you don’t think he’d be mean +enough for that—to go and get engaged, and never say a word to us.’ + +‘I don’t know,’ answered her sister gloomily. ‘Men are capable of any +amount of meanness in that way.’ + + * * * * * + +Geoffrey Hossack went up to London as fast as the South-Western Railway +would take him thither, and straightway upon his arrival transferred +himself to a hansom, bidding the driver convey him at full speed to the +Shadrack-road. + +He reached that melancholy district before noon, and found the +shabby-genteel villa, with its fast-decaying stucco front, its rusty +iron railings, in which his friend Lucius Davoren had begun his +professional career. But, early as it was, Lucius had gone forth more +than two hours. + +‘I must see him,’ said Geoffrey to the feeble little charwoman, whose +spirits were fluttered by the appearance of this rampant stranger, his +fiery impatience visible in his aspect. ‘Have you any idea where I can +find him?’ + +‘Lor, no, sir; he goes from place to place—in and out, and up and down. +It wouldn’t be the least bit of good tryin’ to foller him. You might +wait if you liked, on the chanc’t. He do sometimes come home betwigst +one and two to take a mossel of bread-and-cheese and a glass of ale, if +he’s going to make a extry long afternoon. But his general way is to +come home to a tea-dinner betwigst five and six.’ + +‘I’ll wait till two,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and if he’s not home by that +time, I’ll leave a letter for him.’ + +So Mr. Hossack dismissed the cab, and went into his friend’s small +parlour—such a dreary sitting-room as it seemed to eyes accustomed only +to brightness: furniture so sordid; walls so narrow; ceiling darkened +by the smoke of gas that had burned late into the long winter nights. +Geoffrey looked round with a shudder. + +‘And Lucius really lives here,’ he said to himself, ‘and is contented +to work on, happy in the idea that he is a benefactor to his +species—watching the measles of infancy, administering to the asthmas +of old age. Thank God there are such men in the world,—and thank God I +am not one of them!’ + +He looked round the room in quest of that refuge of shallow minds, +the day’s paper; but newspaper there was none—only that poor little +collection of books on the rickety chiffonier: well-thumbed volumes, +wherewith Lucius had so often solaced his loneliness. + +‘Shakespeare, Euripides, Montaigne, _Tristram Shandy_,’ muttered +Geoffrey, running over the titles contemptuously. ‘Musty old buffers! +Come out, old Shandy. I suppose you’re about the liveliest of the lot.’ + +He tried to settle himself on the feeble old sofa, too short and too +narrow for muscular young Oxford; stretched his legs this way and that; +read a few pages; smiled at a line here and there; yawned a good deal, +and then threw the book aside with an exclamation of impatience. Those +exuberant energies asked not repose; he wanted to be up and doing. His +mind was full of his interview with Lady Baker, full of anxious longing +thoughts about the woman he loved. + +‘What became of that man we met in the forest?’ he asked of the +unresponsive atmosphere. ‘If I could but track him to his miserable +grave, and get a certificate of his death, what a happy fellow I should +be.’ + +He paced the little room, looked out of the window at the enlivening +traffic of the Shadrack-road; huge wagons laden with petroleum casks, +timber, iron, cotton bales, grinding slowly along the macadam; an +organ droning drearily on the other side of the way; a costermonger +crying whelks and hot eels, as appropriate refreshment in the sultry +August noontide; upon everything that faded, burnt-up aspect which +pervades London at the end of summer; a universal staleness, an odour +of doubtful fish and rotten fruit. + +After the space of an hour and a half, which to Geoffrey’s weariness +had seemed interminable, a light step sounded on the little stone-paved +approach; a latchkey clicked in the door, and Lucius came into the +parlour. + +There was surprise unbounded on the surgeon’s side. + +‘Why, Geoff, I thought you were in Norway!’ he exclaimed. + +‘I changed my mind about Norway,’ answered the other somewhat +sheepishly. ‘How could I be such a selfish scoundrel as to go and enjoy +myself shooting and fishing and so on, while she is lonely? No, Lucius, +I feel somehow that it is my destiny to win her, and that it will be +my own fault—_de mon tort_, as the lawyers say—if I lose my chance. So +when I got as far as Hull I turned tail, and came back to town, where +I found a letter from my cousin Belle Hossack offering me the very +opportunity I wanted.’ + +‘Your cousin Belle! the very opportunity! What do you mean? What could +your cousin Belle have to do with my sister?’ + +‘An introduction to Lady Baker. Don’t you see, Lucius? From Lady Baker +I might find out all about that villain who called himself Vandeleur. +Now, for heaven’s sake, old fellow, be calm and hear what I have to +tell you. I’ve travelled up from Hampshire post haste on purpose to +tell you all by word of mouth. I might have written, but I wanted to +talk the matter over with you. You may be able to throw some light upon +this business.’ + +‘Upon what business?’ asked Lucius, mystified by this hurried and +disjointed address. + +‘You may be able to tell me what became of that wild fellow who came +in upon us in our log-hut out yonder—whether he is alive or dead. Why, +good heavens, Lucius, you’ve turned as white as a sheet of paper! +What’s the matter?’ + +‘I’m tired,’ said the surgeon, dropping slowly into a chair by the +table, and shading his face with his hand. ‘And your wild talk is +enough to bewilder any man; especially one who has just come in from +a harassing round amongst sickness and poverty. What do you mean? You +speak one minute of my sister and Lady Baker, and in the next of that +man we met yonder. What link can there be between subjects so wide +apart?’ + +‘A closer link than you could ever guess. The villain who married your +sister and that man yonder—’ + +‘Were one and the same!’ cried Lucius, almost with a shriek. ‘I +suspected it; I suspected it out yonder in the forest, as I sat and +watched that man’s face in the firelight. I have suspected it since +then many a time; have dreamt it oftener than I can count; for half my +dreams are haunted by the hateful shadow of that man. Was I right? For +God’s sake speak out, Geoffrey. Is that the man?’ + +‘It is.’ + +‘You know it?’ + +‘I have had indisputable proof of it. Lady Baker showed me a photograph +of the man who stole your sister from her home, and the face in that +photograph is the face of the man we let into our hut in the backwoods.’ + +‘Mysterious are Thy ways,’ cried Lucius, ‘and Thy paths past finding +out. Many a time have I fought against this idea. It seemed of all +things the most improbable; too wild, too strange for belief. I dared +not allow myself to think it. It was he, then. My hatred of him was a +natural instinct; my abhorrence hardly needed the proof of his infamy. +From the first moment in which our eyes met my soul cried aloud, “There +is thy natural enemy.”’ + +‘It is your turn to talk wildly now, Lucius,’ said Geoffrey, surprised +by the other’s passion, ‘but you have not answered my question. While +I lay delirious in the log-hut, not knowing anything that was going +on round me, did nothing happen to throw a light upon the fate of the +guide and that man Matchi, as we called him? They set out to try and +find the track; did they never return?’ + +‘The guide never returned,’ answered Lucius, looking downward with a +gloomy countenance, in deep thought. ‘Now, I’ll ask you a question, +Geoffrey. In all your talk with our German friend, Schanck, while _I_ +was ill and unconscious, did he tell you nothing, hint nothing, about +that man?’ + +‘Nothing,’ replied the other unhesitatingly. ‘He was as close as the +grave. But had he anything to tell?’ + +‘Yes, if he had chosen to betray. He might have told you that I, your +friend—I, who had watched by your bed through those long dreary nights, +Death staring me in the face as I watched—that I, whom you would have +trusted in the direst extremity—was an assassin.’ + +‘Lucius,’ cried Geoffrey, starting up with a look of horror, ‘are you +mad?’ + +‘No, Geoff. I am reasonable enough now, Heaven knows; whatever I might +have been in that fatal time yonder. You want the truth, and you shall +have it, though it will sicken you as it sickens me to think of it. I +have kept the hideous secret from you; not because I had any fear of +the consequences of my act—not because that I am not ready to defend +the deed boldly before my fellow men—but because I thought the horrid +story might part us. We have been fast friends for so many years, +Geoff, and I could not bear to think your liking might be turned to +loathing.’ + +Tears, the agonising drops which intensest pain wrings from manhood, +were in his eyes. He covered his face with his clasped hands; as if he +would have shut out the very light which had witnessed that horror he +shuddered to recall. + +‘Lucius,’ exclaimed Geoffrey, at once anxious and bewildered, ‘all this +is madness! You have been overworking your brain.’ + +‘Let me tell my story,’ said the other. ‘It will lighten my burden to +share it—even if the revelation makes you hate me.’ + +‘Even on your own showing I would not believe you guilty of any +baseness,’ answered Geoffrey. ‘I would sooner think your mind +distraught than that I had been mistaken in your character.’ + +‘It was no deliberate baseness,’ said Lucius quietly. He had in some +measure recovered his composure since that burst of passionate grief. +‘I did what at the moment appeared to me only an act of justice. I took +a life for a life.’ + +‘You, Lucius!’ cried the other, his eyes opening wide with horror. ‘You +took the life of a man—yonder—in America?’ + +‘Yes, Geoffrey. I killed the man who blighted my sister’s life.’ + +‘Good God! He is dead then—this scoundrel—and by your hand.’ + +‘He is. And if ever man deserved to die by the act of his fellow man +that man most fully merited his fate. But though in that awful hour, +when the deed of horror which I had discovered was burnt into my brain, +I took his life deliberately and advisedly, the memory of the act has +been a torment to me ever since. But let me tell you the secret of that +miserable time. It is not a long story, and I will tell it in as few +words as possible.’ + +Briefly, but with an unflinching truthfulness, he told of the night +scene in the forest; the ruffian’s attempt to enter the hut; and the +bullet which struck him down as he burst open the window. + +‘You lay there, Geoffrey, unconscious; sleeping that blessed sleep +which Gods sends to those whose feet have trodden the border-land +betwixt life and death. Even to awaken you roughly might have been to +peril your chance of recovery. The firing of the gun might have done +it. But my first thought was that he, the assassin and traitor who had +slaughtered the faithful companion of our dangers and privation—that +he, brutal and merciless as any savage in the worst island of the +Pacific—should not be suffered to approach you in your helplessness. +I had warned him that if he attempted to cross our threshold I would +shoot him down with as little compunction as if he had been a mad dog. +I kept my word.’ + +‘But are you certain your bullet was fatal?’ + +‘Of what followed the firing of that shot I know nothing; but I have +never doubted its result. Even if the wound were not immediately fatal +the man must have speedily perished. The last I saw was the loosening +clutch of his lean hand as he dropped from the window; the last I heard +was a howl of pain. My brain, which had been kept on the rack for many +a dreary night of sleeplessness and fear, gave way all at once, and I +fell to the ground like a log. I have every reason to believe that what +I suffered at that moment was an apoplectic seizure, which might have +been fatal, but for Schanck’s promptitude in bleeding me. After the +shock came brain fever, from which, as you know, I was slow to recover. +When my senses did return, I seemed to enter upon a new world. Thought +and memory came back by degrees, and the vision of that scene in the +forest shaped itself slowly out of the confusion of my brain until it +became the vivid picture which has haunted me ever since.’ + +‘Had you met the man who betrayed your sister, would you have killed +him?’ asked Geoffrey. + +‘In fair fight, yes.’ + +‘He who rules the destinies of us all decreed that you should meet him +unawares. You were the instrument of God’s vengeance upon a villain.’ + +‘“Vengeance is mine,”’ repeated Lucius thoughtfully. ‘Often, when +reproaching myself for that rash act, I have almost deemed the deed +a kind of blasphemy. What right had _I_ to forestall God’s day of +reckoning? For every crime there is an appointed punishment. The +assassin we hang to-day might pay a still heavier price for his sin +were we to leave him in the hands of God, or might be permitted to +repent and atone.’ + +‘Lucius,’ said Geoffrey, stretching out his hand to his friend, ‘in +my eyes you stand clear of all guilt. Was it not chiefly for my +defence you fired that shot? and for my own part I can assure you that +cold-blooded scoundrel would have had a short shrift had I been his +executioner. So let us dismiss all thought of him, with the memory of +the last murderer who swung at Newgate. One fact remains paramount—a +fact that for me changes earth to Paradise; your sister is free.’ + +Lucius started, and for the first time a look of absolute fear came +into his face. + +‘What!’ he exclaimed. ‘You will tell her that her husband fell by my +hand? You forget, Geoffrey, that my confession must be sacred. If I did +not pledge you to secrecy, it was because I had so firm a faith in your +honour that I needed no promise of your silence.’ + +‘Let me tell her only of that man’s death.’ + +‘She will hardly be satisfied with a statement unsupported by proof,’ +answered Lucius doubtfully. + +‘What, will she doubt my honour?’ + +‘Love is apt to be desperate. The lover has a code of his own.’ + +‘Not if he is an honest man,’ cried Geoffrey. + +‘But Janet has been once deceived, and will be slow to trust where she +loves. Put her to the test. Tell her that you know this man is dead, +and if she will believe you and if she will be your wife, there is no +one, not even yourself, who will be gladder than I. God knows it is a +grief for me to think of her lonely position, her lifelong penance for +the error of her youth. I have entreated her to share my home, humble +as it is, but she refuses. She is proud of her independence, and though +I know she loves me, she prefers to live aloof from me, with no other +society than her child’s.’ + +They talked long, Geoffrey full of mingled hope and fear. He left his +friend late in the afternoon, intending to go down to Stillmington by +the mail train, to try his fortunes once more. Lucius had told him he +was beloved; was not that sufficient ground for hope? + +‘She will not be too exacting,’ he said to himself. ‘She will not +ask me for chapter and verse, for the doctor’s certificate, the +undertaker’s bill. If I say to her, “Upon my honour your husband is +dead,” she will surely believe me.’ + + + + +Book the Third. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A CHANGE CAME O’ER THE SPIRIT OF MY DREAM. + + +That calm delight which Lucius Davoren had hitherto felt in the society +of his betrothed, and his happy expectation of a prosperous future to +be shared with her, were now clouded over with new doubts and fears. +His mind had been weighed down by the burden of a dreadful secret, +from the moment of that discovery which had showed him that the man he +had killed and the father of the girl who loved him were one and the +same. Those calm clear eyes which looked at him so tenderly sometimes +wounded him as keenly as the bitterest reproach. Had she but known the +fatal truth—she who had always set the memory of her father above her +affection for himself—could he doubt the result of that knowledge? +Could he doubt that she would have turned from him with abhorrence, +that she would have shrunk with loathing from the lightest touch of his +blood-stained hand? + +Vain would have been all argument, all attempt to justify his act, with +the daughter who clung with a romantic fondness to her lost father’s +image. + +‘You killed him.’ She would have summed up all arguments in those three +words. ‘You killed him. If he was wicked, you gave him no time for +repentance; you cut him off in the midst of his sin. Who made you his +judge: who made you his executioner? He was a sinner like yourself, and +you thrust yourself between God and His infinite mercy. You did more +than slay his body; you robbed him of redemption for his sin.’ + +He could imagine that this girl, clinging with unreasonable love to +that dead sinner’s memory, would argue somewhat in this wise; and he +felt himself powerless to reply. These thoughts weighed him down, and +haunted him even in the company of his beloved. Yet, strange to say, +Lucille did not remark the difference in her lover, and it remained +for Lucius to perceive a change in her. His own preoccupation had +rendered him less observant than usual, and he was slow to mark this +alteration in Lucille’s manner, but the time came when he awakened to +the fact. There was a change, indefinable, indescribable, but a change +which he felt vaguely, and which seemed to grow stronger day by day. +The thought filled him with a sudden horror. Did she suspect? Had some +circumstance, unnoticed by him, led the way to the discovery he most +dreaded, to the revelation of that secret he hoped to hide from her for +ever? Surely no. Her hand did not shrink from his, the kiss he pressed +upon that pure young brow evoked no shudder. Whatever the trouble was +that had wrought this change in her, paled the fair cheek and saddened +the sweet eyes, the perplexity or the sorrow was in herself, and had no +reference to him. + +‘Lucille,’ he said one evening, a few days after his interview with +Geoffrey Hossack, as they paced the garden together in the dusk, ‘it +seems to me that we are not quite so happy as we used to be. We do not +talk so hopefully of the future; we have not such pleasant thoughts and +fancies as we once had. Very often when I am speaking to you, I see +your eyes fixed with a strange far-off look; as if you were thinking of +something quite remote from the subject of our talk. Is there anything +that troubles you, dear? Are you uneasy about your grandfather?’ + +‘He does not seem so well as he did three weeks ago. He does not care +about coming down-stairs now; the old weakness seems to have returned. +And his appetite has fallen off again. I wish you would be a little +more candid, Lucius,’ she said, looking at him earnestly. ‘You used to +say he was improving steadily, and that you had great hopes of making +him quite himself again before very long; now you hardly say anything, +except to give me directions about diet.’ + +‘Do you wish me to speak quite plainly, Lucille,’ asked Lucius +seriously; ‘even if what I have to say should increase your anxiety?’ + +‘Yes, yes; pray treat me like a woman, and not like a child. Remember +what my life has been—how full of care and sorrow. I am not like a girl +who has lived only in the sunshine. Tell me the plain truth, Lucius, +however painful. You think my grandfather worse?’ + +‘I do, Lucille, very much worse than I thought him three weeks ago. And +what is more, I am obliged to confess myself puzzled by his present +condition. I can find no cause for this backward progress, and yet I +am watching the symptoms very closely. I have this case so deeply at +heart, that I do not believe any one could do more with it than I. +But if I do not see an improvement before many days are over, I shall +seek advice from wider experience than my own. I will bring one of the +greatest men in London to see your grandfather. A consultation may be +unnecessary or useless, but it will be for our mutual satisfaction.’ + +‘Yes,’ answered Lucille, ‘I have the strongest faith in your skill; +but, as you say, it might be better to have farther advice. Poor +grandpapa! It makes me wretched to see him suffer—to see him so weak +and weary and restless, if not in absolute pain, and to be able to do +so little for him.’ + +‘You do all that love and watchfulness can do, dearest. By the way, +you spoke of diet just now. That is a thing about which you cannot +be too careful. We have to restore exhausted nature, to renovate a +constitution almost worn out by hard usage. I should like to know +all about the preparation of the broths and jellies you give your +grandfather. Are they made by you, or by Mrs. Wincher?’ + +‘Wincher makes the broth and beef-tea in an earthenware jar in the +oven; I make the jellies with my own hands.’ + +‘Are you quite sure of Wincher’s cleanliness and care?’ + +‘Quite. I see her getting the jar ready every morning when I am in the +kitchen attending to other little things. I am not afraid of working in +the kitchen, you know, Lucius.’ + +‘I know that you are the most domestic and skilful among women, and +that you will make a model wife, darling,’ he answered tenderly. + +‘For a poor man, perhaps,’ she answered, with the smile that had been +rare of late, ‘not for a rich one. I should not know how to spend +money, or to give dinner-parties, or to dress fashionably.’ + +‘That kind of knowledge would come with the occasion. When I am a +famous doctor you shall be a lady of fashion. But to return to the diet +question. You are assured that there is perfect cleanliness in the +preparation of your grandfather’s food—no neglected copper saucepans +used, for instance?’ + +‘There is not such a thing as a copper saucepan in the house. What made +you ask the question?’ + +‘Mr. Sivewright has complained lately of occasional attacks of nausea, +and I am unable to account for the symptom. That is what makes me +anxious about the preparation of his food.’ + +‘Would it be any satisfaction to you if I were to prepare everything +myself?’ + +‘A very great satisfaction.’ + +‘Then I will do it, Lucius. Wincher may feel a little offended, but I +will try and reconcile her to my interference. It was a great privilege +to be allowed to make the jellies.’ + +‘Never mind if she is vexed, darling; a few sweet words from you +will soon smooth her ruffled feathers. I shall be glad to know that +you prepare everything for the invalid. And I would not do it in the +kitchen, where Wincher might interfere. Have a fire in the little +dressing-room next your grandfather’s room, and have your saucepans and +beef-tea and so on up there. By that means you will be able to give him +what he wants at any moment, without delay.’ + +‘I will do so, Lucius. But I fear you think my grandfather in danger.’ + +‘Not exactly in danger, darling. But he is very ill, and I have been +thinking it might be better for you to have a nurse. I don’t say that +he requires any one to sit up at night with him. He is not ill enough +for that. I am only afraid that the care he requires may be too much +for you.’ + +‘It is not too much for me, Lucius,’ answered the girl eagerly. +‘I would not have a stranger about him for worlds. The sight of a +sick nurse would kill him.’ + +‘That is a foolish prejudice, Lucille.’ + +‘It may be; and when you find I nurse him badly, or neglect him, +you may bring a stranger. Till then I claim the right to wait upon +him, with Jacob Wincher’s assistance. He has been my grandfather’s +valet—giving the little help his master would ever accept—for the last +twenty years.’ + +‘And you have perfect confidence in Jacob Wincher?’ + +‘Confidence!’ exclaimed Lucille, with a wondering look. ‘I have known +him all my life, and seen his devotion to my grandfather. What reason +could I have to doubt him?’ + +‘Little apparent reason, I admit,’ answered Lucius thoughtfully. ‘Yet +it is sometimes from those we least suspect we suffer the deepest +wrongs. These Winchers may believe your grandfather to be very rich; +they may suppose that he has left them a good deal of money; and +might—mind, I am only suggesting a remote contingency—they _might_ +desire to shorten his life. O, my dearest,’ he cried, pained by +Lucille’s whitening face, ‘remember I do not for a moment say that this +is likely; but—as I told you a few moments ago—there are symptoms in +the case that puzzle me, and we cannot be too careful.’ + +Lucille leaned upon him, trembling like a leaf, with her white face +turned towards him, a look of unspeakable horror in her eyes. + +‘You don’t mean—’ she faltered; ‘you cannot mean that you suspect, that +you are afraid of my grandfather being poisoned?’ + +‘Lucille,’ he said tenderly, sustaining the almost-fainting girl, ‘the +truth is always best. You shall know all I can tell you. There are +diseases which baffle even experience; there are symptoms which may +mean one thing or another, may indicate such and such a state, or be +the effect of a condition exactly opposite; there are symptoms which +may arise alike from natural causes or from a slow and subtle poison. +This is why so many a victim has been done to death under the very eye +of his medical attendant, and only when too late the hideous truth has +dawned upon the doctor’s mind, and he has asked himself with bitter +self-reproach, “Why did I not make this discovery sooner?”’ + +‘Whom could you suspect?’ cried Lucille. ‘I am confident as to the +fidelity of Mr. and Mrs. Wincher. They have had it in their power to +rob my grandfather at any moment, if gain could have tempted them to +injure him. Why, after all these years of faithful servitude, should +they attempt to murder him?’ + +This was said in a low tremulous voice, terror still holding possession +of the girl’s distracted mind. + +‘The thought is as horrible as it appears impossible,’ said Lucius, +whose apprehensions had as yet assumed only the vaguest form. He had +never meant to betray this shadowy fear, which had arisen only within +the last twenty-four hours; but he had been led on to say more than he +intended. + +‘Let us speak no more of it, dearest,’ he said soothingly. ‘You attach +too much importance to my words. I have only suggested care; I have +only told you a well-known fact, namely, that the symptoms of slow +poisoning and of natural disease are sometimes exactly alike.’ + +‘You have filled me with fear and horror!’ cried Lucille, shuddering. + +‘Let me bring a nurse into the house,’ pleaded Lucius, angry with +himself for his imprudence. ‘Her presence would at least give you +courage and confidence.’ + +‘No; I will not have my grandfather frightened to death. He shall take +nothing but what I prepare for him; no one shall go near him but I, or +without my being present.’ + +‘By the way,’ said Lucius thoughtfully, ‘you remember that noise I +heard the evening we went up to the loft together?’ + +‘I remember your fancy about a noise,’ Lucille answered carelessly. + +‘My fancy, then, if you like. I suppose nothing has ever happened +since to throw a light upon that fancy of mine?’ + +‘Nothing.’ + +‘You are quite sure that no stranger could obtain admission to those +up-stairs rooms, or to any part of this house?’ + +‘Quite sure.’ + +‘In that case we may rest assured that all is safe, and you need think +no more of anything I have said.’ + +He tried with every art he knew to soothe away the fears which his +imprudent words had occasioned, but could not altogether succeed +in tranquillising her, though he brought the Amati violin into +requisition, and played some of his sweetest symphonies—melodies which, +to quote Mrs. Wincher, ‘might have drawed tears out of a deal board.’ + +Nothing could dispel the cloud which he had raised; and he left Cedar +House full of trouble and self-reproach, beyond measure angry with +himself for his folly. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +LUCIUS IS PUZZLED. + + +When Lucius made his early visit—now always the first duty of every +day—to Cedar House on the following morning, he found that Lucille +had already acted upon his advice. The dressing-room—a slip of a room +communicating with Mr. Sivewright’s spacious chamber—had been furnished +in a rough-and-ready manner with a chair and table, an old cabinet, +brought down from the loft, to hold cups and glasses, medicine bottles, +and other oddments; a little row of saucepans, neatly arranged in a +cupboard by the small fireplace; and a narrow little iron bedstead in a +corner of the room. + +‘I shall sleep here at night,’ said Lucille, as Lucius surveyed her +preparations, ‘and if I keep that door ajar, I can hear every sound in +the next room.’ + +‘My darling, it will never do for you to be on the watch at night,’ he +answered anxiously. ‘You will wear yourself out in a very short time. +Anxiety by day and wakefulness by night will soon tell their tale.’ + +‘Let me have my own way, Lucius,’ she pleaded. ‘You say yourself that +my grandfather wants no attendance at night. He told me only this +morning that he sleeps pretty well, and rarely wakes till the morning. +But it will be a satisfaction to me if I feel that I am close at hand, +ready to wake at his call. I am a very light sleeper.’ + +‘Was Mrs. Wincher angry at your taking the work out of her hands?’ + +‘She seemed vexed, just at first; but I gave her a kiss, and talked +her over. “You’ll fag yourself to death, Miss Lucille,” she said; “but +do as you please. It’ll leave me free for my cleaning.” You know, +Lucius, what a passion she has for muddling about with a pail and a +scrubbing-brush, and turning out odd corners. The cleaning never seems +to make any difference in the look of that huge kitchen; but if it +pleases her one cannot complain. O, Lucius,’ she went on, in an anxious +whisper, ‘I was awake all the night thinking of your dreadful words. I +trust in God you may find my grandfather better this morning.’ + +‘I hope so, dearest; but, believe me, you attach far too much +importance to my foolish words last night. If you can trust the +Winchers there can be no possible ground for fear. What enemy could +approach your grandfather here?’ + +‘Enemy!’ repeated Lucille, as if struck by the word. ‘What enemies +could he have—a poor harmless old man?’ + +Lucius went into Mr. Sivewright’s room. He found his patient still +suffering from that strange depression of spirits which had weighed +him down lately; still complaining of the symptoms which had perplexed +Lucius since his return from Stillmington. + +‘There are strange noises in the house,’ said the old man querulously, +when the usual questions had been asked and answered. ‘I heard them +again last night—stealthy footsteps creeping along the passage—doors +opening and shutting—cautious, muffled steps, that had a secret guilty +sound.’ + +‘All movement in a house has that stealthy sound in the small hours,’ +said Lucius, sorely perplexed himself, yet anxious to reassure his +patient. ‘Your housekeeper or her husband may have been up later than +usual, and may have crept quietly up to bed.’ + +‘I tell you this was in the middle of the night,’ answered Mr. +Sivewright impatiently. ‘The Winchers are as methodical in their habits +as the old clock in the hall. I asked Jacob this morning if he had +been astir after midnight, and he told me he had not.’ + +‘The fact is, my dear sir, you are nervous,’ said Lucius in a soothing +tone. ‘You lie awake and fancy sounds which have no existence, or at +any rate do not exist within the house.’ + +‘I tell you this sound awoke me,’ replied the other still more +impatiently. ‘I was sleeping tolerably when the sound of that hateful +footstep startled me into perfect wakefulness. There was a nameless +horror to my mind in that stealthy tread. It sounded like the step of +an assassin.’ + +‘Come, Mr. Sivewright,’ said Lucius in that practical tone which does +much to tranquillise a nervous patient, ‘if this is, as I firmly +believe it to be, a mere delusion of your senses, it will be easiest +dispelled by investigation. Let us face the unknown foe, and make a +speedy end of him. Suffer me to keep watch to-night in this room, +unknown to all in the house except yourself, and I will answer for it +the ghost shall be laid.’ + +‘No,’ answered Mr. Sivewright doggedly. ‘I am not so childish or so +weak-minded as to ask another man to corroborate the evidence of my own +senses. I tell you, Davoren, the thing is. If I believed in ghosts the +matter would trouble me little enough. All the phantoms that were ever +supposed to make night hideous might range these passages, and glide +up and down yonder staircase at their pleasure. But I do not believe +in the supernatural; and the sounds that I have heard are distinctly +human.’ + +‘Let me hear them too.’ + +‘No, I tell you,’ answered the patient with smothered anger; ‘I will +have no one to play the spy upon my slumber. If this is the delusion of +an enfeebled brain, I have sense enough left to find out the falsehood +for myself. Besides, the intruder, if there be one, cannot do me any +harm. Yonder door is securely locked every night.’ + +‘Can you trust the lock?’ + +‘Do you think I should have put a bad one to a room that contains +such treasures? No, the lock is one I chose myself, and would baffle +a practised burglar. There is the same kind of lock on yonder door, +communicating with the dressing-room. I turn the key in both with my +own hand every night after Wincher has left me. I am still strong +enough to move about the room, though I feel my strength lessening day +by day. God pity me when I lie helpless on yonder bed, as I must do +soon.’ + +‘Nay, my dear sir, let us hope for a favourable change ere long.’ + +‘I have almost left off hoping,’ answered the old man wearily. ‘All +the drugs in your surgery will not cure me. I am tired of trying first +this medicine and then that. For some time, indeed, I believed that you +understood my case; that your medicines were of some good to me. Within +the last three weeks they have seemed only to aggravate my disorder.’ + +Lucius took up a medicine bottle from the little table by the bed half +absently. It was empty. + +‘When did you take your last dose?’ he asked. + +‘Half-an-hour ago.’ + +‘I will try to find you a new tonic; something that shall not produce +the nausea you have complained of lately. I cannot understand how this +mixture should have had such an effect; but it is just possible you may +have an antipathy to quinine. I will give you a medicine without any +quinine.’ + +Mr. Sivewright gave an impatient sigh, expressive of non-belief in the +whole faculty of medicine. + +‘Do what you please with me,’ he said. ‘If you do not succeed in +lengthening my life, I suppose I may depend upon your not shortening +it. And as you charge me nothing for your services, I have no right to +complain if their value corresponds with the rate of your recompense.’ + +‘I am sorry to see you have lost confidence in me, sir,’ said Lucius, +somewhat wounded, yet willing to forgive a sick man’s petulance. + +‘I have not lost confidence in you individually. It is the science of +medicine which I disbelieve in. Here am I, after four months’ patient +observance of your regimen, eating, drinking, sleeping, ay, almost +thinking according to your advice, and yet I am no better at the end of +it all, but feel myself growing daily worse. If all your endeavours to +patch up a broken constitution have resulted only in failure, why do +you not tell me so without farther parley? I told you at the beginning +that I was stoic enough to receive my death-warrant without a pang.’ + +‘And I tell you again, as I told you then, that I have no sentence of +death to pronounce. I confess that your symptoms during the last three +weeks have somewhat puzzled me. If they continue to do so, I shall ask +your permission to consult a medical man of wider experience than my +own.’ + +‘No,’ answered the old man captiously, ‘I will see no strangers. I will +be experimentalised upon by no new hand. If you can’t cure me, put me +down as incurable. And now you had better go to your other patients; I +have kept you later than usual. You will come back in the evening, I +suppose?’ + +‘Most certainly.’ + +‘Very well, then, devote your evening to me, for once in a way, instead +of to Lucille. You will have plenty of her society by and by, when she +is your wife. I want to talk seriously with you. The time has come when +there must be no more concealment between you and me. There are secrets +which a man may do wisely to keep through life, but which it is fatal +to carry to the grave. Give me your hand, Lucius,’ he said, stretching +out his wasted fingers to meet the strong grasp of the surgeon; ‘we +have not known each other long, yet as much as I can trust anybody I +trust you; as much as I can love anybody—since my son turned my milk of +human kindness to gall—I love you. Come back to me this evening, and I +will prove to you that this is no idle protestation.’ + +The thin hand trembled in Lucius Davoren’s grasp. There was more +emotion in these words of Homer Sivewright’s than Lucius had supposed +the old man capable of feeling. + +‘Whatever service you may require of me, whatever trust you may confide +in me,’ said the surgeon with warmth, ‘be assured that the service +shall be faithfully performed, the trust held sacred.’ And thus they +parted. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +HOMER SIVEWRIGHT’S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. + + +It was nearly dusk that evening when Lucius returned to Cedar House. +His daily round had occupied more time than usual, and however full +his mind might be of that strange old man, or of the woman he loved, +he did not shorten a visit or neglect the smallest detail of his duty. +The lamp was lighted in Mr. Sivewright’s room, though it was not yet +dark outside—only the sultry dusk of a late summer day. The day had +been oppressive, and the Shadrack district had a prostrate air in its +parched dustiness, like a camel in the desert panting for distant +waterpools. The low leaden sky had threatened a storm since noon, +and the denizens of the Shadrack-road, more especially the feminine +population, had been so fluttered and disturbed by the expectation +of the coming tempest as to be unable, in their own language, ‘to +set to anything,’ all day long. Work at the washtub had progressed +slowly, wringing had hung on hand, and the very mangles of Shadrack +had turned listlessly under the influence of the weather. It was the +cholera season, too—a period which set in as regularly in this district +as the gambling season or the water-drinking season at Homburg or +Baden, or the bathing season at Ostend or Biarritz. Stone-fruit was +selling cheaply on the hawkers’ barrows, cucumbers were at a discount, +vegetable marrows met with no inquiry, conger eel and mackerel were +unpopular, and even salmon was not a stranger to the barrows. All the +wealth of the vanishing summer—luxuries which a few short weeks ago +had been counted amongst the delicacies of the season, and paid for +accordingly—had drifted this way on the strong tide of time, and lay as +it were at the feet of the Shadrackites. Upon which the Shadrackites, +looking askant at the costermongers’ barrows, remarked that cholera was +about. + +Mr. Davoren found his patient seated before a writing-table, which he +had never until now seen opened. It was that kind of writing-table +which is called a _bonheur du jour_, a small table provided with +numerous drawers; an ebony table, inlaid with brass and tortoiseshell, +with brass mounts; a table which, according to Mr. Sivewright, had been +made by no lesser hands than those of Francis Boule. The lamp stood on +this table, all the drawers were open and brimming over with papers, +and before it, wrapped in his ancient dressing-gown of faded damask, +sat the old man. + +‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Lucius, about to withdraw, for he knew +that his patient had strange secret ways about his papers. ‘You are +not ready for me, perhaps. I’ll go down and talk to Lucille for a few +minutes.’ + +‘Do nothing of the kind; I am quite ready for you. These papers have +much to do with what I am going to say. Come in, and lock the door. +I have locked the other door myself. I want to be secure from the +possibility of interruption. And now sit down by my side.’ + +Lucius obeyed without a word. + +‘Now,’ said Mr. Sivewright, with the old keen look and sharp tone, the +natural energy in the man dominating even the prostration of sickness, +‘give me a straight answer to a straight question. You have had the run +of this house for a long time; have seen everything, have had time to +form your judgment: which do you think me now—a poor man or a miser?’ + +‘You will not be offended by my candour?’ inquired Lucius. + +‘Certainly not. Have I not enjoined you to be candid?’ + +‘Then,’ replied the other, with a grave smile, ‘I admit that, in spite +of your protestations of poverty, I have thought you rich. Until a +short time ago, indeed, I was inclined to believe your statement; I +really thought that you had sunk all your money in the purchase of +these things,’ with that half-contemptuous glance at the art-treasures +which Mr. Sivewright had before observed; ‘but when you spoke the other +day of a possible intruder in this house with so much alarm, I told +myself that if you had nothing to lose—or nothing more portable than +yonder mummy or this desk—you could hardly cherish the suspicion of +foul play.’ + +‘Fairly reasoned. Then you thought, because I was alarmed by the idea +of a secret visitant prowling about my house in the dead of the night, +that I must needs have some secret hoard, some hidden treasure for +whose safety I feared?’ + +‘That was almost my thought.’ + +‘There you were wrong; but only so far were you wrong,’ answered Mr. +Sivewright, with unwonted energy. ‘I am not such a baby as to hoard my +guineas in an old muniment chest, for the babyish pleasure of gloating +over my treasure in the stillness of the night—letting the golden +coins run like glittering yellow water through my fingers; counting and +recounting; stacking the gold into little piles, twenties, fifties, +hundreds. No. I am a miser—granted; but I am not a fool. There is +nothing in this house but the objects which you have seen; but those +are worth a fortune. This very table at which I am now sitting, and +which to your uneducated eye doubtless seems a trumpery gimcrack thing, +was sold at Christie’s three years ago for a hundred and twenty pounds, +and will sell a year hence for half as much again. The value of money +is diminishing year by year; the number of wealthy buyers is increasing +year by year; and these treasures and relics of the past—specimens +of manufactures that have perished, of arts that are forgotten, the +handiwork of genius which has left no inheritors—these cannot multiply. +The capital these represent is large, and whenever they are put up +to auction in Christie and Manson’s sale-rooms, that capital will be +quadrupled. I do not speak at random, Davoren; I know my trade. After +the apprenticeship of a lifetime I can venture to speak boldly. I have +spent something like ten thousand pounds upon the treasures of this +house, and I consider that ten thousand of sunk capital to represent +between forty and fifty thousand in the future.’ + +Lucius looked at the speaker mute with astonishment. Was this utter +madness? The hallucination of a mind which had become distorted by +constant dwelling upon one subject? The wild dream of an art fanatic? +Homer Sivewright’s calm and serious air—the business-like manner of his +statement—forbade the idea. He might deceive himself as to the value of +his possessions; but there was no madness here. + +‘You do not believe me,’ said Mr. Sivewright, taking the surgeon’s +wondering silence as the indication of his incredulity. ‘You think I +am a doting old fool; that I must be stark mad when I tell you that I, +who have lived as poorly as an anchorite, have been content to sink ten +thousand pounds—representing at five per cent five hundred a year—in +the purchase of things which, to your untutored judgment, may perhaps +appear so much second-hand trumpery.’ + +‘No,’ answered Lucius slowly, like a man awakening from a dream; ‘I can +appreciate the value and the beauty of many among your treasures. But +ten thousand pounds—the sum seems prodigious.’ + +‘A mere bagatelle compared with the sums that have been sunk in the +same kind of property. But I have never bought unless I could buy a +bargain. I am an old hand—cautious as a fox. I have not disputed the +possession of a Sèvres tea-cup or a Dresden snuff-box with wealthy +amateurs. I have waited my chance, and bought gems which the common +herd were too ignorant to appreciate. I have picked up my treasures +in odd nooks and corners; have travelled half over Europe in quest of +spoil. Thus my ten thousand pounds represent thirty thousand of another +man’s money.’ + +‘And you have given up your declining years to constant labour; you +have racked your brains with never-ending calculations; and you have +lived, as you say, like an anchorite—for what result? Only to amass +this heap of things—as useless for any of the practical needs of life +as they are artistically beautiful. You have pinched and scraped and +toiled—shortened your own life, and robbed your grandchild of every +joy that makes youth worth having. Good heavens,’ exclaimed Lucius, +indignant at the thought of that joyless existence to which this old +man had condemned Lucille, ‘was there ever such folly! Nay, it is worse +than folly, it is a crime—a sin against yourself, whom you have robbed +of natural rest, and all the comforts to which men look forward as the +solace of age—a still greater sin against that unselfish girl whose +life you have filled with care and trouble.’ + +This reproach struck home. The old man sighed heavily, his head +drooped upon his breast, and he covered his face with his thin hand. + +‘Why have you made this insensate use of your money?’ exclaimed Lucius. +‘What madness possessed you?’ + +‘The madness men call revenge,’ cried Mr. Sivewright, uncovering his +face and lifting his head proudly. ‘Listen, Lucius Davoren, and when +you have heard my story, call me a madman if you will. You will at +least perceive that there has been a fixed purpose in all I did. When +my false ungrateful son—whom I had loved with all the weak indulgent +affection of the solitary man who concentrates all his store of feeling +upon one object, his only child—when my wicked son left me, he left me +impoverished by his theft, and, as he doubtless believed, ruined for +life. He shook the dust of my house from his feet, and went out into +the world, never intending to recross my threshold. I had nothing more +that could tempt him. My stock had been diminishing daily under his +dishonest hands; the sacrifice I had made to secure the new premises +shrunk it to a vanishing point. Thus he left me, to all intents and +purposes a beggar. It was the old story of the squeezed orange. He had +no compunction in flinging away the rind.’ + +‘He used you hardly,’ said Lucius, ‘like a villain as he was.’ + +‘On the night after he left me, I sat alone by my miserable hearth, in +that room which had never witnessed one hour of domestic peace! I sat +alone, and brooded over my wrongs. Then it seemed to me almost as if +that very devil who came to Dr. Faustus in his study came and stood +behind my chair, and whispered in my ear. “Come,” said the fiend, “love +is worn out, but there is one thing left you still—revenge. Grow rich, +and this base son, who leaves you to perish like a maimed lion in his +den, will come back and fawn upon you for your money. Grow rich again; +show him what might have been his reward had he behaved decently to +you. Let him lie at your door and starve, and beg as Dives begged for a +drop of water, and be refused. Then it will be your turn to laugh, as +he no doubt is now laughing at you.”’ + +‘A strange suggestion, and worthy to come from the spirit of evil,’ +said Lucius. + +‘I cared not if it came straight from Lucifer,’ answered the other +passionately. ‘From that hour I lived only to make money. I had lived +for little else before, you will say, perhaps; but I worked harder +now. Fortune seemed to favour me, just as the Fates seem now and then +to favour the desperate gamester. I made some lucky sales with the +shrunken remnant of my stock. I found gems in queer out-of-the-way +places; for at this time I was endowed with an almost superhuman +activity, and travelled many miles every day. I roamed the Continent, +and brought home wonders of art. I acquired a reputation for finding +objects of rarest merit, and celebrated collectors paid me my price +without a murmur. So I worked on, until the expiry of my lease found me +with a large stock and some thousands in hand. Then the idea suddenly +occurred to me that my best chance of dying a rich man—or of doubling, +tripling, or quadrupling my capital before I died—was to let my stock +lie fallow. I surrendered my premises rather than pay the enormous rent +which the landlord demanded for them. I might have sold my stock, and +retired with a comfortable income; but I determined to keep it, and die +worth fifty thousand pounds. I found this old house—roomy and secluded; +I brought my wealth here. There are cases of rare old china stowed +away in some of the rooms which you have not even seen. Since I came +here, I went on buying, so long as my funds would admit; and since the +exhaustion of my capital, I have done a good deal of business in the +way of barter—weeding out objects of lesser value from my collection, +and making many a good bargain with dealers who only half know their +trade. Thus even after my funds were gone I managed to enrich my +collection.’ + +‘And now, I conclude,’ said Lucius, ‘that your chief pleasure is the +idea of giving your name to a museum—of leaving behind you a memorial +which shall survive for generations to come?’ + +‘I have no such thought,’ answered the other. ‘My talk of leaving these +things to the nation was but an idle threat. No, Lucius, my dream and +my hope from the time of my son’s desertion have been the realisation +of a large fortune—you understand, a fortune—a fortune to be left away +from that base boy—a fortune which he should hear of, whose full extent +should be known to him; wealth that he should hunger for, while he lay +in the gutter. I have made the fortune, Lucius, and I leave it all to +you. That is my revenge.’ + +‘To _me_!’ cried Lucius, aghast. + +‘To you. But mind, not a sixpence, not a halfpenny, to that man, should +he come whining to you; not a crust of bread to ward off the pangs of +starvation.’ + +‘You have left everything to me,’ said Lucius, with undiminished +surprise, ‘to me! You pass over your granddaughter, your own flesh and +blood, to make me your heir!’ + +‘What does it matter whether it goes to you or Lucille?’ asked Mr. +Sivewright impatiently. ‘You love her?’ + +‘With all the strength of my heart.’ + +‘And she is to be your wife. She will have the full benefit of all I +leave you. Were it left to her—settled upon her ever so tightly, for +her sole use and benefit, and so on, as the lawyers have it—you would +have the advantage all the same. She would surrender all her rights +to you. But she would do something worse than that. She has a foolish +sentimental idea about that infamous father of hers; she would let him +share the money. That is why I bequeath everything to you.’ + +‘The precaution is needless, sir,’ replied Lucius gravely. ‘I have +reason to know that your son no longer lives to trouble you or his +daughter.’ + +‘You have reason to know!’ cried the old man angrily. ‘What do you know +about my son? And why have you withheld your knowledge from me until +this moment?’ + +‘Because it is only within the last few weeks that I have discovered +your son’s identity with a man I met in America, and I did not care to +disturb you by any allusion to an agitating subject.’ + +‘Who was this man?’ + +‘You will not speak of this to Lucille? She knows nothing—she must know +nothing of—of her father’s death,’ said Lucius, with painful eagerness. + +He had spoken rashly, and found himself, as it were, caught in the +meshes of his own ill-advised admission. + +‘She shall know nothing, if you insist upon it. For God’s sake, don’t +trifle with me. Is my son dead?’ + +He asked the question with as agonising an anxiety as if the son he had +long ago renounced were at this moment the idol of his heart. + +‘I have good reason to believe that he is dead.’ + +‘That is no answer. Give me details, particulars—time, place, the +manner of his death.’ + +‘I—I can only tell you what I know,’ answered Lucius, pale to the lips. +‘There was a portrait amongst the lumber in your loft—the portrait of a +young man with dark hair and eyes.’ + +‘There was but one portrait there,’ answered the old man quickly—‘my +son’s.’ + +‘That picture resembles a man I once met in America, who, I afterwards +heard, was shot.’ + +‘How? by whom?’ + +‘That I cannot tell you. You must accept the evidence for what it is +worth.’ + +‘I reject it as worthless. What, you see a picture among the lumber +in the loft which reminds you of a face you saw in America—the face +of some man who may or may not have been killed in some gold-diggers’ +fray, I suppose—and you jump at the conclusion that my son is dead; +that the order of nature has been reversed, and the green tree has +fallen before the disabled trunk! You tell me, on no better evidence +than this, that my dream of revenge has been vain; that my ungrateful +son will never hear, with all the pangs of baffled avarice, of his dead +father’s wealth—of wealth that might have been his had he been simply +honest.’ + +‘Say that I am mistaken, then,’ replied Lucius, infinitely relieved by +the old man’s incredulity. How could he have answered if Mr. Sivewright +had questioned him closely? He was not schooled in falsehood. The +horrible truth might have been wrung from him in spite of himself. +‘Say that your son still lives,’ he went on. ‘I accept your trust, and +thank you for your confidence in me. I shall receive your wealth, and +may it be long ere it falls to my hands—rather as a trustee than an +inheritor—for to my mind it will always belong to Lucille, and not to +me.’ + +‘And you swear that my wicked son shall never profit by my hard-earned +gains?’ + +‘I swear it,’ said Lucius. + +‘Then I am satisfied. My will is straight and simple, and leaves all to +you without reserve. It has been duly witnessed, and lies in this inner +drawer.’ He lifted the flap of the table, and showed Lucius a concealed +drawer at the back. ‘You will remember?’ + +‘Yes,’ answered the surgeon, ‘but I trust in God that it may be long +ere that document is needed.’ + +‘That is a polite speech common to heirs,’ answered Mr. Sivewright, +with a touch of bitterness. ‘But you have been very good to me,’ he +added in a softer tone; ‘and I like you. Nay, could I believe in the +existence of friendship, I should be induced to think that you return +my liking.’ + +‘I do, sir, with all my heart,’ returned Lucius. ‘Your eccentricities +kept us asunder for some time; but since you have treated me with +confidence—since you have bared your heart to me, with its heavy burden +of past wrongs and sorrows—you have drawn me very near to you. I +deplore the mistaken principle which has guided your later life; but I +cannot but acknowledge the magnitude of the wrong which inspired that +dream of revenge. Yet, while I accept the trust which you are generous +enough to confide in me, I regret that I should profit by your anger +against another. If I did not think your son was dead—that all hope +of earthly atonement for his wrong-doing is over—I should refuse to +subscribe to the conditions of your bequest.’ + +‘Say no more about his death,’ exclaimed the old man, ‘or you will +make me angry. Now one more word about business. If, immediately +after my death, you want money, sell my collection at once. You will +find a catalogue, and detached instructions as to the manner of the +sale, in this desk. If, on the other hand, you can afford to wait for +your fortune—if you want the present value of those things to double +itself—wait twenty years, and sell them before your eldest child comes +of age. In that case, you will have a fortune large enough to make your +sons great merchants—to dower half-a-dozen daughters.’ + +‘I shall not be too eager to turn your treasures into money, believe +me, sir,’ answered Lucius. + +‘Good,’ said Mr. Sivewright. ‘I bought those things to sell +again—speculated in them as a broker speculates in shares. Yet it gives +me a sharp pang to think of their being scattered. They represent all +the experience of my life, my youthful worship of art, the knowledge +of my later years. I have looked at them, and handled them, till they +seem to me like sentient things.’ + +‘Even Pharaoh yonder,’ said Lucius with a smile, anxious to turn the +current of his patient’s thoughts, which had been dwelling too long +upon painful themes, ‘though he seems scarcely a lively object to adorn +a bedchamber.’ + +‘Pharaoh was a bargain,’ answered Mr. Sivewright, ‘or I shouldn’t have +bought him. The manufacture of mummies is one of the extinct arts, and +the article must rise in market value with the lapse of years. New +towns spring up; provincial museums multiply—each must have its mummy.’ + +‘Come, Mr. Sivewright, you have been talking rather more than is good +for an invalid. May I unlock those doors, and ring for your supper?’ + +‘Yes, if you forbid further talk, but I have something more, another +matter, and one of some importance, to discuss with you.’ + +‘Let that stand over till to-morrow. You have fatigued and excited +yourself too much already. I will be with you at the same time +to-morrow evening, if you like.’ + +‘Do, there is something I am anxious to speak about; not quite so +important as the subject of our conversation to-night, but yet +something that ought to be spoken of. Come to-morrow evening at the +same time. Yes, you are right, I have tired myself already.’ + +Mr. Sivewright flung himself back in his chair exhausted. Lucius +reproached himself for having suffered his patient to talk so much, and +upon so agitating a topic. He stayed while the old man sipped a cup of +beef-tea, which he finished with a painful effort; Lucille standing +by, and looking on anxiously all the while. She had brought the little +supper-tray from the adjoining room with her own hands. + +‘Do try to eat it, dear grandpapa,’ she said, as Mr. Sivewright trifled +with his spoon, and looked despondently at the half-filled cup. ‘I made +it myself, on purpose that it should be good and strong.’ + +‘It is good enough, child, if you could give me the inclination to +eat,’ answered the old man, pushing away the cup with a sigh; ‘and now +good-night to you both. I am tired, and shall go to bed at once.’ + +‘Don’t lock the dressing-room door to-night, grandpapa,’ said Lucille. +‘I am going to sleep there in future, so that I may be close at hand if +you should want anything in the night.’ + +‘I never want anything in the night,’ answered Mr. Sivewright +impatiently. ‘You may just as well sleep in your own room.’ + +‘But I like to be near you, grandpapa, and Lucius says you ought to +take a little beef-tea very early in the morning. Please leave the door +unlocked.’ + +‘Very well; but, in that case, mind you lock the outer door.’ + +‘I will be careful to do so, grandpapa.’ + +‘Be sure of that. This change of rooms is a foolish fancy: but I am too +feeble to dispute the point. Good-night.’ + +He dismissed them both with a wave of his hand—the grandchild who +represented the sum-total of his kindred, and the man to whom he had +bequeathed his fortune. + +Lucille and Lucius went down-stairs together, but both were curiously +silent. + +The surgeon’s mind was full of that strange conversation with Homer +Sivewright; the girl had a preoccupied air. + +In the dimly-lighted hall she paused, by the open door of the +sitting-room, where Mrs. Wincher had just put down the little tray with +her young mistress’s meagre supper. + +‘Will you come into the parlour for a little while, Lucius?’ she asked, +as her lover lingered on the threshold with an undecided air. Something +unfamiliar in the tone of her voice jarred upon his ear. + +‘You ask the question almost as if you wished me to say no, Lucille,’ +he said. + +‘I am rather tired,’ she answered faintly, ‘and I am sure you must +be tired too, you have been so long up-stairs with grandpapa. It has +struck ten.’ + +‘That sounds like my dismissal,’ said Lucius, scrutinising the pale +face, in which there was a troubled expression that he had never seen +there until of late; ‘so I will say good-night, though I had something +to tell you, had you been inclined to listen.’ + +‘Tell me all to-morrow, Lucius.’ + +‘It shall be to-morrow then, dearest. Good-night.’ + +And thus with one tender kiss he left her. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +WHAT LUCIUS SAW BETWIXT MIDNIGHT AND MORNING. + + +The sky was starless above the Shadrack-road, and the air hardly less +oppressive than it had been in the sultry noontide. That low sky +seemed to shut in the Shadrack district like an iron roof, and the +Shadrackites lounging against their doorposts, or conversing at street +corners, or congregating in small clusters outside public-houses, +bemoaned themselves that the storm had not yet come. + +Lucius left Cedar House heavy-hearted, in spite of the knowledge that +he, who yesterday knew not of a creature in this universe likely to +leave him a five-pound note, was to-night heir to a handsome fortune. +The thought of Mr. Sivewright’s generosity in no manner elated him. Had +his mind been free to contemplate this fact he would, no doubt, have +rejoiced in the new sense of security which such a prospect must have +inspired; he would have rejoiced not alone for himself, but for the +sake of the woman who was to be his wife. Through the thick tangle of +his troubled thoughts no gleam of light could penetrate. He saw himself +the centre of perplexities. It seemed almost as if the avenging shade +of the man he had slain were hunting him down—tempting him to entangle +himself by some foolish confession, urging him to some folly that must +bring about his own destruction. He thought of Orestes pursued by the +Eumenides—tortured by the burden of a crime which, at the hour of its +commission, he had deemed an act of justice. + +Instead of turning homewards as usual, he paused for a minute or so +outside the iron gate, and then took the opposite direction, setting +his face towards the distant country. It was only a fancy, perhaps, but +it seemed to him that the atmosphere was a shade less oppressive when +he turned his back upon Shadrack Basin and the steam factories which +encompassed it. No rain came to cool the fever-parched city, nor had +the first low note of the impending storm sounded in distant thunder. +Yet that coming storm was no less a certainty. + +There was a strange bewilderment in the surgeon’s mind. That promise of +wealth, ease, security, a more speedily-won renown, all the benefits +which go hand-in-hand with the possession of ample means, had excited +his brain, although it had not elated his spirits. He saw all the +scheme of his future altered. No longer need he toil in this wretched +district. He might at once establish himself amongst the most famous +of his fellow workers; make known his new theories, his discoveries in +the vast world of medical science; do good on a scale infinitely larger +than that afforded by his present surroundings. It was not that he +wanted to turn his back upon the suffering poor. His brightest hopes, +his fondest dreams, were of the good he was to do for these. He only +desired that his light might not be for ever hidden under a bushel. +Strong in the belief that he could serve the whole race of man, he +languished to shake off those fetters, forged by necessity, which kept +him chained to this obscure corner of the earth. + +With the thought of his improved prospects, and all the hopes that +went along with that thought, there mingled that ever-brooding care +about the past. He had perceived a curious change in Lucille’s manner +to-night. Could she have discovered anything? How anxious she had been +to get rid of him! She had not seemed exactly cold or unkind, but her +manner had been hurried, excited; as if her mind were occupied with +some all-absorbing thought in which he had no part. + +‘If, by some fatal chance, she had discovered the true story of her +father’s fate,’ he told himself, ‘she would hardly have concealed +her knowledge; she would have surely told me the truth at once, and +dismissed me for ever. I cannot imagine her acting in any double or +underhanded manner. Yet to-night it seemed as if she had something to +hide from me.’ + +This fancy troubled him; and in spite of his endeavours to dismiss +the suspicion as groundless, the thought recurred to him every now +and then. He walked far along the Shadrack-road, farther than he had +penetrated for many a day; walked on, meditative, and hardly conscious +where he went, until he came to a region of deserted building-ground, +upon which a few skeleton houses lifted their roofless walls to the +blank sky, as if demanding of the gods wherefore the speculative +builder—long since stranded on the reefy shore of the bankruptcy +court—came not to finish them. + +This arid plain, which had erst been pleasant meadow-land, and where +the shorn remnant of a once-beauteous hawthorn hedge still languished +here and there under a cloud of lime dust, was the nearest approach to +a rustic landscape within reach of the Shadrackites. Its beauty did not +tempt the pedestrian. + +Lucius halted at sight of the skeleton houses, and having in some +measure walked down his excitement, turned back. He did not, however, +take exactly the same way by which he had come. The prospect of the +Shadrack-road, in all its dreary length, may have appalled him, or it +may have been mere vagrant fancy which led him to return by a long +narrow street, straggling and poverty-stricken, yet boasting here and +there some good old red-brick mansion, which had once been the country +seat of a prosperous City merchant, but which now, shorn of its garden, +and defaced by neglect and decay, was let off in divers tenements to +the struggling poor. + +This street, with all its byways, was familiar to Lucius, who had +plenty of patients in those squalid houses, down those narrow side +streets, courts, and alleys. He knew every turn of the place, and +wandered on to-night, not troubling himself which way he went, so long +as he kept in a general manner the homeward direction. It had struck +twelve when he emerged from a darksome alley on to the wharf which +formed one side of the narrow creek whereon Mr. Sivewright’s garden +abutted. + +There were the dingy barges moored side by side upon the stagnant +water; and there above them, dark against the sky, loomed the outline +of the house that sheltered all Lucius Davoren most fondly loved. He +had wandered to this spot almost unawares. + + ‘I arise from dreams of thee, + And a spirit in my feet + Has led me—who knows how? + To thy chamber-window, sweet!’ + +murmured the lover, as he looked up at those blank windows. + +There was a faint light in one, the little dressing-room next Mr. +Sivewright’s bedchamber, the room now occupied by Lucille. Yes, and +there was one more light—the yellow flame of a candle in one of the +upper windows, a window in that topmost story, which Lucille had +declared to be utterly uninhabited. + +The sight struck Lucius with a vague suspicion—a feeling almost of +alarm. + +How should there be a light up yonder in one of those unoccupied rooms? +Could it be Jacob Wincher, prowling about after midnight, to inspect +the treasures of which he was guardian. It was just possible there +might be some part of the bric-à-brac merchant’s collection in one +of those upper rooms. Yet Lucille had declared that they were quite +empty—and his own inspection through the keyholes had revealed nothing +worth speaking of within. And again, how foreign to Jacob Wincher’s +orderly habits to be roaming about with a candle at such an hour! + +The gleam of that solitary candle amidst all those dark upper windows +mystified Lucius beyond measure. + +‘If it is old Wincher who has carried the light up yonder, it will move +presently,’ thought Lucius; ‘he would not stay there long at such a +late hour. I’ll wait and see the end of the business.’ + +The first note of the storm sounded as he made this resolve, a rumble +of distant thunder, and then came the heavy patter of big rain-drops, +shedding coolness upon the thunder-charged air. There was an open shed +close at hand, and Lucius withdrew to its shelter without losing sight +of the dark old house opposite, with its two lighted windows. + +The water and the barges lay between him and Cedar House, the +wharf—used at this time as a repository for spelter—being built upon a +narrow creek, or inlet from the river. + +He stood and watched for nearly half an hour, while the rain came down +heavily and the lightning flashed across his face every now and then; +but still the light burnt steadily. What could Wincher or anybody +else be doing in yonder room at such an hour? Or could it be Homer +Sivewright himself, roaming the house like an unquiet spirit? + +‘No,’ Lucius thought, ‘he has not strength enough to mount those steep +stairs without help. It cannot be Sivewright.’ + +Did the circumstance—trivial enough in itself, perhaps, but painfully +perplexing to that anxious watcher—mean any harm? That was the +question. Did it denote any peril to Lucille? Ought he to go round to +the front of the house, and try to arouse the sleeping household, in +order to warn them of some unknown danger? That seemed a desperate +thing to do, when the circumstance, after all, might be of no moment. +It was most likely Jacob Wincher. He might have eccentricities that +Lucius had never heard of; and to sit up late into the night was +perhaps one of his failings. + +Yet that mysterious light, taken in conjunction with Mr. Sivewright’s +fancy about strange footsteps in the dead of the night, was not a fact +to be dismissed carelessly. + +‘If there were any way of getting into the house without ringing people +up and frightening my patient, I would get in somehow, and find the +solution of this enigma,’ thought Lucius; ‘but I daresay the doors and +windows at the back are firmly fastened.’ + +A distant clock chimed the quarter before one, while Lucius was +standing irresolute under the spelter shed. While the third slow +chime was still vibrating in the silent night, the blue glare of a +lightning-flash showed that eager watcher a figure upon one of the +barges. + +Until this moment he had believed them utterly empty, save of their +cargo; nor did this figure belong to either of those darksome vessels. +It was the figure of a man, tall and lithe, who moved quickly along, +bending his body as he crept from one barge to the other, as if +shrinking from the pelting rain—a stealthy figure, upon which Lucius at +once concentrated his attention. + +He had not long to remain in doubt. The man lifted his head presently, +and looked up towards the lighted window; then, with the agility of +some wild animal, sprang from the barge to the garden-wall. There +Lucius lost him in the darkness. + +Presently there came a long whistle—long but not loud; then a light +appeared in the lower part of the house—a light from an open door, +evidently. Lucius saw the light appear and vanish, and heard the +closing of a heavy door. + +Some one had admitted that man to the house, but who was that some one? +There was foul play of some kind; but what the nature of the mystery +was a question he could not answer. + +What should he do? Go round to the front gate, ring, and alarm the +household? By that means only could he solve the mystery, and prove +to Lucille that these Winchers, whose fidelity she believed in, were +deceiving her. Yet to do that might be to imperil his patient, in whose +weak state any violent shock might be well-nigh fatal. + +Reflection convinced him that whatever mischief was at work in that +house was of a subtle character. It could only mean plunder; for +after all, to suppose that it involved any evil design against Homer +Sivewright’s life seemed too improbable a notion to be entertained for +a moment. The plot, whatever its nature, must mean plunder, and these +Winchers, the trusted servants, in whom long service seemed a pledge of +honesty, must be the moving spirits of the treason. What more likely +than that Jacob Wincher, who knew the value of his master’s treasures, +was gradually plundering the collection of its richest gems, and that +this stealthy intruder, who entered the house thus secretly under cover +of night, was his accomplice, employed to carry away and dispose of the +booty? + +Arguing thus, Lucius decided that it would be a foolish thing to +disturb the evildoers in the midst of their work. His wiser course +would be to lie in wait, watch the house till daybreak, and surprise +the accomplice in the act of carrying off the plunder. As the man had +gone in, so he must surely come out before morning. If, owing to the +darkness of the night, he should escape the watcher’s keen gaze on this +occasion, Lucius determined that he would set one of the minions of Mr. +Otranto, the private detective, to watch to-morrow night. + +Lucius waited patiently, though those hours in the dead of the night +went by with leaden pace, and every limb of the watcher became a +burden to him from very weariness. He seated himself upon an empty +cask in an angle of the shed, leaned his back against the wall, and +waited; never relaxing his watch upon those quiet barges and the low +garden-wall beyond them, never ceasing to listen intently for the least +sound from that direction. The storm abated, heaven’s floodgates were +closed again; the lightning faded to fainter flashes and then ceased +altogether; a distant rumble of thunder, like the sound of a door +shutting after the exit of a disagreeable visitor, marked the end of +the tempest. Peace descended once more upon earth, and coolness; a +pleasant air crept along the narrow creek; even the odour of the damp +earth was sweet after the heat and dryness of yesterday. + +Morning came, and the aching of Lucius Davoren’s bones increased, but +there was no sign from the barges or the garden-wall. The watcher was +thoroughly wearied. His eyes had been striving to pierce the darkness, +his ears had been strained to listen for the lightest sound during four +long hours. At five o’clock he departed, not wishing to be surprised by +early labourers coming his way, or by the traffic of the wharf, which +might begin he knew not how soon. He went away, vexed and disquieted; +thinking that it was just possible the man might have escaped him after +all in the darkness. + +‘I shouldn’t have seen him in the first instance without the aid of +that lightning-flash,’ he said to himself; ‘I may very easily have +missed him afterwards. I’ll go home and get two or three hours’ sleep +if I can, and then go straight to Cedar House and try to solve this +mystery.’ + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +LUCIUS AT FAULT. + + +At nine o’clock Lucius stood before the tall iron gate waiting for +admittance to Mr. Sivewright’s dwelling. In spite of his weariness, he +had slept but little in the interval. The fever of his brain was not to +be beguiled into slumber. He could only go over the same ground again +and again, trying to convince himself that the mystery of that secret +entrance to Cedar House was a very simple matter and would be made +clear after a little trouble. + +He scrutinised Mrs. Wincher keenly, as she unlocked the gate and +conducted him across the forecourt; but nothing in the aspect of +Mr. Wincher’s good lady indicated agitation or emotion of any kind +whatsoever. If this woman were involved in some nightly act of +wrong-doing against her master, she was evidently hardened in iniquity. +Her face, not altogether free from the traces of a blacklead brush, +with which she may perchance have brushed aside an importunate fly, was +placidity itself. + +‘You’re more than usual early this morning, Dr. Davory,’ she said with +her friendly air; ‘you did ought to give yourself a little more rest.’ + +‘I couldn’t rest this morning, Mrs. Wincher,’ answered Lucius +thoughtfully; ‘I was too anxious.’ + +‘Not about the old gentleman, I hope?’ + +‘Well, partly on his account, and partly upon other grounds. I have an +idea that this house is not quite so safe as it might be.’ + +‘Lord bless you, sir, not safe, when I bolts every blessed door, +and puts up every blessed bar, just as if it was chock full of +state prisoners! And what is there for any one to steal except the +bricklebrack, and nobody in these parts would know the vally o’ that. +I’m sure I’ve lived among it five-and-twenty year myself, and can’t see +no use in it, nor no beauty in it neither. Depend upon it, nobody would +ever come arter bricklebrack.’ + +‘I don’t know, Mrs. Wincher,’ answered Lucius; ‘people will come after +anything, as long as it’s worth money.’ + +‘Let ’em come, then,’ exclaimed the matron contemptuously; ‘I give ’em +leave to get into this house after dark if they can.’ + +‘How if some one were to be obliging, though, and let them in?’ + +‘Who is there to do that, unless it was me or my good gentleman,’ +cried Mrs. Wincher, blushing indignantly through the blacklead, +‘and I suppose you’re not going to suspect us, Dr. Davory, after +five-and-twenty years’ faithful service? Let any one in, indeed, to +make away with the bricklebrack! Why, my good gentleman would fret +hisself to fiddle-strings if he was to crack a tea-cup.’ + +Indignation lent shrillness to the voice of Mrs. Wincher, and this +conversation, which took place in the hall, made itself audible in +the parlour. The door was opened quickly, and Lucille appeared on the +threshold, very pale, and with that troubled look in her face which +Lucius had seen at parting with her the night before. + +‘What is the matter?’ she asked anxiously, ‘what are you talking so +loud about, Wincher?’ She took Lucius’s offered hand absently, hardly +looking at him, and evidently disturbed by some apprehension of evil. + +‘Nothink pertiklar, Miss Lucille,’ replied Mrs. Wincher, tossing +her head; ‘only I’m not a stone, and when people throws out their +insinuventions at me I feels it. As if me or my good gentleman was +capable of making away with the bricklebrack.’ + +‘What do you mean, Wincher?’ + +‘Ask him,’ said Mrs. Wincher, pointing to Lucius; ‘I suppose he knows +what he means hisself, but I’m sure I don’t;’ with which remark the +matron withdrew to the back premises to resume her blacklead brush. + +‘What have you been saying to offend Mrs. Wincher, Lucius?’ asked +Lucille. + +‘Not much, dearest, but if you’ll listen to me for a few minutes I’ll +endeavour to explain.’ + +He followed her into the parlour and shut the door. + +‘Why, Lucille,’ he said, drawing her towards the window, and looking at +the pale thoughtful face, ‘how ill you look!’ + +‘I am anxious about my grandfather,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Never mind my +looks, Lucius; only contrive to cure him, and I daresay I shall soon be +quite well again.’ + +‘But you have no right to be anxious, Lucille,’ he answered; ‘can you +not trust me? Do you not believe that I shall do all that care and +skill can do, and that, if at any moment I see reason to doubt my own +power to deal with this case, I shall call in some famous doctor to aid +me?’ + +‘I believe you will do all that is wise and right; but still I cannot +help feeling anxious. Do not take any notice of me. I pray Heaven that +all may come right in time.’ + +She said this with a weary air, as if almost worn out with care. It +seemed cruel to trouble her at such a time, and yet Lucius could not +refrain from some endeavour to solve the mystery of that scene last +night. + +‘Lucille,’ he began seriously, ‘you must promise not to be angry with +me, nor to be alarmed by anything I may say.’ + +‘I can’t promise that,’ she said, with a shade of impatience; not +quite the old sweetness that had charmed and won him; ‘you are full +of strange fancies and terrors. What was that you were saying to Mrs. +Wincher just now?’ + +‘I was only hinting at a suspicion that has become almost a certainty. +There is something wrong going on in this house, Lucille.’ + +She started, and the pale face grew a shade paler. + +‘What do you mean? What can be wrong?’ + +‘There is foul play of some kind, a design against the property +contained in this house. No doubt the report of its value has spread +by this time; the house is known to be almost unoccupied. What more +likely than that some one should attempt to plunder your grandfather’s +possessions? What more easy, above all, if any one inside the house +turned traitor and opened the door, in the dead of the night, to the +intruder?’ + +‘Lucius!’ + +The name broke from her lips almost in a scream, and it seemed as if +Lucille would have dropped to the ground but for her lover’s supporting +arm. + +‘Lucille, is it worthy of you to be so terrorstricken? If there is +danger to be met, can we not meet it together? Only trust me, darling, +and all your fears will vanish. Believe me, I am strong enough to +face any peril, if I have but your confidence. Accident has put me in +possession of a secret connected with this house. Heaven knows what +might have happened but for that providential discovery. But knowledge +is power, and once aware of the danger, I shall find out how to cope +with it.’ + +‘A discovery!’ she repeated with the same terrorstricken look. ‘What +discovery?’ + +‘First, that the people you trust, these Winchers, whose fidelity +has stood the test of five-and-twenty-years’ service, are improving +their first opportunity to cheat. They are taking advantage of your +grandfather’s helplessness. A man was admitted into this house secretly +at one o’clock this morning.’ + +‘What folly!’ cried Lucille with a faint laugh. ‘What could have put +such a delusion into your head? A man admitted to this house at one +o’clock this morning! Even if such a thing could have happened, which +of course is impossible, who could have informed you of the fact?’ + +‘My own eyes, which saw him clamber from the barges to the garden-wall, +saw the gleam of a candle as a door was opened to admit him, saw a +light burning in one of the upper windows—evidently a signal.’ + +‘_You_ saw?’ cried Lucille with widely-opened eyes. ‘How could you see? +What could have taken you to the back of this house in the middle of +the night?’ + +‘Accident,’ answered Lucius, ‘or say rather Providence. I was out of +spirits when I left you last night—your own manner, so unlike its usual +kindness, disturbed me, and I had other agitating thoughts. I walked a +long way down the Shadrack-road, and then returned by a back way, which +brought me to the spelter-wharf opposite the garden. There the light in +the upper story attracted my attention. I had heard from you that those +upper rooms were never occupied. I waited, watched, and saw what I have +just described.’ + +‘I would sooner believe it a delusion of your senses than the Winchers +could be capable of treachery,’ said Lucille. + +‘Do not talk any more about my senses deceiving me,’ replied Lucius +decisively. ‘You told me I was the fool of my own senses when I saw +some one open the door of one of the upper rooms, and then hurriedly +shut it. Now I am certain that I was not deceived—there was some one +hidden in that room. Remember, Lucille, I say again there is no cause +for fear. But there is foul play of some kind, and it is our business +to fathom it. We are not children, to leave ourselves at the mercy of +any scoundrel who chooses to plunder or assail us. I shall bring a +policeman to watch in this house to-night, and set another to watch the +outside.’ + +The slender figure which his arm had until now sustained slipped +suddenly from his hold, and Lucille sank unconscious to the ground. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE PLUNDER OF THE MUNIMENT CHEST. + + +The sight of the girl he fondly loved lying senseless at his feet, with +a white face and closed eyelids, filled Lucius Davoren with unspeakable +agony and remorse. How little had he calculated the effect of his words +upon this too-sensitive nature! To him the danger involved in the plot +which he suspected was but a small thing—a difficulty to be met and +grappled with. That was all. But to this inexperienced girl the thought +of a midnight intruder, of a stranger’s secret entrance into the house, +with the connivance of its treacherous inmates, was doubtless appalling. + +Could he despise his betrothed for her want of courage? No! His first +thought was professional. This sudden fainting fit was no doubt the +evidence of weakened health. Days of patient attendance upon the +invalid, nights rendered sleepless by anxiety, had done their work. +Lucille’s strength had given way—that change in her appearance and +manner which had so much disturbed him was but one of the indications +of broken health. And he, who loved her better than life itself, felt +himself guilty of cruel neglect in not having ere this discovered +the truth. That gentle self-sacrificing spirit was stronger than the +fragile frame which was its earthly temple. + +He lifted her from the ground, placed her in Mr. Sivewright’s +easy-chair by the open window, and then rang the bell loudly. + +Mrs. Wincher came, but entered the room with head flung back, and a +lofty air, which might have become Queen Eleanor in the presence of +Fair Rosamond. At sight of her unconscious mistress, however, Mrs. +Wincher gave a piteous scream, and flew to her side. + +‘Whatever have you been and gone and said to this poor dear,’ she +exclaimed indignantly, flinging a scornful glance at Lucius, ‘to make +her faint dead off like that? I suppose you’ve been accusing _her_ of +robbing her grandfather. I’m sure it wouldn’t surprise me if you had.’ + +‘Don’t be angry, Mrs. Wincher,’ said Lucius; ‘but bring me some cold +water directly, and a little brandy.’ + +Mrs. Wincher, alarmed for the safety of her mistress, flew to fetch +these restoratives, but obeyed Mr. Davoren as it were, under protest, +in his professional capacity. + +A little care restored Lucille to consciousness, but even after she had +recovered from her swoon, she seemed strangely shaken, and looked at +her lover with an expression full of vague fear. + +He began to reproach her, with infinite tenderness, for her neglect of +her own health. + +‘You have been doing too much, darling,’ he said, kissing the pale +forehead that rested on his shoulder, ‘and I have been guilty of +shameful neglect in allowing you to endanger your health. And now, +dear, you must obey orders. You must go straight up to your room and +let Wincher help you to bed, and lie there quietly all day long, and +be fed with beef-tea and good old port until the colour comes back to +those poor pale cheeks.’ + +Lucille persistently refused compliance with these injunctions. + +‘Indeed, indeed, Lucius, there is nothing the matter with me,’ she said +earnestly. + +‘Nothing the matter when you fainted just now—a sure sign of extreme +weakness—especially in one not accustomed to fainting?’ + +‘O, that was nothing. You frightened me so with your suggestions of +danger.’ + +‘Do not be afraid any longer, dearest; there is no danger that can +assail you, except the danger of your ruining your health by refusing +to be guided by my advice. You want rest, and ought to endeavour to get +several hours’ good sleep.’ + +‘It wouldn’t be the least use for me to try to go to sleep before +night,’ she said; ‘my mind is much too active for that. I’ll obey you +in anything else you like, Lucius, but don’t ask me to lie down in my +room to-day. I should worry myself into a fever.’ + +‘Very well,’ replied Lucius, with a sigh; ‘I won’t insist upon anything +you object to. You can rest in this room. If I find your grandfather no +better this morning I shall bring in a nurse.’ + +‘O, please don’t.’ + +‘Nonsense, Lucille. I am not going to allow your life to be sacrificed +to your mistaken notion of duty. Some one must nurse Mr. Sivewright, +and that some one must not be you.’ + +‘Let it be Mrs. Wincher, then.’ + +‘No; I have not too high an opinion of these faithful Winchers. I shall +bring in a woman upon whom I can rely.’ + +Lucille looked at him with that strange scared expression he had seen +so often of late, and then said with some bitterness: + +‘It seems to me that you are master in this house, Lucius, so I suppose +you must do as you please.’ + +‘I only constitute myself master here when I see peril,’ he replied +calmly; ‘and now, Lucille, try to obey me in some small measure at +least. Let Mrs. Wincher bring a sofa of some kind to this room, and lie +down and try to sleep. I will send you a tonic as soon as I get home. +Good-bye.’ + +He bent down to kiss her as she sat in the armchair, where he had +placed her, too weak to rise. + +‘Shall you come here again this evening?’ she asked. + +‘Yes; your grandfather wants to talk to me about something, and I +daresay I shall be an hour or so with him in the evening. After that I +shall have something to tell you, Lucille, if you are well enough to +hear it. Something pleasant.’ + +‘You are not going to frighten me any more, I hope,’ she said. + +‘No, darling, I will never again frighten you.’ + +‘I daresay you despise me for my cowardice.’ + +‘Despise you, Lucille? No, I only regard this nervous terror as a sign +of weakened health. I am very sure it is not natural to you to be +wanting in courage.’ + +‘No,’ she answered, with a faint sigh, ‘it is not natural to me.’ + +She turned her face away from him, and tears fell slowly from the +sad eyes, as she faltered a faint good-bye in response to his tender +leave-taking. + +‘O, merciful God,’ she ejaculated, when the door had closed behind her +lover, ‘Thou who knowest the weight of my burden, help me to bear it +patiently.’ + + * * * * * + +Lucius found no improvement in his patient—retrogression rather. But +this might be fairly accounted for by Mr. Sivewright’s excitement of +the night before. + +‘I did very wrong to let you talk so much,’ said Lucius; ‘you are more +feverish than usual this morning.’ + +‘I am altogether worse,’ answered the old man fretfully. + +Then came a detailed account of his aches and pains. There were +symptoms that puzzled the surgeon, despite his wide experience, and +much wider study. + +‘Let me bring a physician to see you this afternoon,’ said Lucius; +‘there is something in this case which I hardly feel myself strong +enough to cope with.’ + +‘No,’ answered the patient doggedly; ‘I told you I would have no +stranger come to stare at me. Cure me if you can, and if you can’t, +leave it alone. I have little faith in medicine. I contrived to live +sixty-five years without it, and the experience I have had of it in the +sixty-sixth year has not been calculated to strengthen my belief in its +efficacy.’ + +‘Did you finish that last bottle of medicine?’ + +‘No, there is a dose left.’ + +‘Then I’ll take the bottle home with me,’ said Lucius, selecting the +bottle from among two or three empty phials on the mantelshelf, ‘and +make another change in your medicine.’ + +‘It seems to me that you chop and change a good deal,’ said the patient +testily. ‘But why take that bottle? You must know what you gave me.’ + +‘I am not quite clear about it,’ answered Lucius, after a moment’s +hesitation; ‘I may as well put the bottle in my pocket.’ + +‘Do as you like. But don’t forget that I want an hour’s talk with you +this evening.’ + +‘You had better defer that till you are stronger. + +‘That time may never come. No, I will defer nothing. What I have to say +to you is of no small importance. It concerns your own interests, and I +recommend you to hear it to-night.’ + +‘I cannot consent to discuss any subject which may agitate you as you +were agitated last night,’ said Lucius firmly. + +‘This other subject will not agitate me. I can promise that.’ + +‘On that condition I will hear whatever you may have to say.’ + +‘Good. You will find it to your own advantage to obey me. Be with me at +the same hour as you were last night.’ + +‘I will. But as you are a trifle weaker to-day than you were yesterday, +I should recommend you not to get up, except for an hour in the middle +of the day, while your bed is being made.’ + +‘Very well.’ + +Lucius left him, and in the corridor found himself face to face with +Mrs. Wincher. + +‘She has been listening, I daresay,’ he thought, having made up his +mind that these Winchers were of the scorpion breed, and their long +years of fidelity only a sham. ‘After all, dishonesty is only a matter +of opportunity, and the domestic traitor must bide his time to betray.’ + +Mrs. Wincher’s manner and bearing were curiously changed since Lucius +had last seen her. She no longer flung her head aloft; she no longer +regarded him with looks of scorn. Her present air was that of extreme +meekness; he thought he beheld traces of shame and contrition in her +visage. + +‘How do you find master this morning, sir?’ she asked. + +‘Worse,’ Lucius answered shortly. + +‘Dear, dear! that’s bad! And I’m sure it isn’t for want of care. I’m +sure the beef-tea that I gave him used to be a jelly—that firm as you +could cut it with a knife—though Miss Lucille did take the making of it +out of my hands.’ + +‘Miss Sivewright is naturally anxious about her grandfather,’ answered +Lucius coldly, ‘and I am very anxious too.’ + +He was about to pass Mrs. Wincher, without farther parley, when she +stopped him. + +‘O, if you please, Dr. Davory,’ she said meekly, ‘would you be kind +enough to let my good gentleman have a few words with you? The fact is, +he’s got somethink on his mind, and he’d feel more comfortable if he +ast your advice. I didn’t know nothink about it till five minutes ago, +though I could see at breakfast-time as he was low-spirited and had no +happetite for his resher; but I thought that was along of master being +so bad. Howsumdever, five minutes ago he ups and tells me all about +it, and says he, “If I tell Dr. Davory, I shall feel more comfortable +like,” he says. So I says I’d ast you to have a few words with him.’ + +‘Where is he?’ asked Lucius, his suspicions increased by this singular +application. + +‘In the room where the bricklebrack is kep’,’ answered Mrs. Wincher. +‘He’s been dustin’ as usual, and he said he’d take the liberty to wait +there for you.’ + +‘Very well; I’ll go and hear what he has to say.’ + +Lucius went down-stairs to the large room with its multifarious +contents—the room which held the chief part of Mr. Sivewright’s +collection. + +Here he found Mr. Wincher, moving about feebly with a dusting brush in +his hand. + +‘Well, Mr. Wincher, what’s the matter with you this morning?’ asked +Lucius. ‘Do you want to consult me professionally?’ + +‘No, sir. It isn’t anything that way,’ answered the old man, who was +somewhat his wife’s superior in education, but infinitely less able +to hold his own conversationally, such intellectual powers as he may +have originally possessed having run to seed during his long dull life, +and the only remaining brightness being that feeble glimmer which +still illumined the regions of art. He would swear to an old master’s +handling—could tell a Memling from a Van Eyck—or an Ostade from a +Jan Steen—knew every mark to be found on old china or delf, from the +earliest specimens of Rouen ware to the latest marvels of Sèvres, from +the clumsiest example of Battersea to the richest purple and gilding of +Worcester. But beyond the realms of art the flame of Jacob Wincher’s +intellect was dim as a farthing rushlight. + +‘I’ve had a shock this morning, sir,’ he said. + +‘Some kind of fit, do you mean?’ asked Lucius. ‘You said you didn’t +want to consult me professionally.’ + +‘No more I do, sir. The shock I’m talking about wasn’t bodily, but +mental. I’ve made a dreadful discovery, Mr. Davoren. This house has +been robbed.’ + +‘I’m not surprised to hear it,’ said Lucius sternly. + +He thought he saw which way matters were drifting. This old man was +cunning enough to be the first to give the alarm. Lucius’s incautious +remarks to Mrs. Wincher had put her husband upon his guard, and he was +now going to play the comedy of innocence. + +‘Not surprised to hear it, sir?’ he echoed, staring aghast at Lucius. + +‘No, Mr. Wincher. And I am sure that no one knows more about it than +you do.’ + +‘Lord save us, sir! what do you mean?’ + +‘Let me hear your story, sir,’ answered Lucius, ‘and then I’ll tell you +what I mean.’ + +‘But for Heaven’s sake, Mr. Davoren, tell me you don’t suspect me of +any hand in the robbery!’ cried the old man piteously—‘I, that have +lived five-and-twenty years with Mr. Sivewright, and had the care of +everything that belonged to him all that time!’ + +‘A man may wait five-and-twenty years for a good opportunity,’ said +Lucius coolly. ‘Don’t trouble yourself to be tragical, Mr. Wincher, but +say what you have to say, and be quick about it. I tell you again that +I am in no manner surprised to hear this house has been robbed. It was +no doubt robbed last night, and perhaps many nights before. But I tell +you frankly, that I intend to take measures to prevent this house being +robbed again; even if those measures should include putting you and +your good lady upon the outside of it.’ + +‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ cried Jacob Wincher, wringing his hands. +‘You are a great deal too hard upon me, sir. You’ll be sorry for it +when you find out how unjust you’ve been.’ + +‘I promise to be sorry,’ answered Lucius, ‘when I _do_ make that +discovery. Now, Mr. Wincher, be explicit, if you please.’ + +But Jacob Wincher declared that he was all of a tremble, and had to sit +down upon an ancient choirstall, and wipe the perspiration from his +forehead before he was able to proceed. + +Lucius waited patiently for the old man to recover his self-possession, +but in no manner relaxed the severity of his countenance. In all this +agitation, in this pretended desire to confide in him, he saw only a +clever piece of acting. + +‘Well, Mr. Wincher,’ he said, as the old servant mopped his forehead +with a blue cotton handkerchief, ‘how about this robbery?’ + +‘I’m coming to it, sir. But you’ve given me such a turn with what you +said just now. God knows how cruel and how uncalled for those words of +yours were.’ + +‘Pray proceed, Mr. Wincher.’ + +‘Well, sir, you must know there’s a deal of property about this place, +perhaps a good deal more than you’ve ever seen, though our old master +seemed to take to you from the first, and has been more confidential +with you than he ever was with any one else. Now there’s a good deal of +the property that isn’t portable, and there’s some that is—china, for +instance; little bits of tea-cups and saucers that are worth more than +you’d be willing to believe; and silver—’ + +‘Silver!’ exclaimed Lucius, astonished. + +‘Yes, sir. You didn’t know of that, perhaps. Among the things master +collected after he retired from business—and he was always collecting +something, as long as he could get about among the brokers, and in all +the courts and alleys in London—there was a good bit of old silver. +Five Queen Anne teapots; three Oliver Cromwell tankards, not very much +to look at unless you were up to that sort of thing, but worth their +weight in gold, Mr. Sivewright used to say to me. “I wish I was rich +enough to do more in old silver,” he has said many a time. “There’s +nothing like it. Collectors are waking up to the value of it, and +before many years are over old silver will be almost as precious as +diamonds.” He picked up a good many nice little bits first and last, +through rummaging about among old chaps that dealt in second-hand +stuff of that sort, and didn’t trouble to ask any awkward questions +of the people that brought ’em the goods; picked up things that would +have gone into the melting-pot very likely, if his eye hadn’t been +quick enough to see their value. One day he’d bring home a set of +spindle-legged saltcellars; another time a battered old rosewater dish. +Once he bought a “monstrance” which had been used upon some cathedral +altar, once upon a time—solid gold set with rubies and emeralds. “The +fool that I bought it from took it for ormolu,” he said.’ + +‘And these are the things that are gone, I suppose,’ said Lucius, +somewhat puzzled by the old man’s loquacity. Why should Wincher inform +him of the existence of these things if he were an accomplice of the +thief? Yet this seeming candour was doubtless a part of the traitor’s +scheme. + +‘Every one of ’em, sir. There’s been a clean sweep made of ’em. But +how any thief could find out where they were kept is more than I can +fathom. It’s too much for my poor old brains.’ + +‘The thief was well informed, depend upon it, Mr. Wincher,’ answered +Lucius. ‘And pray, whereabouts did you keep this old silver?’ + +‘Would you like to see, sir?’ + +‘I should.’ + +‘I’ll show you the place, then.’ + +Jacob Wincher led the way to the extreme end of the repository, where +behind a tall screen of old oak panelling there was a massive muniment +chest furnished with a lock which seemed calculated to defy the whole +race of burglars and pick-locks. + +The old servant took a key from his pocket—a small key, for the lock +was of modern make—unlocked and opened the chest. There was nothing in +it except an old damask curtain. + +‘The silver was rolled up in that curtain,’ said Jacob Wincher, taking +up the curtain and shaking it vigorously, as if with some faint hope +that the Queen Anne teapots would fall out of its folds, like the +rabbits or live pigeons in a conjurer’s trick. ‘The iron safe was a +landlord’s fixture in Bond-street, and we were obliged to leave it +behind us, so this chest was the safest place I could find to put the +silver in; in fact, master told me to put it there.’ + +‘I see,’ thought Lucius; ‘the old scoundrel is telling me this story in +advance of the time when his master will inevitably ask for the silver. +This seeming candour is the depth of hypocrisy.’ + +Jacob Wincher stood staring at the empty chest in apathetic +hopelessness, feebly rubbing his chin, whereon some grizzled tufts +lingered. + +‘Do you mean to tell me,’ said Lucius, ‘that this chest was locked, and +that you had the key of it in your pocket, at the time of the robbery?’ + +‘Yes, sir. The chest has never been left unlocked for five minutes +since that silver has been in my care; and I have never slept without +this key being under my pillow.’ + +‘And you would have me believe that a stranger could hit upon the +precise spot where the silver was kept, amidst this inextricable tangle +of property, open the box without doing any damage to the lock, and +walk off with his booty without your knowing anything of his entrance +or exit?’ + +‘It seems strange, doesn’t it, Mr. Davoren?’ + +‘It seems more than strange, Mr. Wincher. It seems—and it +is—incredible.’ + +‘And yet, sir, the thing has been done. The question is, was it done by +a stranger?’ + +‘Yes, Mr. Wincher, that is the question; and it is a question which, to +my mind, suggests only one answer.’ + +‘You mean that I am telling you lies, sir? that it was my hand which +stole those things?’ cried the old man. + +‘To be plain with you, that is precisely my idea.’ + +‘You are doing me a great wrong, sir. I have served my master +faithfully for so many years that I ought to be above suspicion. I have +not much longer to remain in this world, and I would rather die of want +to-morrow than lengthen my days by a dishonest action. However, if you +choose to suspect me, there is an end of the matter, and it is useless +for me to say any more.’ + +There was a quiet dignity about the old man’s air as he said this that +impressed Lucius. Was it not just possible that he had done wrong in +jumping at conclusions about these Winchers? The police, who are apt to +jump at conclusions, are just as apt to be wrong. But if these people +were not guilty, who else could have opened the door to that midnight +intruder? There was no one else. + +‘Come, Mr. Wincher,’ he said, ‘I have good reason for my suspicion. I +saw a man admitted into this house, by one of the back doors, between +one and two o’clock this morning. You, or your wife, must have opened +the door to that man.’ + +‘As there is a heaven above us, sir, I never stirred from my bed after +half-past eleven o’clock last night.’ + +‘Your wife must have admitted him, then.’ + +‘Impossible, sir!’ + +‘I tell you I saw the man creep from the barges to the garden; I saw +the door opened,’ said Lucius; and then went on to describe that +midnight watch of his minutely. + +The old man stared at him in sheer bewilderment. + +‘A stranger admitted!’ he repeated. ‘But by whom? by whom?’ + +‘Had I not seen the light as the door opened, I might have thought +that the man opened the door for himself,’ said Lucius. + +‘That would have been equally impossible. I looked to all the +fastenings myself the last thing. The doors were locked and barred, and +those old-fashioned iron bars are no trifling defence.’ + +Lucius, too, was bewildered. Could Mr. Sivewright himself have disposed +of this property? In so eccentric a man nothing need be surprising. +Could he have crept down-stairs in the dead of the night to admit +some dealer, disposed of his property, dismissed the man, and crept +stealthily back to his bed? No, that was too wild a fancy. Despite of +his eccentricities, Mr. Sivewright had plenty of common sense, and such +a proceeding as that would have been the act of a madman. + +‘Supposing any stranger to have obtained admittance to the house,’ said +Lucius, after an interval of perplexed thought, ‘how could he have +opened that chest without your key?’ + +‘A stranger could not possibly have done it,’ said Wincher, with a +stress upon the word ‘stranger.’ + +‘Who else, then?’ + +‘There is one who could have opened that chest easy enough, or any +other lock in the place, supposing him to be alive; but I make no +doubt he’s dead and gone ever so long ago.’ + +‘Whom do you mean?’ + +‘Mr. Ferdinand, my master’s son.’ + +Lucius gave a slight start at the sound of that unwelcome name, of all +sounds the most hateful to his ear. ‘Then he—Ferdinand Sivewright—had a +duplicate key, I suppose?’ + +‘Yes, of most things about the place in Bond-street, except the iron +safe: he never could get at that till he drugged his father, and stole +the key out of his pocket while he was asleep. But other things, that +were pretty easy to get at, he did get at, and robbed his father up +hill and down dale, as the saying is. O, he was a thorough-paced +scoundrel, though I’m sorry to say it, as he was our young missy’s +father.’ + +‘He had a duplicate key to that chest, you say?’ + +‘Yes. He was that artful there was no being up to him. We used to +keep old china in that chest—Battersea and Chelsea and Worcester and +Derby—valuable little bits of the English school, which fetch higher +prices than anything foreign nowadays. All of a sudden, soon after he +came to be partner with his father—for the old man doated upon him, +and would have made any sacrifice to please him—I found out that the +specimens in the muniment chest were dwindling somehow. One day I +missed a cup and saucer, and another day a soup-basin and cover, and so +on. At first I thought I must be mistaken—my own catalogue was wrong, +perhaps—but by and by I saw the things visibly melting, as you may say, +and I told my master. He told Mr. Ferdinand about it; but bless your +heart, Mr. Ferdinand brings out the day-book with the sale of those +very goods entered as neatly as possible, some under one date, and some +under another. “I never remember taking the money for those things, +Ferdinand,” said my master; but Mr. Ferdinand stood him out that he’d +had the money all correct, and master believed him, or pretended to +believe him, I hardly know which. And so things went on. Sometimes it +was in small things, sometimes in large; but in every way that a son +could plunder his father, Ferdinand Sivewright plundered my master. +It was quite by accident I found out about his having the duplicate +key. He came to the desk where I was writing one day and asked me to +give him change for a sovereign, and in taking the money out of his +waistcoat-pocket in his quick impatient way he tumbles out a lot of +other things—a pencil-case, a penknife, and a key. I knew that key at +a glance; it’s a peculiar-looking one, as you see. “That’s a curious +little key, Mr. Ferdinand,” said I, picking it up and looking at it +before he could stop me. “Yes,” he said, taking it out of my hand +before I’d had time to examine it very closely, and putting it back in +his pocket, “it’s a key that belonged to my poor mother’s jewel-case. +No use to me; but I keep it for her sake.” Well, sir, I told Mr. +Sivewright about that key, but he only sighed in that downhearted +way which was common enough with him in those days. He didn’t seem +surprised, and indeed I think he’d come to know his son’s ways pretty +well by this time. “Say nothing about it, Wincher,” he said to me, +“you may be mistaken after all. In any case you needn’t keep anything +valuable in the chest in future. If my only son is a thief, we won’t +put temptation in his way.”’ + +‘Hard upon the father,’ said Lucius. ‘But this throws no light upon the +disappearance of those things. What do you consider their value?’ + +‘As old silver the plate may be worth about forty pounds, as specimens +of art at least three hundred. The monstrance is worth much more.’ + +‘Humph, and I suppose a thief would be likely to sell them immediately +as old silver.’ + +‘Yes; unless he were a very artful dodger, and knew where to find a +good market for them, he’d be likely to sell them without an hour’s +delay to be melted down.’ + +‘When did you last see the things safe in that chest?’ asked Lucius. + +‘About ten days ago. I haven’t much to do, you see, sir, except grub +about amongst the collection; and I’m in the habit of looking over the +things pretty often, and comparing them with my catalogue, to see that +all’s right.’ + +‘And you never missed anything before?’ + +‘Never so much as a cracked tea-cup among what I call the rubbishing +lots. Heaven only knows how that chest could have been emptied. Even if +Ferdinand Sivewright were in the land of the living, which is hardly +likely—for if he’d been alive he’d have come and tried to get money +out of his poor old father before this—he couldn’t get into this house +unless some one let him in.’ + +‘No, not unless some one let him in,’ repeated Lucius thoughtfully. He +had begun to think Jacob Wincher was perhaps, after all, an honest man. +But to believe this was to make the mystery darker than the darkest +night. His ideas were all at sea, drifting which way he knew not. + +‘Ferdinand Sivewright is dead,’ he said presently. ‘He will never +trouble his father again.’ + +‘How do you know that, sir?’ asked Wincher eagerly. + +‘Never mind how. I do know it, and that is enough. Now, Wincher, +there’s no use in talking of this business any more, except in a +practical manner. If you’re as innocent of any hand in the robbery as +you pretend to be, you won’t shrink from inquiry.’ + +‘I do not shrink from inquiry, sir. If I did I shouldn’t have told you +of the robbery.’ + +‘That might be a profound artifice, since the disappearance of these +things must have been found out sooner or later.’ + +‘If I had been the thief I should have tried to stave off the discovery +as long as I could,’ answered Jacob Wincher. ‘However, I don’t want to +argue; the truth is the truth, that is enough for me.’ + +‘Very well, Mr. Wincher. What we have to do is to try and recover these +missing articles. Unless the silver is melted down it ought to be +easily traced. And the monstrance would be still more easily traced, I +should think.’ + +‘That would depend upon circumstances, sir. Depend upon it, if the +things were taken by a thief who knows their value, and knows the best +market for them, he’ll send them abroad.’ + +‘They may be traced even abroad. What we have to do is to put the +case at once into the best hands. I shall go straight from here to a +detective officer, whom I’ve had some dealings with already, and get +his advice. Now, is there much more property amongst the collection +valuable enough to tempt a thief, and sufficiently portable for him to +carry away?’ + +‘There is a great deal of china, small pieces, quite as valuable as the +silver—not, perhaps, quite so easy to carry, but very nearly so.’ + +‘Then we must have the inside of this house guarded to-night.’ + +‘I can sit up here all night and keep watch.’ + +‘You would be no match for the thief, even if he came alone, which +we are not certain he would. No, my dear Mr. Wincher, I will engage +a properly qualified watchman; but remember, not one word of this to +Miss Sivewright—or to your wife, who might be tempted to tell her young +mistress.’ + +‘Very well, sir. I know how to hold my tongue. I’d be the last to go +and frighten missy. But how about my old master? Is he to know?’ + +‘Not on any account. In his present weak state any violent agitation +might be fatal, and we know that collecting these things has been the +ruling passion of his life. To tell him that he is being robbed of +these things might be to give him his death-blow.’ + +‘Very well, sir. I’ll obey orders.’ + +‘Good; and if I have wronged you, Mr. Wincher, by a groundless +suspicion, you must pardon me. You will allow that appearances are +somewhat against you.’ + +‘They are, sir, they are!’ answered the old man despondently. + +‘However, time will show. I will send my watchman in at dusk. You could +let him in at the back door, couldn’t you, without Miss Sivewright +knowing anything about it?’ + +‘I could, sir. There’s a little door opening into the brewhouse, which +opens out of the boothouse, as you may know.’ + +‘No, indeed! I know there are a lot of outbuildings, room enough to +lodge a regiment; but I have never taken any particular notice of them.’ + +‘It’s a curious old place, Mr. Davoren, and goodness knows what it +could have been used for in days gone by, unless it was for hiding +folks away for no good. Perhaps you’d like to see the door I mean.’ + +‘I should,’ replied Lucius, ‘in order that I may explain its situation +to the policeman.’ + +‘Come along with me then, sir, and I’ll show it you.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE HIDDEN STAIRCASE. + + +Lucius had a keen desire to explore those premises at the back of Cedar +House, with a vague notion that his examination of them might throw +some light upon the mystery which now filled his mind. + +If these Winchers were indeed innocent, which the old man’s manner and +conduct inclined him to believe they must be, who was the guilty one? +In that house—with the exception of its master, who in his feebleness +counted for nothing—there were but three persons, Mr. and Mrs. Wincher +and Lucille. One of those three must have opened the door last night; +one of those three must have placed that candle in the upper window—the +candle which was evidently meant for a signal. + +Lucille! Was reason deserting him? Was this perplexity of mind verging +upon madness, when _her_ name would suggest itself in connection with +that secret admittance of the stranger, and that theft which was no +doubt its direct consequence? Lucille, that gentle and innocent girl! +What had she to do with the solution of this dark enigma? + +The mere thought of her in connection with this nefarious business +tortured him. Yet the idea, once having occurred to him, was not easily +to be dismissed. + +He remembered all the stories of secret crime that he had heard and +read of, some stories involving creatures as seemingly innocent and +as fair as Lucille Sivewright. He recalled his own professional +experience, which had shown him much of life’s darker side. He +remembered with a shudder the infinite hypocrisy, the hidden sins, of +women in all outward semblance as pure and womanly as the girl he loved. + +What if Lucille inherited the fatal taint of her father’s infamy? What +if in this fair young girl there lurked some hidden drops of that +poison which corrupted the parent’s soul? Could an evil tree produce +good fruit? Could grapes come of thistles? The very Scripture was +against his fond belief in Lucille Sivewright’s goodness. Could such a +father give life to a pure and innocent child? + +This doubt, once having entered into his mind, lingered there in spite +of him. His heart was racked by the odious thought, yet he could not +dismiss it. He followed Mr. Wincher to inspect the back part of the +house in a very absent-minded condition; but the practical side of his +character soon got the upper hand as the investigation proceeded, and +he was alert to make any discovery that might be made from the position +of doors and windows. + +In his evening walks with Lucille in the barren old garden he had +always come out of the house by a glass door opening out of a +long-disused back parlour, in which there were only a few wooden cases, +which might for aught Lucius knew be full or empty. Jacob Wincher now +led him into the kitchen, a spacious chamber, with a barn-like roof +open to the rafters, showing the massive timbers with which the house +was built. From the kitchen they descended three shallow steps into a +vault-like scullery, out of which, ghastly in their dark emptiness, +opened various cellars. Lucius peered into one of them, and saw that a +flight of steep stairs led down into a black abyss. + +‘Bring a light,’ he said; ‘the man may be hiding in one of these +cellars. We’d better explore them all. But first let us lock the doors, +and cut off his chances of escape.’ + +He suited the action to the word, and locked the door leading to the +kitchen, and thence to the interior of the house. + +‘Where do you and your wife sleep?’ he asked Mr. Wincher. + +‘In a little room off the kitchen. It was built for a storeroom, I +believe, and there’s shelves all round. My good lady keeps our Sunday +clothes on them, and our little bit of tea and sugar and such-like, for +we board ourselves.’ + +‘One would think you must hear any one passing through the kitchen at +night, when the house is quiet,’ said Lucius meditatively. + +‘I don’t feel so sure of that, sir. We’re pretty hard sleepers both of +us; we’re on the trot all day, you see, and are very near worn out by +the time we get to bed.’ + +‘Strange,’ said Lucius. ‘I should have thought you must have heard +footsteps in the next room to that you sleep in.’ + +Jacob Wincher made no farther attempt to justify his hard sleeping, +but led the way to the boothouse, a small and darksome chamber, +chiefly tenanted by members of the beetle tribe, who apparently +found sufficient aliment in the loose plaster that fell from the +mildew-stained walls. Thence they proceeded to the brewery, which was +almost as large as the kitchen, and boasted a huge copper, and a still +huger chimney-shaft open to the sky. There were three doors in this +place—one narrow and low, opening to an obscure corner of the garden; +a second belonging to a spacious cupboard, which may have been used +for wood in days gone by; and the third a mysterious little door in an +angle. + +‘What does that belong to?’ asked Lucius, pointing to this unknown +door, after examining the one leading to the garden, which was securely +locked and barred, and, according to Mr. Wincher’s account, was very +rarely unfastened. ‘That door yonder in the corner,’ he asked again, as +the old man hesitated. ‘Where does that lead?’ + +‘I can’t say as I know very well,’ answered Jacob Wincher dubiously. +‘There’s a kind of a staircase leads up somewhere—to a loft, I suppose.’ + +‘Why, man alive,’ cried Lucius, ‘do you mean to tell me that you have +lived all these years in this house and that there is a staircase in it +which leads you don’t know where?’ + +‘You can’t hardly call it a staircase, sir,’ answered the other +apologetically; ‘it’s very little more than a ladder.’ + +‘Ladder or staircase, you mean to say you don’t know where it leads?’ + +‘No, sir. I’m not particular strong in my legs, and there’s a great +deal more room than we want in this house without poking into holes and +corners; so I never troubled about it.’ + +‘Indeed, Mr. Wincher; now I am more curious than you, and I propose +that before examining the cellars we find out where this staircase +leads.’ + +‘I’m agreeable, sir.’ + +‘You talk about a loft; but the roof of this brewhouse shows that there +can be nothing above it.’ + +‘Very true, sir.’ + +‘And the kitchen is built in the same way?’ + +‘Yes, sir. But there’s the boothouse. I took it for granted that +staircase led to a loft or a garret over that.’ + +‘Can you see nothing from outside?’ + +‘Nothing, except the sloping roof.’ + +Lucius opened the door in the angle, and beheld a curious cramped +little staircase, which, as Jacob Wincher had told him, was verily +little better than a ladder. It was by no means an inviting staircase, +bearing upon it the dust and cobwebs of ages, and leading to profound +darkness. To the timid mind it was eminently suggestive of vermin and +noxious insects. But Lucius, who was determined to discover the ins +and outs of this curious old house, ascended the feeble creaking steps +boldly enough. + +The stairs were steep, but not many. On reaching the topmost, Lucius +found himself, not in a room as he had expected, but in a passage so +narrow that his coatsleeves brushed against the wall on either side. +This passage was perfectly dark, and had a damp mouldy odour. It was +low, for he could touch the roughly-plastered ceiling with his hand. +He went on, treading cautiously, lest he should come to a gap in the +rotten flooring, which might precipitate him incontinently to the +lowest depth of some dark cellar. The passage was long; he stumbled +presently against a step, mounted three or four stairs, and went on +some few yards farther on the higher level, and then found himself +at the foot of another staircase, which, unlike the one below, wound +upwards in spiral fashion, and demanded extreme caution from the +stranger who trod its precipitous steps. + +This Lucius mounted slowly, feeling his way. After the first step +or two he saw a faint glimmer of light, which seemed to creep in at +some chink above. This got stronger as he ascended, and presently he +perceived that it came from a crack in a panelled wall. Another step +brought him to a small chamber, not much larger than a roomy closet. +He felt the wall that faced him, and discovered bolts, which seemed to +fasten a door, or it might be a sliding panel in the wall. + +Scarcely had he done this when he was startled by a sound which was +very familiar to him—Mr. Sivewright’s sharp short cough. + +He drew back amazed. This secret staircase—or if not exactly a +secret staircase, at least one which nobody had taken the trouble to +explore—had led him directly to Mr. Sivewright’s room. + +He waited for a few minutes, heard the old man sigh as he turned +wearily in his bed, heard the crackle of a newspaper presently as he +turned the leaf, and convinced himself of the fact that this closet +communicated with Homer Sivewright’s room. Whether its existence were +known to Mr. Sivewright or not was a question which he must settle for +himself as best he might. + +He went back as noiselessly as he had come, and found Jacob Wincher +waiting in the brewhouse, patiently seated upon a three-legged stool. + +‘Well, sir, you didn’t find much, I suppose, to compensate for having +made such a figure of your coat with plaster and cobwebs—only rubbish +and such-like, I suppose?’ + +‘My good Mr. Wincher, I found positively nothing,’ answered Lucius. +‘But I extended my knowledge of the topography of this queer old house, +and in doing that recompensed myself for my trouble. Yes,’ he added, +glancing disconsolately at his coat, ‘the whitewash has not improved my +appearance; and the cost of a coat is still a matter of importance to +me. Now for the cellars. You are sure all means of exit are cut off?’ + +‘Quite sure, sir.’ + +‘Then we may find our thief snugly stowed away underground perhaps, +with the booty upon him. Come along.’ + +They groped their way into the various cellars by the light of a +candle, and examined their emptiness. Two out of the four had contained +coals, but were now disused. The small quantities of coal which Mr. +Sivewright afforded for his household were accommodated in a roomy +closet in the kitchen. The remaining two had contained wine, and a +regiment of empty bottles still remained, the fragile memorials of +departed plenty. They found beetles and spiders in profusion, and +crossed the pathway of a rat; but they discovered no trace of the thief. + +This exploration and the previous conversation with Jacob Wincher +occupied nearly two hours. Lucius left the house without again seeing +Lucille. He would have been unable to account for his occupation during +those two hours without giving her fresh cause for alarm. But before +going he contrived to see Mrs. Wincher, and from that matron, now +perfectly placable, he received the pleasing intelligence that Lucille +was fast asleep on a sofa in the parlour. + +‘I brought her in a ramshackle old sofy belonging to the bricklebrack,’ +said Mrs. Wincher; ‘Lewis Katorse, my good gentleman calls it. And she +laid down when I persuaded her, and went off just like a child that’s +worn out with being on the trot all day. But she does look so sad and +worried-like in her sleep, poor dear, it goes to my heart to see her.’ + +‘Sad and worried,’ thought Lucius; and he had added to her anxieties +by arousing her childish fears of an unknown danger. And then at the +very time when she was broken down altogether by trouble and grief, +had taken it into his head to suspect her. He hated himself for those +shameful doubts which had tortured him a little while before. + +‘Come what may,’ he said to himself, ‘let events take what shape they +will, I will never again suspect her. Though I had forged the chain of +evidence link by link, and it led straight to her, I would believe that +facts were lies rather than think her guilty.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +MR. OTRANTO PRONOUNCES AN OPINION. + + +From Cedar House Lucius went straight to Mr. Otranto’s office. It was +still early, not yet noon, and he would have time for his daily round +after he had settled this business, which was uppermost in his mind. + +‘Well,’ he said, after a brief good-morning to the detective, ‘any news +from Rio?’ + +‘Some, but not much,’ answered Mr. Otranto, looking up from the desk, +at which he had been copying some document into a note-book. ‘The +mail’s just in. I was going to write you a letter in the course of +to-day or to-morrow. This Mr. Ferdinand Sivewright seems to have been +altogether a bad lot—card-sharper, swindler, anything you like. He soon +made Rio too hot to hold him, and after managing to rub on there about +six months, went on to Mexico. My agent hunted up any information about +him that was to be got in Mexico; but it’s a long time ago, you see, +since he was there. He seems to have behaved pretty much the same in +Mexico as he did in Rio, and that’s about all my agent could hear. The +impression was that he had left Mexico on the quiet—taken French leave, +as you may say—and come back to England; but he couldn’t find out the +name of the vessel he sailed in.’ + +‘You needn’t take any farther trouble about the matter, Mr. Otranto,’ +said Lucius. ‘I believe I have found the missing links in the man’s +history. My business to-day is of a different kind.’ + +He went on to explain the state of affairs at Cedar House. Mr. Otranto +shook his head doubtfully. + +‘I think you ought to put this into the hands of the regular police,’ +he said; ‘my line is private inquiry. This is rather out of my way.’ + +‘But it isn’t out of your old way, Mr. Otranto, when you belonged to +the regular police. If I were to go to the police-station they’d send +a loud-talking noisy man to examine the premises, and frighten the +invalid gentleman I’ve been telling you about. I want the property +recovered, if possible, and the place closely watched; but I want the +thing done quietly, and I’d rather trust it in your hands than make a +police-case of it.’ + +‘Very well, sir; I’ll do my best. I’ll send a quiet hand round to Cedar +House at nine o’clock to-night.’ + +‘Good; but he must come in at the back. I’ll have some one on the watch +for him at nine. I’d better write my directions as to the way he must +come. The young lady’s sitting-room is in the front of the house; so he +mustn’t come in that way, for fear she should see him.’ + +Lucius wrote his instructions for the detective. He was to come from +the barges to the garden, as the thief had come, and he would see a +door ajar, and a light burning in one of the outbuildings. This was the +door by which he was to enter. + +‘And now, sir, for a description of the property,’ said Mr. Otranto, +‘if you want me to trace it.’ + +‘A description?’ + +‘Yes to be sure. I can do nothing without that.’ + +‘I never thought of that,’ replied Lucius, feeling himself a poor +creature when face to face with this practical far-seeing detective; +‘you will want a description of course. I only know that there are +Queen Anne teapots, Cromwell tankards—’ + +‘Queen Anne be hanged!’ exclaimed the detective contemptuously. + +‘Some curious old saltcellars, and a monstrance.’ + +‘What in the name of wonder is that?’ cried the detective. ‘I’ll tell +you what it is, sir, I must have a detailed description before I can +move a peg. I daresay the property is out of the country by this time, +if it isn’t in the melting-pot.’ + +‘A thief who took the trouble to rob Mr. Sivewright would most likely +have some idea what he was stealing,’ answered Lucius, ‘and would +hardly take rare old silver to the melting-pot. I’ll tell you what I’ll +do, Mr. Otranto; I’ll bring the old servant round here this afternoon, +and you shall have the description from him. In cross-questioning him +about the robbery you might, perhaps, arrive at some conclusion as to +whether he had any hand in it.’ + +‘I might, perhaps,’ retorted Mr. Otranto, with ineffable contempt; +‘let me have half-a-dozen words with the man and I’ll soon settle that +question. I never saw the man yet that was made of such opaque stuff +that I couldn’t see through him.’ + +‘So much the better,’ said Lucius. ‘I want to find out whether this old +man is a consummate hypocrite or an honest fellow. Shall you be at home +at four o’clock this afternoon?’ + +‘I shall.’ + +‘Then I’ll bring him to you at that hour.’ + +Lucius went about his day’s work, and got through it by half-past +three, when he took a hansom cab, a rare extravagance for him, and +drove to Cedar House. + +He asked at once to see Mrs. Wincher’s good gentleman, whereupon Jacob +Wincher emerged from his retreat briskly enough, and came to the +garden-gate where Lucius waited. + +‘You haven’t heard anything of the property?’ he asked eagerly. + +‘No. But I want you to come along with me to give a description of it.’ + +‘To the police-station, sir?’ asked Wincher, without any appearance of +alarm or unwillingness. + +‘Never mind where. You’ll find out all about it when you get there,’ +answered Lucius, in whose mind yet lurked suspicions as to the old +servant’s honesty. + +The cab bore them speedily to Mr. Otranto’s office, and was there +dismissed. Wincher entered that cave of mystery as calmly as a lamb +going to the slaughter, or indeed much more calmly than the generality +of those gentle victims, which seem to have some foreboding of the doom +that awaits them within. + +Mr. Otranto looked up from his desk, and contemplated the old man with +a critical glance, keen, swift, searching, the glance of a connoisseur +in that walk of art; as if Mr. Wincher had been a picture, and he, Mr. +Otranto, were called upon to decide whether he were an original or a +fraudulent copy. After that brief survey, the detective gave a somewhat +contemptuous sniff; and then proceeded to elicit a description of the +lost property, which Mr. Wincher gave ramblingly, and in a feebly +nervous manner. To Lucius it seemed very much the manner of guilt. + +Mr. Otranto asked a great many questions about the robbery, some of +which seemed to Lucius puerile or even absurd. But he deferred to the +superior wisdom of the trained detective. + +In the course of this inquiry Mr. Otranto made himself acquainted with +the numerous ins and outs of Cedar House. + +‘A house built especially for the accommodation of burglars, one would +suppose,’ he said; ‘there must be hiding-places enough for half the +cracksmen in London. However, I think if there is any one still on the +premises—or if the visitor of last night pays any farther visits—we +shall catch them. I shall put on two men to-night, Mr. Davoren, instead +of one—one to keep guard in the room that contains the property, the +other to watch the back premises. This business will cost money, +remember—but, by Jove, we’ll succeed in trapping the scoundrel!’ + +‘Your services shall be paid for,’ said Lucius, not without a pang, +remembering the tenpound-note he had already given Mr. Otranto on +account of the Rio inquiry, and of which there remained no balance in +his favour—nay, there was more likely a balance against him. + +‘You can go, Mr.—Mr. What’s-your-name,’ said the detective carelessly; +and Jacob Wincher, thus dismissed, hobbled feebly forth to wend his +way back to Cedar House; so rare a visitant to this outer world that +the clamour of the City seemed to him like the howling of fiends in +Pandemonium. + +‘Well,’ said Lucius, directly the old servant had departed, ‘what do +you think of that man?’ + +‘He isn’t up to it,’ answered Mr. Otranto contemptuously. + +‘Isn’t up to what?’ + +‘To having act or part in that robbery. He isn’t up to it,’ repeated +the detective, snapping his fingers with increasing contempt. ‘It isn’t +in him. Lor bless you, Mr. Davoren, I know ’em when I see ’em. There’s +a brightness about their eye, a firmness about their mouth, a nerve +about ’em altogether, that there’s no mistaking.’ + +‘About a thief, I suppose you mean?’ inquired Lucius. + +‘Yes, sir. I know ’em fast enough when I see ’em. There’s the stamp of +intellect upon ’em, sir—with very few exceptions there’s talent in ’em +to back ’em up through everything. You don’t catch _them_ stammering +and stuttering like that poor old chap just now. Not a bit of it. +They’re as clear as crystal. They’ve got their story ready, and they +tell it short and sharp and decisive, if they’re first-raters; a little +too wordy, perhaps, if they’re new to their work.’ + +Mr. Otranto dwelt on the talent of the criminal classes with an evident +satisfaction. + +‘As for that poor old chap,’ he said decisively, ‘there isn’t genius +enough or pluck enough in him even for the kinchin lay.’ + +Lucius did not pause to inquire about this particular branch of the +art, whereof he was profoundly ignorant. + +‘He might not have pluck enough to attempt the robbery unaided,’ he +said, still persisting in the idea that Jacob Wincher must be guilty, +‘yet he might be capable of opening the door to an accomplice.’ + +‘He didn’t do it, sir,’ answered the detective decisively. ‘I’d have +had it out of him if he had, before you could have known what I was +leading up to. I laid every trap for him that could be laid, and if +he had done it he must have walked into one of ’em. I should have +caught him tripping, depend upon it. But taking the question from a +pischological point of view,’ continued Mr. Otranto, who sometimes got +hold of a fine word, and gave his own version of it, ‘I tell you it +isn’t in his composition to do such a thing.’ + +‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Lucius, somewhat dejectedly. + +He left Mr. Otranto’s office only in time to take a hasty dinner at a +city eating-house, where huge rounds of boiled beef were dealt out to +hungry customers in a somewhat rough-and-ready fashion. He had very +little appetite for the ample and economical repast, but ate a little +nevertheless, being fully aware of the evil effects of long fasting on +an overworked mind and body. This brief collation dispatched, he went +straight to Cedar House, to keep his appointment with Mr. Sivewright. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE MYSTERY OF LUCILLE’S PARENTAGE. + + +Lucius paused in the gray old hall, where twilight came sooner than in +any other part of the house. He longed to see Lucille, to clasp the +dear hand, to hear the low gentle voice; for the excitement of those +few busy hours seemed to have lengthened the interval since he had +last seen her. Yet he shrank with a strange nervous terror from the +idea of meeting her just yet, while his mind was still agitated, still +perplexed, by the mystery of last night. It was a relief to him when +Mrs. Wincher told him that ‘Missy’ was still lying down in the parlour. + +‘She’s been up and down stairs to give her grandpa his beef-tea, and +such-like, but has laid down betwigst and betweens,’ said Mrs. Wincher. +‘She don’t seem to have strength to keep up, poor child. I should think +some steel-wine, now, or as much quinine-powder as would lie on a +sixpence, would do her a world of good.’ + +‘We won’t dose her with nauseous medicines, Mrs. Wincher,’ answered +Lucius; ‘she wants rest, and change of air and scene. If we could get +her away from this melancholy old house, now!’ + +He was thinking what a relief it would be to him to withdraw her from +that abode of perplexity, where danger, in some as-yet-intangible form, +seemed to lurk in every shadow. If he could send her down to his sister +at Stillmington! He was sure that Janet would be kind to her, and that +those two would love each other. If he could but induce Lucille to go +down there for a little while! + +‘Well, Dr. Davory, the house is melancholic, I will not deny,’ said +Mrs. Wincher, with a philosophical air. ‘My sperits are not what they +was when I came here. Bond-street was so gay; and if it was but a +back-kitchen I lived in, I could hear the rumbling of carriage-wheels +going all day very lively. Of course this house is dull for a young +person like Missy; but as to gettin’ her away while her grandpa’s ill, +it’s more nor you, nor all the king’s hosses and all the king’s men, +would do, Dr. Davory.’ + +‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ replied Lucius, with a sigh. + +He went up to Mr. Sivewright’s room, and found his patient waiting for +him, and in a somewhat restless and anxious condition. The blinds were +drawn, and the heavy old-fashioned shutters half-closed, excluding +every ray of the afternoon sunlight. This had been Lucille’s careful +work, while the old man slept. + +‘Open those shutters and draw up the blinds!’ exclaimed Mr. Sivewright +impatiently. ‘I don’t want the darkness of the grave before my time.’ + +‘I thought you were never coming!’ he added presently, with an +aggrieved air, as Lucius admitted the sunshine. + +‘And yet I am an hour earlier than I was yesterday.’ + +‘The day has seemed longer than yesterday. Every day is longer than the +last,’ complained the old man; ‘my snatches of sleep are shorter, my +limbs more weary; the burden of life grows heavier as I near the end of +my journey.’ + +‘Nay, sir,’ remonstrated Lucius, in a cheery tone, ‘there is no need +for such despondent talk as that. You are ill, and suffer the weariness +of a prolonged illness, but you are in no immediate danger.’ + +‘No immediate danger!’ repeated the patient contemptuously. ‘You will +not admit that I am in immediate danger till you hear the death-rattle +in my throat. I feel that I am on my death-bed, and desire to do all +that a dying man should do to square his account with the world he is +about to leave.’ + +‘And I hope, sir, you have some thought about that better world to +which you are going,’ answered Lucius seriously. + +Homer Sivewright sighed, and was silent for some moments ere he replied +to this remark. + +‘Let me settle my affairs in this world first,’ he said, ‘and then you +may try to enlighten me about the next if you can. I have found this +life so hard that it is scarcely strange if I have little hope in the +life that is to come after it. But you can preach to me about that by +and by. I want to talk to you about the girl who is to be your wife.’ + +‘There is no subject so near to my heart.’ + +‘I suppose not,’ answered Mr. Sivewright, groping with a slow feeble +hand under his pillow, from beneath which he presently produced a key. +‘Take this key and open yonder desk, the _bonheur du jour_, and look in +the third drawer on the left side.’ + +Lucius obeyed. + +‘What do you see there?’ + +‘A packet of letters tied with green ferret, and a miniature in a +morocco-case,’ answered Lucius. + +‘Good! Now, those letters and that miniature contain the whole mystery +of Lucille’s birth. I have tried many times to read the riddle, but in +vain. Your sharper wits may perchance find the solution of the problem.’ + +‘You mean as regards the identity of Lucille’s mother?’ asked Lucius. + +‘I mean as regards the identity of her father and her mother,’ answered +the old man. ‘There have been times when I have doubted whether Lucille +is a Sivewright at all—whether the girl I have called my grandchild is +the daughter of my son Ferdinand.’ + +Lucius Davoren’s heart gave a great leap. Good heavens, what a relief +if it were thus—if this girl whom he so fondly loved were free from +the taint of that villain’s blood! For some moments he was dumb. The +thought of this possible release overcame him utterly. God grant that +this were but true—that the man he had slain bore no kindred to the +woman who was to be his wife! + +He opened the morocco-case, and looked at it with eager eyes, as if in +the lifeless images it contained he might find the clue to the mystery. + +The case was double, and contained two miniatures: one of a man with a +weak but patrician face, the nose an elongated aquiline, the lips thin, +the chin feeble, the forehead high and pale, the eyes a light blue; +the countenance of some last scion of a worn-out race; not without an +expression of nobility, but utterly without force of character. The +second miniature was a woman’s face—pensive, tender, lovable; a face +with soft black eyes, a thoughtful mouth, a low broad forehead, in +which there were ample indications of intellect. The olive complexion, +the darkness of the lustrous eyes, gave a foreign look to this +countenance. The original might have been either French or Italian, +Lucius thought, but she could hardly have been an Englishwoman. + +‘What reason have you to doubt Lucille’s parentage?’ he asked the old +man, after a prolonged examination of those two miniatures. + +‘My only reasons are contained in that packet of letters,’ answered Mr. +Sivewright. ‘Those letters are the broken links in a chain which you +may be able to piece together. I have puzzled over them many a time, as +I told you just now, but have been able to make nothing of them.’ + +‘Am I to read them?’ + +‘Yes, read them aloud to me; I may be able to furnish you with an +occasional commentary on the text.’ + +‘First, tell me how they came into your possession.’ + +‘That is easily done. When my son left Bond-street for the last time, +after plundering my iron safe, he did not burden himself with luggage. +He left all his worldly goods behind him, in the shape of a dilapidated +leathern portmanteau full of old clothes. Amongst these I found that +packet of letters and that miniature case, both of which he had +doubtless forgotten. Now you know just as much about them as I do.’ + +Lucius untied the string. There were about a dozen letters; some in a +woman’s hand, fine, delicate, and essentially un-English; the others in +a masculine caligraphy, by no means too legible. The first was directed +to Ferdinand Sivewright, at a post-office in Oxford-street, but bore +neither the date nor the address of the writer. This was in the man’s +hand, written upon the paper of a fashionable club, and ran thus: + + ‘Thanks, my dear Sivewright, for your last. You are indeed a friend, + and worth all my aristocratic acquaintance, who pretend the warmest + friendship, but would not go half-a-dozen paces out of their way to + save me from hanging. You, by your prompt assistance, have rescued me + from the greatest difficulty in which my imprudence—and I have always + been the most imprudent of men—ever involved me. Thank Heaven and + your tact, the danger is over, and I think I now stand secure of the + old gentleman’s favour. Did he know the truth, or but a scintillation + of the truth, I should inevitably lose all chance of that future + prosperity which will, I trust, enable me a few years hence to give + you some substantial proof of my gratitude. + + ‘By the way, you talk of being hard up in the present. I regret to + say, my dear fellow, that at this moment it is out of my power to help + you with a stiver. Not that I for an instant ignore the obligation + to provide for your small charge, but because just now I am entirely + cleaned out. A few weeks hence I shall be no doubt able to send you + a cheque. In the mean time your household is a prosperous one, and + the cost your kindness to me may occasion is one that can scarcely + be felt. You understand. How fares your little girl? I shall always + be glad to hear. Madame D—— writes to me for news; so pray keep me + _au courant_, that I may set her anxious mind at rest. O, Sivewright, + how I languish for an end of all my secrets and perplexities, and + for a happy union with her I love! This waiting for dead men’s + shoes is a weary business, and makes me feel the most despicable of + mankind.—Yours ever, + + H. G.’ + +‘What do you make of that letter?’ asked Mr. Sivewright. + +‘I can hardly tell what to make of it at present. Your son must have +been of some vital service to the writer, but what the nature of that +friendly act is more than I can guess.’ + +‘You will understand it better when you have read the rest of the +letters. Now, I have sometimes thought that the writer of those lines +was the father of Lucille.’ + +‘On what ground?’ asked Lucius. ‘He distinctly says, “How fares _your_ +little girl?”’ + +‘That might be inspired by caution. Do you observe what he says about +Madame D—— and her anxiety to hear of the child’s welfare? Rely upon +it that Madame D—— was the mother. Then there is the mention of a +happy union with the woman he loves, deferred until the death of some +wealthy relation. Then what do you make of the lines in which he avows +his obligation to provide for “your small charge”? That small charge +was the child, and on whom would there be such an obligation except +upon the father? This is how I have sometimes been inclined to read the +riddle.’ + +‘You think, then, that Lucille was the child of some secret marriage?’ +said Lucius; ‘or of an intrigue?’ he added reluctantly. + +‘Of a secret marriage most likely,’ answered the old man. ‘Had it been +only an intrigue, there would hardly have been need for such excessive +caution. You will see in one of the later letters how this man who +signs himself “H. G.” speaks of his total ruin should his secret +be discovered. But go on, the letters are numbered. I arranged and +numbered them with a good deal of care. Go on to number 2.’ + +Lucius obeyed. The second epistle was in the same hand as the first, +but the formation of the characters showed that it had been written in +haste and profound agitation: + + ‘Dear Sivewright,—I enclose a cheque for 50_l._ It leaves me a beggar; + but anything is better than the alternative. Your threat to trade upon + my secret has thrown me into an agony of apprehension. O, Sivewright, + you could surely never be such a villain! You who pretended to be my + bosom friend—you who have so often enriched yourself at my expense, + when fortune and your superior skill favoured your chances at the + card-table—could never be so base as to betray me! When you took upon + yourself the charge which you now assert perpetually as a claim, + pressing and harassing me to death with your demands for money, I + deemed that friendship alone actuated you. Is it possible that you + looked at the matter from the first with a trader’s spirit, and only + considered how much you might be able to make out of me? + + ‘As you claim to be a gentleman, I conjure you to write and assure + me that your threat of communicating with my uncle was only an idle + menace; that you will keep my secret, as a gentleman should keep the + secret of his friend. + + ‘Bear in mind that to betray me would be to ruin me most completely, + and to destroy your own chance of future benefit from my fortune. + + ‘How is the little girl? Why do you not write to me at length about + her? Why do your letters contain only demands for money? Madame D—— is + full of anxiety, and I can say so little to satisfy her. How is the + little thing? Is she well—is she happy? Does she pine for her last + home, and the people who nursed her? For heaven’s sake reply, and + fully.—Yours, + + H. G.’ + +‘Are those like a man’s inquiries about another man’s child?’ asked Mr. +Sivewright. + +‘Scarcely,’ replied Lucius. ‘I believe you are right, and that Lucille +is of no kin to your son.’ + +‘And of no kin to me. You are glad of that, I suppose,’ said the old +man with a touch of bitterness. + +‘Forgive me if I confess that I shall be glad if I find she is not the +child of your son.’ + +‘You are right. Can an evil tree bear good fruit? That seems a hard +saying, but I can’t wonder you shrink from the idea of owning Ferdinand +Sivewright for your children’s grandfather. Yet this H. G. may have +been no better man.’ + +‘I can hardly think that. There is some indication of good feeling in +his letters. He was most likely the dupe and victim—’ + +‘Of my son? Yes, I can believe that. Go on, Lucius. The third letter is +from the lady, who, you will see, signs herself by her Christian name +only, but gives her full address.’ + +‘That must afford some clue to the mystery,’ said Lucius. + +‘Yes, for any one who will take the trouble to follow so slight a clue. +I have never attempted the task. To accomplish it might have been to +lose the only creature that loved me. You will call this selfish +policy, no doubt. Lucille’s interests ought to have weighed with me +more than my own. I can only answer, that old age is selfish. When a +man has but a few years between him and the grave, he may well shrink +from the idea of making those years desolate.’ + +‘I do not wonder that you feared to lose her,’ said Lucius. + +He opened the letter numbered 3. It was in that delicate foreign hand, +on thin paper. + + ‘Rue Jeanne d’Arques, numéro 17, Rouen. + + ‘Dear Sir,—Not having received a satisfactory response from Mr. G., + I venture to address you, believing that you will compassionate my + anxieties. I wish to hear more of your charge. Is she well? is she + happy? O, sir, have pity upon the heart which pines for her—to which + this enforced separation is a living death! Does she grow? does she + remember me, and ask for me? Yet, considering her tender age at the + time of our parting, that is hardly possible. I ought to be thankful + that it is so—that she will not suffer any of the pangs which rend my + sorrowful heart. But in spite of that thought, it grieves me to know + that she will lose all memory of my face, all love for me. It is a + hard trial; and it may last for years. Heaven knows if I shall live to + see the end of it. + + ‘I entreat you, sir, to pity one who is most grateful for your + friendly help at a time when it was needed, and to let me have a full + account of the little girl. + + ‘I am quite content to submit to Mr. G.’s desire that, for the next + few years of her life, she shall have no friends but those she has + in your house; yet I can but think that, at her age, residence in a + London house, and above all a house of business, must be harmful. I + should be very glad could you make some arrangement for her to live, + at least part of the year, a little way out of town, with people you + could fully trust. + + ‘Do not doubt that, should God spare me to enjoy the fortune to which + Mr. G. looks forward, I shall most liberally reward your goodness to + one born under an evil star. + + ‘I have the honour to remain, yours, + ‘FELICIE G. + + ‘P.S. My name here is Madame Dumarques.’ + +‘That,’ exclaimed Lucius, ‘must surely be the letter of a mother!’ + +‘Yes; and not a letter from a wife to her husband. The Mr. G. spoken of +in the letter is evidently the husband of the writer.’ + +‘Strange that the care of a beloved child should have been intrusted to +such a man as your son.’ + +‘Men of pleasure have few friends,’ answered Mr. Sivewright. ‘I daresay +this Mr. G. had no one save the companion of the gaming-table to whom +he could appeal in his difficulty.’ + +‘Do you consider there is sufficient evidence here to show that Lucille +was the child alluded to?’ + +‘No other child ever came to Bond-street.’ + +‘True. Then the case seems clear enough. She was not your son’s +daughter, but the child of these people, and committed to his care.’ + +‘Read on, and you will discover farther details of the affair.’ + +The fourth letter was from ‘H. G.’ It was evidently written in answer +to a letter of complaint or remonstrance from Ferdinand Sivewright. It +ran thus: + + ‘My dear Fellow,—Your reproaches are most unjust. I always send money + when I have it; but I have not acquired the art of coiner, nor am I + clever enough to accomplish a successful forgery. In a word, you + can’t get blood out of a stone. You have had some hundreds since you + first took charge of the little one; and in any other home I had + found for her, she would not have cost me a third of the money. I do + not forget that you helped me out of a diabolical difficulty, and + that if you had not happened to be our visitor when the old gentleman + surprised me in our Devonian cottage, and if you had not with sublime + tact assumed _my_ responsibilities, I should have been irretrievably + ruined. Never shall I forget that midsummer morning when I had to + leave all I loved in your care, and to turn my back upon that dear + little home, to accompany my uncle to London, assuming the careless + gaiety of a bachelor, while my heart was racked with anguish for those + I left behind. However, we played the comedy well, and, please God, + the future will compensate Felicie and me for all we have suffered in + the past and suffer in the present. Be as reasonable, dear old fellow, + as you have been useful, and rely upon it I shall by and by amply + reward your fidelity.—Yours, + + H. G.’ + +‘We get a clearer glimpse of the story in this,’ said Lucius, as he +finished the fourth letter. ‘It seems easy enough now to read the +riddle. A young man, with large expectations from an uncle who, at +any moment, may disinherit him, has secretly married; perhaps a woman +beneath him in station. At any rate, his choice is one which his +uncle would inevitably disapprove. He hides his young wife in some +quiet Devonshire village, where his friend, your son, visits him. +There, during your son’s visit, the old man appears. By some means or +other he has tracked his nephew to this retreat. One mode of escape +only suggests itself. Ferdinand Sivewright assumes the character of +the husband and father, while the delinquent leaves the place at +his uncle’s desire, and accompanies him back to London. Out of this +incident arises the rest. Ferdinand Sivewright takes charge of the +child, the wife retires to her native country, where she has, no doubt, +friends who can give her a home. The whole business is thus, as it +were, dissolved. The husband is free to play the part of a bachelor +till his kinsman’s death. That is my reading of the story.’ + +‘I do not think you can be far out,’ answered Mr. Sivewright. ‘You +can look over the rest of the letters at your leisure. They are less +important than those you have read, but may contain some stray scraps +of information which you can piece together. There is one letter in +which Madame Dumarques speaks of the miniature. She sends it in order +that the little girl may learn to know her mother’s features; and in +this, as in other letters from this lady, there appears a foreboding +of early death. “We may never meet on earth,” she writes. “I like to +think that she will know my face if ever I am so blest as to meet her +in heaven.”’ + +‘You think, then, that this poor mother died young?’ inquired Lucius. + +‘That is my idea. The husband speaks of her failing health in one of +his letters. He has been to Rouen to see her, and has found her sadly +changed. “You would hardly know that lovely face, Sivewright, could you +see it now,” he writes.’ + +Lucius folded and tied up the letters with a careful hand. + +‘May I have these to keep?’ he asked. + +‘You may. They are the only dower which your wife will receive from her +parents.’ + +‘I don’t know that,’ answered Lucius; ‘her father may still live, and +if he does, he shall at least give her his name.’ + +‘What, you mean to seek out this nameless father?’ + +‘I do. The task may be long and difficult, but I am determined to +unravel this tangled skein.’ + +‘Do what you like, so long as you and Lucille do not leave me to die +alone,’ said the old man sadly. + +‘Have no fear of that,’ replied Lucius. ‘This investigation can wait. +I will not desert my post in your sick room, until you are on the +highroad to recovery.’ + +‘You are a good fellow!’ exclaimed Mr. Sivewright, with unusual warmth; +‘and I do not regret having trusted you.’ + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +MYSTIC MUSIC. + + +It was now nearly dark, and Lucius was anxious to obtain a speedy +release from the sick room, lest the time should creep on towards the +hour at which Mr. Otranto’s minions were to seek for admittance at the +little back door. He made some excuse therefore for bidding his patient +‘good-night’ soon after this. There would be time for him to see that +the coast was clear, and to keep watch for the coming of the two men. + +He met Lucille in the corridor, coming up-stairs for the night, at +least two hours earlier than usual—a most opportune retirement. + +She gave a little start at meeting him, and her look was more of +surprise than pleasure. + +‘You here, Lucius!’ she exclaimed. + +‘Yes, dear; I have been with your grandfather. I heard you were lying +down, and would not disturb you. I hope you feel refreshed by that long +rest.’ + +‘As much refreshed as I can be while I have such cause for anxiety. I +am going to my room early, so as to be near my grandfather.’ + +‘That is wise; only remember you must try to sleep. You must not be +watching and listening all night. If Mr. Sivewright wants anything he +will call you. Good-night, my dearest.’ + +He folded her in his arms, and pressed a tender kiss upon the sad +lips; but her only response to his caress was a weary sigh. There was +something amiss here; what, he knew not; but he felt she had some +sorrow which she refused to share with him, and the thought wounded him +to the quick. He left her perplexed and unhappy. + +The old clock on the staircase struck eight as Lucius passed it. He +had an hour to wait before the arrival of the detectives. What to do +with himself during that time, he knew not. The lower part of the house +was wrapped in darkness, save for the feeble glimmer of a candle in +the great kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Wincher were seated at their +frugal supper. Lucius looked and beheld them regaling themselves on +a stony-looking Dutch cheese and an overgrown lettuce—a gigantic +vegetable, which they liberally soused with vinegar. + +From Mrs. Wincher, Lucius obtained a candle, which he carried to the +parlour—a room that looked empty and desolate without Lucille. There +was the sofa upon which she had rested; there her book; there her +work-basket. + +He sat down amidst these tokens of her presence, and stared at the +flame of the candle, sorely troubled in mind. What was this gulf +between them, this feeling of severance that was so strange to his +heart? Why was it that there returned to him ever and anon a suspicion +formless, inexplicable, but which troubled him beyond measure? He +strove to escape from gloomy thoughts by the aid of an old enchanter. +He took his violin from its hiding-place, and began to play a tender +_sotto-voce_ strain, which soothed his troubled mind. His thoughts +drifted into a smoother channel. He thought of that grand discovery +made to-night—a discovery which, at another time, he would have deemed +all-sufficient for happiness: Lucille was not the child of the wretch +his hand had slain. The comfort of that thought was measureless. + +Could he do wrong in accepting the evidence of those letters—in giving +them this interpretation? Surely not. They seemed to point but to one +conclusion. They told a story in which there were few missing links. It +remained for him to trace the father who had thus abandoned his child. +It would be a more pleasing task than that which Lucille had imposed +upon him when she bade him seek for Ferdinand Sivewright. + +But why had this father—who from the tone of his letters seemed to have +been fond of his child—abandoned her entirely to her fate, and made no +effort to reclaim her in after years? That question might be answered +in two ways. The father might have died years ago, carrying his secret +with him to the grave. Or it is just possible that this man, in whom +weakness might be near akin to wickedness, had made some advantageous +alliance after the death of Lucille’s mother, and had deemed it wise to +be silent as to his first marriage, even at the cost of his daughter’s +love. + +Thus reasoned Lucius as he played a slow pensive melody, always _sotto +voce_. + +Thought and music together had beguiled him into forgetfulness of time. +The clock struck nine while he was still playing. + +He put down his violin immediately, left the lighted candle on the +table, and went out to the back door. Mr. Wincher was there before him, +the door open, and two men standing on the threshold. + +‘We’ve got our orders from Mr. Otranto, sir,’ said the elder of the +two. ‘I’m to stop all night in the room that contains the vallibles, +and my mate is to be in and out and keep a hi upon the back premises. +But if you have anything you’d like to suggest, sir, we’re at your +service.’ + +‘No,’ said Lucius; ‘I’ve no doubt Mr. Otranto knows his business a +great deal better than I do. Come with me, Mr.—’ + +‘Simcox, sir. My mate is Joe Cleaver.’ + +‘Come with me then, Mr. Simcox, and I’ll show you the room that needs +watching. Mr. Cleaver can stay in the kitchen. I daresay he can make +himself comfortable there.’ + +‘Purvided he isn’t timid of beadles,’ interjected Mrs. Wincher; ‘which +the crickets are that tame they plays about the table while we’re at +supper.’ + +Mr. Cleaver pronounced himself indifferent as to beetles or crickets. + +‘They won’t hurt me,’ he said; ‘I’ve had to deal with worse than +black-beadles in my time.’ + +Mr. Simcox followed Lucius to the room that contained the Sivewright +collection—that curious chaos of relics and fragments which represented +the knowledge and labour of a lifetime. The detective surveyed these +works of art with a disparaging eye. + +‘There doesn’t seem to be much for the melting-pot here!’ he exclaimed; +‘or much portable property of any kind.’ + +‘There’s a good deal of curious old china,’ answered Lucius, ‘which is, +I believe, more valuable than silver. The thief who stole the old plate +might return for that.’ + +‘He might,’ answered Mr. Simcox with a sceptical air; ‘but he must be a +cut above the common run of thieves if he knows much about old chaney; +the sterling metal is what most of ’em go in for. However, here I am, +sir, and I know my duty. I’m ready to watch as many nights as you +please.’ + +‘Very good,’ said Lucius; ‘then I’ll wish you good-night, Mr. Simcox; +and if you want a mattress and a blanket, I daresay Mr. Wincher—the old +man who opened the door to you—will give you them. I don’t live in the +house, but I shall be here early to-morrow morning to learn the result +of your watch. Good-night.’ + +He had his hand upon the door, when a sound from the other side of the +hall—low, but still sufficiently audible—startled him as if it had been +the fall of a thunderbolt. It was his own violin, played softly—a wild +minor strain, dirge-like and unearthly. Scarcely had he heard the notes +when they died away. It was almost as if he had dreamed them. There was +not time for him to utter an exclamation before all was dumb. Then came +a muffled sound, like the cautious closing of a heavy door; but that +strange strain of melody possessed the soul and ears of Lucius, and he +did not hear that stealthy closing of the hall-door. + +‘Did you hear that?’ he asked the detective eagerly. + +‘Hear what, sir?’ + +‘A violin played in the opposite room.’ + +‘Well, no, sir, I can’t say as I did. Yet I fancy I did hear somethink +in the way of music—a barrel-organ, perhaps, outside.’ + +‘Strange!’ muttered Lucius; ‘my senses must be growing confused. I have +been too long without sleep, or I have thought too much. My brain has +been unceasingly on the rack; no wonder it should fail. Yet I could +have sworn I heard a wild unearthly strain—like—like other music I +heard once.’ + +It was a foolish thing, he felt, to be disturbed by such a trifle. A +mere fancy, doubtless, but he was disturbed by it nevertheless. He +hurried across to the parlour where he had left his violin. There it +lay, just as he had put it down. The room was empty. + +‘What if my violin were enchanted now, and could play of itself?’ he +thought idly. ‘Or what if the furies who torment me with the slow +tortures of remorse had invented a new agony, that I should hear +ghostly strains—mere phantasmal sounds—reminding me of the music I +heard in the American forest?’ + +He put the violin back into its case, locked it, and put the key in his +waistcoat-pocket. The lock was a Chubb. + +‘Neither mortals nor fiends shall play upon you any more to-night, my +little Amati,’ he said. + +He was glad to escape from the house presently, having no further +business there. He felt that Lucille and the old man were securely +guarded for that night at least. To-morrow might furnish a clue to the +mystery—to-morrow might reveal the thief. + +The thought set his brain on fire. Who opened that door? Who admitted +the midnight plunderer? Would to-morrow’s light bring with it the +answer to that question? + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +AT FAULT. + + +Geoffrey Hossack rushed down to Stillmington as fast as a +recklessly-driven hansom and an express train could take him. His heart +seemed to sing aloud as he went, ‘I am coming, my love, I am coming; +and we will part no more.’ + +How sweet, how rustic, how peaceful, the little uncommercial town +seemed to him to-day in its verdant setting; the low hills, on whose +grassy slopes tall chestnuts spread their wide branches, and the dark +foliage of the beech gleamed silvery as the warm breezes ruffled it; +fertile pastures where the aftermath grew deep, green tinged with +russet—over all the land late summer’s vanishing glory. + +‘I could live here with her for ever,’ he thought; ‘ay, in the humblest +cottage half hidden among those green lanes, which seem to lead +nowhere. I could live all my life with her, cut off from all the rest +of the world, and never languish for its hollow pleasures, and never +sigh for change. God grant I may find her reasonable! God grant that +she may accept my simple assurance of her release, and make me happy!’ + +On the very threshold of Mrs. Bertram’s modest dwelling a sudden fear +seized him. Something in the aspect of the house to-day struck him as +unfamiliar. The window was shut—an unusual circumstance, for Janet +loved air. The flowers in the little rustic stand that screened the +window had a neglected look. There were dead leaves on the geraniums, +which were wont to be so carefully tended. The care of those flowers +had been Janet’s early morning task. How often had he walked this way +before breakfast, for the sake of catching one chance glimpse of the +noble face bending over those flowers! + +‘Good Heavens, can she be ill?’ he thought with agonising fear. He +knocked softly, lest she should be indeed lying ill up-stairs and the +sound of the knocker disturb her. + +The maid who opened the door had come straight from the washtub, +breathless, with bare steaming arms. + +‘Is Mrs. Bertram at home—and—and well?’ asked Geoffrey eagerly. + +‘Mrs. Bertram, sir? O dear, no; she left us three days ago, and the +apartments are to let. Missus doesn’t put up any bill, because she says +it gives such a low look; but there’s a card at the grocer’s.’ + +‘Mrs. Bertram has moved!’ said Geoffrey, his heart beating very fast. +‘Where has she gone?’ + +It might be to the next street only. She had found the rooms small +perhaps, as her pupils increased. Yet even a few minutes’ delay dashed +his high hopes. It seemed hard to meet any kind of hindrance at the +outset. + +‘She didn’t leave no address,’ answered the girl; ‘she’s left +Stillmington for some time. She said the air was relackshing at this +time of year, and the little girl didn’t seem quite well. So she went. +She means to come back in the winter, she told us, and go on with her +pupils; but she was going somewheres by the sea.’ + +‘But surely she must have left some address with your mistress, in +order that letters might be forwarded to her?’ + +‘No, she didn’t, sir. I heared missus ast her that very question +about the letters, and she says to missus that it didn’t matter—there +wouldn’t be no letters for her, not of no consequence, as she would +write and tell her friends her new address. She didn’t exactly know +where she was going, she says.’ + +‘When did she leave?’ asked Geoffrey in despair. How could the Fates +treat him so hardly? + +‘Three days ago—last Wednesday.’ + +The very day of his journey down to Hampshire. She had lost no time +in taking flight. She had gone almost immediately after he left +Stillmington. Could he doubt that her motive had been to avoid him—to +flee temptation? For did he not know that she loved him? + +‘Mrs. Bertram left very suddenly, did she not?’ he asked of the +maid-of-all-work, who was breathing hard with impatience to be gone, +knowing that her mistress awaited her in the washhouse, and would +assuredly lecture her for gossiping. + +‘Yes, sir, it was quite suddent. She gave missus a week’s rent instead +of the reglar notice.’ + +‘And you have really no idea where she went when she left you?’ + +‘No, sir. She went away by the London train. That’s all I can tell you.’ + +‘Thanks,’ said Geoffrey with a sigh. + +He rewarded the girl with a half-crown, almost mechanically, and +departed heartsore. How could she be so cruel as to hide herself +from him—to put a new barrier between them! Was she afraid of his +importunity—afraid that she would lack strength to resist his pleading? + +By the sea! She had gone to the sea-side. That was information of the +vaguest character. + +‘If I have to scour the English coast, I will find her,’ he said to +himself desperately. + +But it was just possible she might leave England—that she might hide +herself in some obscure village in Normandy or Brittany, where the +cockney-tourist had not yet penetrated. The field was wide, to say the +least of it. + +‘She will surely let her brother know where she is?’ he thought +presently; and with that thought came a brief moment of hopefulness, +which quickly changed again to despair. If she wanted to avoid him, +Geoffrey, she would scarcely trust her secret to his bosom friend +Lucius. + +There was that ever-ready medium—that universal go-between—the second +column of the _Times_. He might advertise. He wrote a long appeal, so +worded that, to the stranger, it was an absolute hieroglyphic, telling +her that she was free—the only barrier that could divide them had been +long removed—and entreating her to communicate with him immediately. +This appeal he headed ‘_Voi che sapéte_’—the opening words of her +favourite song. She could hardly fail to understand. + +But what if she did not see the _Times_? And if she were out of +England, or even buried deep in some remote English watering-place, +the chances against her seeing it were as ten to one. He sent the same +advertisement to Galignani, and to a dozen provincial newspapers, +chosen almost at random, but covering a wide area. He sent cheques +to pay for a month’s insertions in every paper. He felt himself +transformed into a man of business, and went to work as actively as if +he had been advertising a new cocoa or a new hair-dye. + +This done, and there being nothing to detain him at Stillmington, he +went back to Hillersdon, much to the delight of his cousins Belle and +Jessie, who had in no wise expected this prompt return of the deserter. +There was some comfort to him in the idea of being amidst the scenes of +Janet’s youth. He went over to Tyrrelhurst, the cathedral town, saw the +Registrar of Births, Deaths, and Marriages, and found the entry of that +fatal union which stood between him and happiness. + +Yes, there it was: ‘Frederick Vandeleur, gentleman, &c. &c., to Janet +Davoren.’ The ceremony had been legal enough. Nothing but some previous +contract could invalidate such a marriage; and was it not very probable +that this villain’s assertion of a previous marriage was but a lie, +invented to release him from a union that had become troublesome to +him? + +‘I wish to Heaven I had as good a certificate of the scoundrel’s +death,’ thought Geoffrey; ‘but even if I find her and tell her that he +is dead, I doubt if my bare assertion will satisfy her scruples.’ + +He made a pilgrimage to Wykhamston, prowled about the gray old church, +talked to the sexton, who had been an old man twenty years ago, and +who calmly survived all changes, like a being over whom Time had no +power. From him Geoffrey heard a great deal about the old rector and +his beautiful daughter, who had played the organ, and how a stranger +had come to Wykhamston, who took a great fancy to playing the organ, +and played wonderful; and how Miss Davoren used oftentimes to be in the +church practising when the stranger came in; and how not long after she +ran away from home, as some folks said, and he, the sexton, was afraid +no good had come of those meetings in the church. + +To this Geoffrey listened silently, wounded, as he always was, by the +thought that she whom he loved so dearly had left her home under a +cloud, were it but the lightest breath of suspicion. + +Even to this sexton he must needs defend his idol. + +‘I have reason to know that Miss Davoren was married to that gentleman +before he came to Wykhamston,’ he said. ‘It was a secret marriage, and +she was foolish enough to leave her home without informing her parents +of the step she had taken; but she was that man’s wife, and no shadow +of dishonour can tarnish her name.’ + +‘Deary me!’ exclaimed the sexton; ‘and our poor dear rector took it +so to heart. Some folks think it was that as killed him, though the +doctors called it heart-disease of long standing.’ + +Geoffrey went from the church to the rectory, an overgrown thatched +cottage, quaint and old, with plastered walls and big chimney-stacks; +the garden all abloom with late roses—the new incumbent evidently a +prosperous gentleman. + +He loitered by the tall privet-hedge a little while, gathered a rose +from a bush that grew within reach—a rose which he put carefully in his +pocket-book—frail memorial of her he loved. + +This pilgrimage occupied an entire day; for the young man lingered +about Wykhamston as if loth to leave the spot where Janet had once +lived—as if he almost hoped to meet the phantom of her girlhood in one +of those low water meadows where he wandered listlessly by the reedy +trout streams. + +Belle and Jessie pouted a little at this desertion, yet would not +complain. Were they not fortunate in dear Geoffrey’s return? And if +they questioned or teased him he might take flight again. + +‘I hope you are not going to desert us to-morrow,’ said Belle, on the +evening of his return from Wykhamston. + +‘Why do you lay such a tremendous stress upon to-morrow?’ asked +Geoffrey, with a comfortable yawn. He was stretched on a rustic bench +outside the drawing-room windows smoking, while these damsels conversed +with him from within. + +‘Have you forgotten?’ + +‘Forgotten what?’ with another yawn. ‘How sleepy this country air makes +one!’ + +‘Yes, and how stupid sometimes!’ exclaimed Jessie. ‘You might have +remembered that to-morrow is the day for Lady Baker’s _fête_.’ + +‘Ah, to be sure! She’s a very nice old party, that Lady Baker of yours. +I shall make a point of being in attendance upon you.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +TROUBLES THICKEN. + + +There was plenty of work for Lucius in his surgery when he went home, +after inducting Mr. Otranto’s men in their duties at Cedar House. There +were the medicines to be made up, and to be taken round to the patients +that night, by the sleepy boy, who looked unutterable reproaches at his +master for this unwonted neglect of duty. + +‘Some of the places will be shut, I should think,’ he said with an +injured air, as he ground some nauseous drug furiously with a stone +pestle; ‘and some of the folks gone to bed. We’ve never been so late +before.’ + +‘I don’t think our neighbours hereabouts are renowned for their early +habits,’ answered Lucius, unabashed by this reproof. ‘If you find +people are gone to bed, you can bring the medicines home, and take them +out again early to-morrow morning. You needn’t go on knocking and +ringing if you don’t get answered quickly.’ + +‘Very well, sir,’ murmured the boy with a yawn. ‘They’ll be up at all +the publics of course: there’s the liniment for Mrs. Purdew’s sprained +wrist, and the lotion for Mr. Tweaker’s black eye; and they’ll be +up at the butcher’s, and at the general round the corner, where the +children’s down with measles, I daresay. But I expect to find the +private gentlefolks gone to bed.’ + +‘Give me that rhubarb, and hold your tongue,’ said Lucius. + +His medicines were soon made up and dispatched; and he was on the point +of leaving his surgery for the night, when he put his hand in his +pocket in search of a key, and found the bottle he had taken from Mr. +Sivewright’s bedside. + +‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed; ‘are mind and memory failing me +altogether that I could forget this?’ + +He held the bottle between him and the flame of the gas. The liquid, +which had been clear enough when he sent it out of his surgery, had now +a slightly clouded look. + +‘I wonder whether I have such a thing as a bit of copper gauze?’ he +thought, as he put down the bottle. + +He looked in several small drawers in the table on which he made up his +medicines, and finally found the object he sought for. He poured the +medicine into a glass vessel and applied his test. + +The experiment showed him that there was arsenic in the medicine. The +quantity was of the smallest, but the poison was there. He repeated +his experiment, to make assurance doubly sure. Yes, there could be no +shadow of doubt. Arsenic had been introduced into the medicine since it +had left his hands yesterday afternoon. + +Whose was the guilty hand which had done this thing? His vague +suspicion arose before him all at once in the shape of an awful fact, +and the horror of it almost paralysed thought. Who could have seemed +more secure than this harmless old man, lying on his sick bed, tenderly +watched by loving eyes, ministered to by dutiful hands—guarded, it +would seem, from the possibility of danger? Yet even there a murderer +had penetrated; and by slow steps, by means so gradual as almost to +defy suspicion, that feeble life was assailed. + +Who could the assassin be but that old servant in whose fidelity +Homer Sivewright trusted from the mere force of habit? Yes; the case +seemed clear enough, looked at by the light of this new discovery. +Jacob Wincher, who knew the full value of the collection, had begun a +systematic course of plunder—who could tell how long it had gone on? +perhaps ever since Mr. Sivewright had taken to his bed—and, in order to +escape the detection which must have been inevitable on the old man’s +recovery, he had taken measures to make his master’s illness mortal. + +‘Perhaps he argues that by dropping a pinch of arsenic into his +master’s medicine now and then he only assists the progress of the +disease, and that his crime is something less than murder,’ thought +Lucius bitterly. + +He was angry with himself, because this very day—after suspecting +Jacob Wincher, nay, after feeling convinced of his guilt—he had +suffered himself to be hoodwinked, and had believed the old servant to +be an honest man. He remembered Mr. Otranto’s dictum, so absolutely +expressed, and smiled at the fatuity of a man whom the world deemed +possessed of almost superhuman powers. + +‘Yes, the scheme is transparent. He has admitted the man I saw night +after night, and has doubtless made away with all that is most +valuable in the collection. He knows that his master’s recovery would +be his ruin, and he means to prevent that recovery. His apparent +candour this morning was a profound stroke of policy. He took alarm +from what I said to his wife—guessed that I had seen the entrance of +his accomplice, and played his cards accordingly. Not clever enough for +a thief, did you say, Mr. Otranto? Why, here is a man clever enough to +carry on simultaneous robbery and murder, and yet to wear the semblance +of most consummate innocence. This is evidently a development of +intellectual power among the dangerous classes for which your previous +experience has not prepared you.’ + +Lucius laughed the laugh of scorn at the thought of Mr. Otranto’s +shortsightedness. + +But what was he, Lucius, to do? That was the question. How was he to +avert the danger from his patient, and yet avoid alarming him? To alarm +him might be fatal. To tell a man almost at Death’s door that he had +been brought to this pass by a slow poisoner in his own household, +would surely be to complete the murder. Where was the sick man with +nerves strong enough to endure such a revelation? + +‘I must get rid of these Winchers, yet not tell Mr. Sivewright the +cause of their dismissal,’ thought Lucius. ‘I can invent some plausible +excuse for their disappearance. And when they are gone—Stay, might +it not be better to let them stop, and to keep watch over my patient +myself—so close a watch, that if foul play were attempted I must +discover the delinquent?’ + +He meditated upon this question for some time; now leaning one way, now +the other. + +‘No,’ he decided at last; ‘murder shall no longer lurk within the +shadow of those walls! At any cost I will get rid of those wretches, +with their pretence of long service and fidelity.’ + +He thought of Mrs. Wincher, whom he had a little while ago considered +one of the most well-meaning of women, completely devoted to her young +mistress, faithful, affectionate. + +‘She may not know the extent of her husband’s iniquity,’ he thought; +for it was painful to him to believe that the woman who had hovered +about Love’s rosy pathway like a protecting angel was among the vilest +of her sex. + +‘What about this night?’ he asked himself with painful anxiety. He +had left a guard upon the house and its treasures, but what guard had +he set upon that old man’s life? The doors of the sick room might be +locked ever so securely, and yet the assassin might enter. Wincher and +his accomplice might know of that secret staircase, in spite of the +old servant’s affectation of entire ignorance; and between the secret +staircase and the sick chamber there was only a sliding panel. + +‘I’ll go back to-night,’ said Lucius. ‘I should be a dastard if, with +my present knowledge, I left that old man unprotected. I’ll go back, +and get into the garden from the creek. I shall find the detective +on his beat at the back, no doubt. I’ll warn him about the secret +staircase; so that no one shall get to Mr. Sivewright’s room that way, +at any rate.’ + +He lost no time in putting his resolve into execution. It was a few +minutes past eleven, and the distance to Cedar House was about half an +hour’s walk. Before midnight he would be there. + +Fortune favoured him. The night was dark, and there was no one to +observe his trespass as he walked along the deserted wharf and stepped +lightly across the untenanted barges. From one of these it was easy to +get upon the low wall of Mr. Sivewright’s garden. He saw a light in the +brewhouse, where he had found the entrance to the secret stair. The +door was open, and the detective was lounging against the door-post, +smoking his pipe and enjoying the night air. + +‘Who’s there?’ he demanded in cautious tones, as Lucius’s light +footstep sounded on the weedy gravel. + +‘A friend—Davoren,’ answered Lucius, and then told the man the reason +of his return. + +‘This is a worse case than even I thought it,’ he said. ‘There has been +an attempt to poison the old gentleman up-stairs, as well as to rob +him.’ + +The man looked incredulous. Lucius briefly stated his grounds for this +statement. + +‘There has been nothing stirring here?’ he asked. + +‘Nothing, except the beadles. They’re on short rations, and it seems to +make ’em active. I’ve been in and out ever since you left.’ + +‘Has Wincher gone to bed?’ + +‘Two hours ago.’ + +‘And you are sure he has never stirred since?’ + +‘Quite sure. I’ve been past his door about every ten minutes or so, +and have heard him and his wife snoring as peaceable as a pair of +turtle-doves.’ + +‘Well, I’ve come to share your watch till morning, if you’ve no +objection. After the discovery I’ve just told you about, I couldn’t +rest.’ + +‘No objections, sir. If you’d brought a casebottle with a trifle of +spirit it might have been welcome.’ + +‘I am sorry that I omitted to provide myself with such a thing,’ +answered Lucius politely. + +He showed the detective the door opening upon the secret staircase, and +told him not to leave the brewhouse while he, Lucius, went up-stairs to +see that all was right on the upper floor. + +‘If the man who came last night should come again to-night, he will try +to enter by that door,’ said Lucius, pointing to the door by which he +had just come in. ‘Leave it open, and your light burning just where it +is. He’ll take that to mean that all’s right, most likely. But be sure +you keep in the background yourself till he’s fairly inside.’ + +‘I hope I know my business, sir,’ replied the detective with dignity. + +Lucius went through the back premises to the hall. The doors in the +interior of the house had been left open for the convenience of the +watchers. His footsteps, cautiously as he trod, resounded on the +stone-paved floor; so at the foot of the staircase he drew off his +boots, and went up-stairs noiselessly in his stockings. He thought +of Mr. Sivewright’s complaint of that mysterious foot-fall which had +disturbed his slumbers in the deep of night,—the footstep of the secret +assassin. To-night he was surely guarded. From the lower part of the +house no one could approach him without the knowledge of the watcher +lying in wait below. + +But how about those upper rooms, in one of whose windows he had seen +the light burning last night? Was there not some mystery there? He +determined to explore that topmost story, now, in the darkness of the +night even, rather than leave his doubts unsatisfied. + +Vain determination! The door of communication between the corridor and +the upper staircase was locked. He tried it with a cautious hand, and +found it firmly secured against him. Then he remembered how Lucille +had locked that door and put the key in her pocket after they came +down-stairs from the loft. + +If that door had been locked and the key in Lucille’s possession last +night, how came the light in the upper window? That was a new problem +for him to solve. + +He crept along the passage, and listened at the old man’s door. He +could hear his patient’s breathing, laboured but regular. There was no +other sound in the room. + +He waited here for some time, listening; but there was nothing save +the old man’s breathing to disturb the stillness, nothing until from +Lucille’s room there came the sound of a long deep sigh—a sigh from a +heart sorely oppressed. + +That sound smote his own heart with unspeakable pain. It betrayed such +deep unhappiness—a sorrow which could only find vent in the dead of the +night, in deep heartbroken sighs. + +‘Is it her grandfather’s danger that makes her so unhappy?’ he +wondered. ‘Strange; for the old man has never been particularly kind to +her—has always kept her at arm’s length, as it were. Yet, I daresay, +to her tender nature the thought of approaching death is too terrible. +She cannot face the inevitable doom; she lies awake and broods upon the +approaching calamity. Poor child! if she but knew how baseless has been +her dream of a father’s love, how vainly her tenderest feelings have +been wasted on a wretch who has not even the poor claim of kindred to +her love!’ + +For more than an hour he waited, sometimes outside his patient’s door, +sometimes by Lucille’s; but nothing happened to alarm him throughout +his watch, and he knew the approach to the secret staircase was +securely guarded. No intruder could reach Mr. Sivewright’s room that +night, at any rate. + +Lucius went down-stairs at last, and smoked a cigar in the brewhouse +while the detective took his round through all the lower rooms. Thus +the night wore away, and in the gray dawn Lucius once more mounted the +stairs, and paced the corridor. Again all was silence. This time he +heard no sigh from Lucille. His heart was relieved by the thought that +she was sleeping peacefully. + +With the dawn—Aurora the rosy-fingered showing poorly at this east-end +of London—he made his way back by the garden-wall, the barges, and the +wharf, and returned to his own abode, which looked sordid and cheerless +enough beneath the pale light of newborn day—cold and dreary and poor, +lacking the picturesqueness of a lodge in the primeval forest, and +but slightly surpassing it in luxury. He laid himself down and tried +his hardest to sleep; but the thought of old Homer Sivewright and his +hidden enemy, the domestic poisoner, drove away slumber. + +‘I shall sleep no more till I have fathomed this mystery,’ he said to +himself wearily. + +But at last, when the sun was shining through the poor screen afforded +by a calico blind, he did fall into a kind of sleep, or rather that +feverish condition which is neither sleeping nor waking. From this +state he woke with a start—that kind of shock which jars the nerves of +the dreamer when his vision ends on the brink of a precipice, whence he +feels himself descending to fathomless depths below. His forehead was +damp with a nameless horror; he trembled as he rose in his bed. + +It was as if a voice had spoken in his ear as he slept. + +‘What if Lucille were the poisoner?’ + +Great Heaven! how could so vile a thought shape itself in his mind? Yet +with the thought there arose before him, as if it had been shown to +him upon the open pages of a book, all those circumstances which might +seem to point to this hideous conclusion. Who else, in that lonely old +house, had the same power to approach the patient? In whom else would +Homer Sivewright trust as blindly? + +He remembered Lucille’s agitation when he first hinted the possibility +of poison—that whitening cheek, that sudden look of horror. Might not +guilt look thus? + +And then her emotion yesterday morning, when she had dropped lifeless +at his feet? Could anything _but_ guilt be thus stricken? + +‘O God,’ he cried, ‘I am surely going mad! Or how else could such +horrible thoughts enter my mind? Do I not know her to be good and +pure, loving, unselfish, compassionate? And with the conviction of her +goodness firmly rooted in my heart, can I for one moment fear,—ay, +even though circumstances should weave a web of proof around her, +leaving not one loophole for escape?’ + +He wrenched his thoughts away from the facts which seemed to condemn +the woman he so deeply loved, and by a great effort of will dismissed a +fancy which seemed the most cruel treason against love. + +‘Does the evil one inspire our dreams sometimes?’ he wondered. ‘So vile +a thought could never have entered my head if a voice had not whispered +the hateful suggestion into my sleeping ear. But there shall be an end +at once of suspicion and of mystery. I will no longer treat Lucille as +a child. I frightened her more by my hints and suggestions than I could +have done had I told her the plain facts. I will trust to her firmness +and fortitude, and tell her all without reserve—the discovery of the +attempted poisoning, the robbery, the secret entrance of the man I +watched the night before last. I will trust her most fully.’ + +This resolve gave extreme relief to his mind. He dressed hurriedly, +took a brief breakfast of his own preparation, Mrs. Babb the charwoman +not yet having left her domestic circle to minister to his wants, and +at half-past eight o’clock found himself once more outside the iron +gate which shut in the chief object of his love. Mrs. Wincher admitted +him with a solemn and mournful visage. + +‘Is there anything amiss?’ asked Lucius anxiously. + +‘I don’t believe there’ll ever be anything more in this blessed +house that isn’t amiss,’ answered Mrs. Wincher obscurely, but with a +despondent air that augered ill. + +‘Mr. Sivewright is worse, I suppose,’ said Lucius. + +‘Mr. Sivewright is much as usual, grumble, grumble—this here don’t +agree with him, and that there turns sour on his stomach, and so +on—enough to worrit folks into early graves. But there’s a deal more +the matter than that this morning.’ + +‘For Heaven’s sake, speak plainly,’ cried Lucius impatiently. + +‘Our missy is in a burning fever. She was heavy and lollopy-like all +yesterday afternoon, and her cheeks, that have been as white as a +chaney tea-plate latterly, was red and hot-looking, and she slept heavy +and breathed short in her sleep, for I stood and watched her; and she +moved about in a languid way that wasn’t a bit like her quick light +ways when she’s well. But I thought it was nothink more than what you +says yourself yesterday morning—want of rest. I should ’ave thought you +might ’ave knowed she was sickening for a fever,’ added Mrs. Wincher +reproachfully. + +‘Misfortune does not always declare itself so plainly. I could see that +she was ill, and that was all. God grant the fever may not be very +much, after all!’ + +‘Not very much!’ exclaimed Mrs. Wincher. ‘Why, when I took her a hearly +cup of tea at half-past seven this morning, which was as soon as I +could get my kittle boiled, she was raving like a lunatic—going on +about her father, and such-like—in a dreadful way, and didn’t recognise +me no more nor if I’d been a stranger out of the street.’ + +This was a bad hearing; but Lucius bore the shock calmly enough. +Troubles and perplexities had rained thickly upon him of late, and +there is a kind of stoicism which grows out of familiarity with sorrow. + +‘Take me to Miss Sivewright’s room,’ he said quietly, ‘and let me see +what is the matter.’ + +‘I’ve moved her out of the little dressing-room into her own room,’ +said Mrs. Wincher; ‘me and my good gentleman carried the bed with her +on it while she was asleep. I thought as how it wouldn’t do for her +grandpa to hear her carrying on that wild.’ + +‘You were right enough there. Yet she was a faithful guardian, and +your master is now in the power of his foes.’ + +‘Foes, sir? What foes can he have in this house?’ + +‘The same people who found their way to the plate in the muniment chest +might find their way to Mr. Sivewright’s room,’ said Lucius. + +‘Lor, sir, how you do frighten one! But what harm could even thieves +and robbers want to do to a harmless old man, unless he stood between +’em and the property?’ + +‘I won’t stop to discuss that question with you now, Mrs. Wincher. I +shall have something to say to you and your husband presently. Have the +detectives gone?’ + +‘Yes, sir; but they’re coming back the same time to-night. One of ’em +left a bit of a note for you. It’s on the kitchen chimleypiece. I’ll +run and fetch it if you like.’ + +‘Not till you have taken me to Miss Sivewright’s room. Is she alone all +this time?’ + +‘Yes, sir; but she was asleep when I left her. She dozes off every now +and then.’ + +‘She must have a nurse to watch her, sleeping or waking.’ + +Mrs. Wincher led the way up-stairs, and to one of the doors in the +corridor out of which Mr. Sivewright’s room opened. For the first time +Lucius found himself in Lucille’s room—a spacious airy apartment, with +three windows deep set in the solid walls, and provided with broad +oak window-seats. A scantily furnished chamber, yet with that grace +and prettiness of aspect which a girl’s taste can give to the poorest +surroundings. There were books, a few water-coloured sketches on the +walls, a few oddments of old china tastefully disposed on the high oak +chimneypiece, white muslin curtains to the windows, a well-worn Persian +carpet in the centre of the dark oak floor—everywhere the most perfect +neatness, cleanliness the most scrupulous. + +Lucille was sleeping when Lucius and Mrs. Wincher entered; but at the +sound of her lover’s footsteps, lightly as he trod, she started, opened +her eyes, and looked at him. + +O, how sad to see those sweet eyes looking at him thus, without +recognition! how sad to mark that dreamy unconscious stare in eyes that +yesterday had been full of meaning! Lucius sank into a chair by the +bed, fairly overcome. It was some moments before he was sufficiently +master of himself to approach the case professionally, to go through +the usual formula, with an aching heart. + +She was very ill, with such an illness as might have been easily +induced by long-continued anxiety and want of rest—anxious days, +sleepless nights. The gravest feature in the case was the delirium—the +inability to recognise familiar faces. + +‘Lucille,’ he said, in a low tender voice, ‘don’t you know me?’ + +She did not answer him. Her head moved wearily on the pillow from side +to side, while her lips murmured faintly. Lucius bent over her to catch +the words. + +‘You shouldn’t have come here, father,’ she said, ‘if you couldn’t +forgive him. But no, no, you could not do him any harm—you could +not be so vile as that. I have loved you so dearly. Papa, don’t you +remember—the violin—our happy evenings?’ + +Thus the parched lips went on, in low broken murmurs, which were +sometimes quite unintelligible. + +‘It’s been all her father since she was took that way,’ said Mrs. +Wincher. + +‘Strange that her mind should brood thus upon that one memory,’ thought +Lucius—‘the one tender remembrance of her childhood.’ + +He lingered for some time by the bedside, listening to those indistinct +murmurs in which the name of ‘father’ was so often repeated. Then he +began to consider what he must do to secure the safety of this beloved +sufferer. + +To leave her in the custody of people whom he believed guilty of the +deepest iniquity was not to be dreamed of. He must get rid of these +Winchers at any hazard, bring in a sick nurse upon whose fidelity +he could rely, and, so far as it was possible, keep watch upon the +premises himself by day and night. + +Get rid of the Winchers? How was that to be done? He had no authority +for their dismissal. + +There was one way, he thought, hazardous perhaps for his patient, but +tolerably certain of immediate success. He must inform Mr. Sivewright +of the robbery, and state on whom his suspicions fell. There was little +doubt that on learning he had been robbed the _bric-à-brac_ dealer +would dismiss his old servants. The first thing to be done was to get +the sick nurse and secure Lucille’s safety, come what might. + +He told Mrs. Wincher that he would return in half an hour or so to see +her master, and left the house without giving her any farther hint as +to his intention. He knew of a nurse in the immediate neighbourhood, a +woman of the comfortable motherly order, of whose ministrations among +his patients he had had ample experience, and he hailed the first cab +that hove in sight, and drove off in quest of this honest matron. +Fortune favoured him. Mrs. Milderson, the nurse—like Mrs. Gamp, sick +and monthly—had just returned from an interesting case in the West +India-road. + +On this worthy woman Lucius descended like a whirlwind: would hardly +give her time to rummage up an apron or two and a clean print gown, let +alone her brush and comb—as she said plaintively—ere he whisked her +into the devouring jaws of the hansom, which swallowed her up, bundle +and all, and conveyed her with almost electric speed to Cedar House. + +Mrs. Wincher stared amain at this interloper, and would fain have kept +her on the outer side of the iron gate. + +‘And pray, Dr. Davory, what may this good lady want?’ she asked, +surveying the nurse and bundle with looks of withering scorn. + +‘This good lady’s name is Milderson; she is an honest and trustworthy +person, and she has come to nurse Miss Sivewright.’ + +‘May I ask, Dr. Davory, by whose orders?’ + +‘By mine, the young lady’s medical attendant and her future husband,’ +answered Lucius. ‘This way, if you please, Milderson. I’ll talk to you +presently, Mrs. Wincher.’ + +He passed that astonished female, who stood agape, staring after him +with bewildered looks, and then raising her eyes aloft to outraged +Heaven— + +‘And me not thought good enough to nurse our missy!’ she ejaculated. +‘Me, that took her through the measles, and had her on my lap three +blessed days and nights with the chicken-pox. I couldn’t have thought +it of you, Dr. Davory. And a stranger brought into this house without +by your leave nor with your leave! Who’s to be respounceable for the +safety of the bricklebrack after this, I should like to know!’ + +Having propounded this question to the unresponsive sky, Mrs. Wincher +uttered a loud groan, as if disappointed at receiving no answer, and +then slowly dragged her weary way to the house, sliding one slippered +foot after the other in deepest dejection. She walked up-stairs with +the same slipshod step, and waited in the corridor outside Lucille’s +room with folded arms and a countenance in which a blank stare had +succeeded to the workings of indignation. + +This stony visage confronted Lucius when he emerged from the sick room, +after about a quarter of an hour employed in giving directions to Mrs. +Milderson. + +‘Do you mean to say, Dr. Davory, that I’m not to nurse my young +missy?’ asked Mrs. Wincher, stifled emotion trembling in every accent. + +‘That is my intention, Mrs. Wincher,’ answered Lucius severely. ‘First +and foremost, you are not an experienced nurse; and secondly, I cannot +trust you.’ + +‘Not experienced, after taking that blessed dear through the +chicken-pox—which she had it worse than ever chicken-pox was knowed +within the memory of the chemist round the corner, in Condick-street, +where I got the gray powders as I gave her—and after walking about with +her in the measles till I was ready to drop! Not to be trusted after +five-and-twenty years’ faithful service! O, Dr. Davory, I couldn’t have +thought it of you!’ + +‘Five-and-twenty years’ service is a poor certificate if the service +ends in robbery and attempted murder,’ answered Lucius quietly. + +‘Attempted murder!’ echoed Mrs. Wincher, aghast. + +‘Yes, that’s a terrible word, Mrs. Wincher, isn’t it? And this is +the worst of all murders—domestic murder—the slow and secret work of +the poisoner, whose stealthy hand introduces death into the medicine +that should heal, the food that should nourish. Of all forms of +assassination there can be none so vile as that.’ + +Mrs. Wincher uttered no syllable of reply. She could only gaze at the +speaker in dumb wonderment. She began to fear that this young man was +going mad. + +‘He’s been eggziting and werrying of hisself till he’s on the high road +to a lunacy asylum,’ she said to herself presently, when Lucius had +passed her and gone into Mr. Sivewright’s room. + +‘You took away my medicine yesterday morning,’ said the invalid in his +most querulous tone, ‘and sent me none to replace it. However, as I +feel much better without it, your physic was no loss.’ + +‘Pardon my inattention,’ said Lucius. ‘And you really feel better +without the medicine? Those troublesome symptoms have abated, eh?’ + +They had abated, Mr. Sivewright said, and he went on to describe his +condition, in which there was positive improvement. + +‘I’m glad to find you so much better,’ Lucius said, ‘for you will be +able to hear some rather disagreeable intelligence. You have been +robbed.’ + +‘Robbed!’ cried the old man, starting up in his bed as if moved by +a galvanic battery. ‘Robbed! Yes, I thought as much when I heard +those footsteps. Robbed! My collection rifled of its gems, I suppose. +The Capo di Monte—the Copenhagen—the old Roman medals in the ebony +cabinet—the Boucher tapestry!’ he exclaimed, running over the catalogue +of his treasures breathlessly. + +‘These are safe, for anything I know to the contrary. You had a +monstrance in silver-gilt?’ + +‘Gold!’ cried the old man; ‘twenty-carat gold! I had it assayed. I gave +thirty pounds for that monstrance to an old scoundrel who was going to +break it up for the sake of the gems, and who believed it was lacquer. +It had been stolen from some foreign church, no doubt. The emeralds +alone are worth two hundred pounds. You don’t mean to tell me I’ve been +robbed of that?’ + +‘I’m sorry to say that and some pieces of old silver are missing; but I +hope to recover them.’ + +‘Recover the dead from the bottom of the sea and bring them to life +again!’ cried Mr. Sivewright vehemently. ‘You might do that as easily +as the other. Why, those things were in the muniment chest, and Wincher +had the key. He has kept that key for the last twenty years.’ + +‘Some one has found his way to the chest in spite of Mr. Wincher’s +care,’ answered Lucius gravely. + +He went on to relate the particulars of the robbery. The old man got +out of bed while he was talking, and began to drag on his clothes with +trembling hands. + +‘I will not lie here to be plundered,’ he exclaimed, profoundly +agitated. + +‘Now, that is what I feared,’ cried Lucius. ‘If you do not obey me +implicitly, I shall repent having told you the truth. You must remain +in this room till you are strong enough to leave it. You can surely +trust me to protect the property in which your generous confidence has +given me the strongest interest.’ + +‘True, you are as much interested as I am,’ muttered the old man; ‘nay, +more so, for life is before you, and is nearly over with me. _My_ +interest in these things is a vanishing one; yet I doubt if there would +be rest for me in the grave if those fruits of my life’s labour were in +jeopardy.’ + +‘Will you trust me to take care of this house and all it contains?’ +asked Lucius anxiously. ‘Will you give me authority to dismiss these +Winchers, whom I cannot but suspect of complicity with the thief, +whoever he may be?’ + +‘Yes, dismiss them. They have robbed me, no doubt. I was a fool to +trust old Wincher with the key of that chest; but he has served me so +long, and I thought there was a dog-like fidelity in his nature, that +he would be content to grub on to the end of his days, asking nothing +more than food and shelter. I thought it was against his interests to +rob me. At his age a man should cling to his home as a mussel sticks to +his rock. The fellow is as sober as an anchorite. One would suppose he +could have no motive for dishonesty. But you had better dismiss him.’ + +‘I have your permission to do so?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Thank you, sir. It seems a hard thing, but I am convinced it is the +right course. I will get your house taken good care of, depend upon it.’ + +‘I trust you implicitly,’ answered the old man, with a faint sigh, +half fatigue, half despondency. ‘You are the only friend I have upon +earth—except Lucille. Why has she not been to me this morning?’ + +‘She is not very well. Anxiety and want of rest have prostrated her for +a little while.’ + +‘Ill!’ said Mr. Sivewright anxiously; ‘that is bad. Poor little +Lucille!’ + +‘Pray don’t be uneasy about her; be assured I shall be watchful.’ + +‘Yes, I am sure of that.’ + +‘I have brought in a nurse—now, you mustn’t be angry with me, though in +this matter I have disobeyed you—a thoroughly honest, competent woman, +who will attend to you and Lucille too.’ + +‘I detest strangers,’ said Mr. Sivewright; ‘but I suppose I must submit +to the inevitable.’ + +‘Now, I want your permission to remain in the house for a night or +two. I would stay altogether, were it not for the possibility of night +patients. I can occupy the little room next this, and shall be at hand +to attend you. Lucille has returned to her own room.’ + +‘Do as you please,’ answered Mr. Sivewright with wonderful resignation, +‘so long as you protect me from robbery.’ + +‘With God’s help I will protect you from every peril. By the way, since +you say my medicine has done you no good, you shall take no more. Your +food shall be prepared according to my directions, and brought you by +Mrs. Milderson, the nurse. I told you some time ago that yours was a +case in which I attached more importance to diet than to drugs. And now +I’ll go and settle matters with Mr. and Mrs. Wincher.’ + +He had not far to go. Mrs. Wincher was still in the corridor, waiting +for him with stony visage and folded arms. + +‘I should be glad to see your husband, Mrs. Wincher,’ said Lucius. + +‘My good gentleman is down-stairs, sir, and will be happy to wait upon +you direckly minute.’ + +Lucius went down to the hall with Mrs. Wincher. Her good gentleman was +pottering about among his master’s treasures, with a dusting-brush. + +‘Mr. Wincher,’ said Lucius without preamble, ‘I have come to the +determination that, under the very unpleasant circumstances which +have arisen in this house, plain sailing is the wisest course. I have +therefore informed Mr. Sivewright of the robbery.’ + +‘Indeed, sir! I should have thought you’d hardly have ventured that +while he’s so ill. And how did he take it?’ + +‘Better than I expected: but he agreed with me as to the necessity of a +step which I proposed to him.’ + +‘What might that be, sir?’ + +‘That you and Mrs. Wincher should immediately leave this house.’ + +The old man, who was feeble and somewhat bowed with age and hard work, +drew himself up with an offended dignity that might have become a +prince of the blood-royal. + +‘If that is my master’s decision I am ready to go, sir,’ he said, +without a quaver in his weak old voice. ‘If that is my master’s +decision after five-and-twenty years’ faithful service, I cannot go +too soon. Deborah, get our bits of things together, my dear, as fast as +you conveniently can, while I go out and look about me for a room.’ + +‘Lemaître, at his best, was not a finer actor than this old man,’ +thought Lucius. ‘It is the perfection of art.’ + +Mrs. Wincher only stared and breathed hard. In her, indignation had +paralysed the power of speech. + +‘If it were a mere question of the robbery,’ said Lucius, ‘I should not +have counselled your dismissal. It would have gone hard with me if, +once put upon my guard, I could not have protected the property in this +house. But there is one thing more valuable than a man’s property, and +more difficult to protect, and that is his life. The reason of your +dismissal, Mr. Wincher, is that there has been an attempt made by some +one in this house—and you best know how many it contains—to poison your +old master.’ + +‘Poison!’ echoed Jacob Wincher helplessly. + +‘Yes, I discovered arsenic last night in a half-filled medicine bottle +which I took from your master’s room. Some one had introduced arsenic +into the medicine since it left my hands. Mr. Sivewright’s symptoms of +late have been those of arsenical poisoning. Under such circumstances +you can hardly wonder that I wish to bring about a change of occupants +in this house.’ + +‘No, sir,’ answered the old man, ‘I don’t wonder. Poison!—a poisoner +at work in this house where we have watched so faithfully! It is too +horrible. It is a mystery beyond my power to fathom. There have been +only three of us in the house—my wife, and Miss Lucille, and me. And +you think it was I or my wife that put poison into that bottle. Well, I +can’t wonder at that. It couldn’t be Miss Lucille, so it lies between +my wife and me. We’re best out of the house, sir, after that. This +house is no place for us. I hope you’ll contrive to take good care of +my master when we’re gone, and I pray God that it may please Him in His +good time to enlighten your mind about us, and to show, somehow, that +neither I nor my good lady have tried to murder the master we’ve served +faithfully for a quarter of a century.’ + +‘If you are innocent, Mr. Wincher, I trust that fact may be speedily +demonstrated. In the mean time you can hardly wonder that I think this +house a safer place without your presence in it.’ + +‘No, sir, that’s natural enough. Deborah, my good soul, will you get +together those things of ours? The sooner the better.’ + +‘I’ll do what I can,’ answered Mrs. Wincher, with a gasp; ‘but I don’t +feel as if I had the proper use of my limbs.’ + +‘There’s the catalogue, sir,’ suggested Jacob Wincher. ‘Hadn’t we +better go through that before I leave, and see what is right and what +isn’t? It’ll take some time, but it will be for the satisfaction of +both parties. I’ve one catalogue, sir, and Mr. Sivewright another.’ + +‘You are vastly conscientious, sir,’ said Lucius; ‘but as it would +take at least a day to go through these things, and as my ignorance +unfits me for the task, I think I will take my chance, and not oppose +any hindrance to your prompt departure. I’ll wait hereabouts till Mrs. +Wincher is ready.’ + +‘As you please, sir. In that case I’ll go off at once and look about me +for a room.’ + +‘Stay, Mr. Wincher,’ cried Lucius, as the old man shuffled off towards +the door; ‘I should be sorry for you to leave this house penniless. +Here are a couple of sovereigns, which will enable you to live for a +week or so while you look for a new service.’ + +‘A new service, sir!’ echoed Jacob Wincher bitterly. ‘Do you think that +at my age situations are plentiful? No, sir, thank you; I couldn’t +take money from you, not if it was to save me from starvation. I shall +seek no new service. Mr. Sivewright was never a very liberal paymaster, +and since we came to this house he has given us no wages except a small +allowance for our food. But our wants are few, and we contrived to save +the best part of our wages while we were in Bond-street. No, sir, I am +not afraid to face the world, hard as it is to the old. I shall get +a few odd jobs to do among the poor folks, I daresay, even without a +character, and I shall be able to rub along somehow.’ + +Thus refusing Lucius’s proffered aid, Jacob Wincher put on his hat and +went out. Lucius went into the room which contained the chief part of +Mr. Sivewright’s collection, and waited there with the door open until +Mr. Wincher’s good lady should make her appearance, ready for departure. + +He looked round at the chaotic mass of property wonderingly. How much +had been plundered? The shabby old glass cases of china seemed full +enough, yet who could tell how they had been thinned by the dexterous +hand of one who knew the exact value of each separate object? It seemed +hard that the fruit of Homer Sivewright’s toil should have been thus +lessened; it seemed strange that he, who was a professed cynic, should +have so entirely trusted his old servant, only to be victimised by him +at last. + +Mrs. Wincher made her appearance, after an interval of about half an +hour, laden with three bundles of various shapes and sizes, but all +of the limpest description, two bandboxes, an ancient and dilapidated +umbrella, a small collection of hardware in a hamper without a lid, +a faded Paisley shawl across her arm, a bottle-green cloth cloak of +antediluvian shape and style, and sundry small oddments in the way of +pattens, a brown-crockery teapot, a paste-board, and a pepperbox. + +‘They’re our few little comforts, sir,’ she said apologetically, as +divers of these minor objects slid from her grasp and rolled upon +the stone floor of the hall. ‘I suppose if we was sent to Newgate as +pisoners we shouldn’t be allowed to have ’em; but as there’s no crime +brought against us _yet_’—with profoundest irony—‘I’ve took the liberty +to bring ’em. Perhaps you’d like to look through my bundles, Dr. +Davory, to make sure as there’s none of the bricklebrack hidden amongst +my good gentleman’s wardrobe.’ + +‘No, thank you, Mrs. Wincher. I won’t trouble you to open your +bundles,’ answered Lucius, whose keen eye had taken note of the manner +of goods contained in those flabby envelopes. + +Thus absolved from the necessity of exhibiting these treasures, Mrs. +Wincher built them up in a neat pyramid by the side of the hall-door, +with infinite pains, as if the monument were intended to be permanent, +and then seated herself meekly on the lowest step of the staircase. + +‘I suppose as there’s no objections to my resting my pore feet a bit, +Dr. Davory,’ she said plaintively, ‘though me and my good gentleman is +dismissed.’ + +‘You are quite at liberty to rest yourself, Mrs. Wincher,’ replied +Lucius. ‘But I don’t mean to take my eye off you till you’re out of +this house,’ he added mentally. + +He paced the hall and the room adjoining till the bell at the outer +gate announced Jacob Wincher’s return. Mrs. Wincher went to admit +her lord and master, who presently appeared with a small truck or +hand-barrow, in which, aided by his wife, he deposited the pyramid of +goods and chattels, which process involved a good deal more careful +fitting-in of curiously-shaped objects into odd corners. Everything, +however, having been finally adjusted to the satisfaction of both +parties, Mr. Wincher reëntered the house for the last time, while Mrs. +Wincher waited on the steps, and delivered the keys to Lucius. Every +key was neatly labelled with a slip of parchment, whereon was inscribed +its number in Homer Sivewright’s crabbed penmanship. + +‘Those are all the keys, sir, just as my master gave them to me when +we first came here,’ said Jacob Wincher. ‘I’ve got a bit of a lodging. +Perhaps you’d be kind enough to take down the address, as I should be +glad to learn if ever you find out the real party that took the silver +out of the chest, and likewise tampered with the medicine.’ + +‘If ever I find any evidence of your innocence you shall hear of it, +Mr. Wincher,’ answered Lucius gravely. ‘What is the address?’ + +‘Mrs. Hickett’s, Crown-and-Anchor-alley, Bridge-street, sir; not a +quarter of an hour’s walk from here.’ + +Lucius wrote the address in his pocket-book without another word. + +This last duty performed the Winchers departed, and Lucius felt that he +had taken the one step most likely to insure the safety of his patient. + +‘If not they, who else?’ he said to himself, thinking of the arsenic in +the medicine bottle. + +He went once more to Lucille’s room, but hardly crossed the threshold. +The sick girl was sleeping, and the nurse gave a very fair account of +her. He told Mrs. Milderson her duties—how she was to attend to Mr. +Sivewright as well as to his granddaughter, and told her furthermore +how he had just dismissed the old servants. + +‘I am going in search of some one to take their place,’ he said, having +made up his mind upon that point some time ago. + +He went round the lower part of the house, tried all the keys, saw +that all the doors were secured—those opening on the garden bolted and +barred as firmly as if they had belonged to a besieged citadel. He +looked through all the labels, but found no key to the staircase door +up-stairs; a circumstance that annoyed him, as he had a particular +desire to examine those rooms on the top story. Then, having made all +safe, he went out, locking the hall-door and the iron gate after him, +and proceeded straightway to Mr. Otranto’s office. + +Here he told that functionary exactly what he had done. Mr. Otranto +chewed the end of his pen, and smiled upon his client with the calm +smile of intellectual superiority. + +‘Now, I daresay you think you’ve been and gone and done a very clever +thing,’ he said, when Lucius had unbosomed himself; ‘but I can just +tell you you’re on the wrong tack—a good hundred knots out of your +course. That old party isn’t in the robbery; and as to the pison, +it’s not for me to argue with a professional gent like you; no sorter +should alter his crepidam, as we say in the Classics; but I wouldn’t +mind laying even money that the pison is only your fancy. You’ve been +worriting yourself about this blessed business till you’ve got nervous, +so you goes and sniffs at the physic, and jumps at the conclusion that +it’s poisoned.’ + +‘I have not jumped at any conclusion,’ replied Lucius. ‘My opinion is +supported by an infallible test.’ + +He told Mr. Otranto that he wanted to find a thoroughly honest man and +woman, who would take the place of the Winchers at Cedar House—a man +who would act as night watchman, and a woman who would perform such +trifling domestic duties as were needed. Mr. Otranto, who had minions +of all kinds at his beck and call, did know of just such a couple—an +ex-policeman, who had left the force on account of an accident that had +lamed him, and a tidy body, the ex-policeman’s wife. If Mr. Davoren +wished, they should be at Cedar House in two hours’ time. + +‘Let them meet me at the gate at three o’clock,’ said Lucius. ‘I must +go round among my patients in the mean while.’ + +His day’s work still waited to be done, and it was long past +twelve—dinner-time in the Shadrack district. He had to endure +reproachful looks from some of his patients, but bore all with perfect +good-temper, and did his very best for all. Happily the people believed +in him, and were grateful for all the good he had done among them. + +At three o’clock he was at the iron gate, where he found Mr. Magsby, +the ex-policeman, and his wife—a comfortable-looking young woman with +a bundle and a baby, for which latter encumbrance Lucius had not +bargained, and for which Mrs. Magsby duly apologised. + +‘Which Mr. Otranter may not have told you, sir, as I couldn’t leave the +baby behind, but she’s as good a little dear as ever drew breath, and +never cries, and in a large house will be no ill-convenience.’ + +‘Perhaps not, if she never cries,’ said Lucius, ‘but if she does cry, +you must smother her, rather than let her voice be heard up-stairs.’ +And then he touched the small cheek kindly with his finger, and smiled +upon the little one, after a fashion which at once won Mrs. Magsby’s +heart. + +Mr. Magsby’s lameness was little more than a halt in his walk, +and, although sufficient to disable him as a public servant, was no +hindrance to him as a night-watchman. Altogether Lucius decided that +the Magsbys would do. He inducted them in the gloomy old kitchen +and the room with the presses, where Mr. and Mrs. Wincher’s turn-up +bedstead yawned disconsolate and empty, and where there were such bits +of humble furniture as would suffice for the absolute needs of life. + +Mrs. Magsby pronounced the apartments roomy and commodious, but +somewhat wanting in cheerfulness. ‘But me and Magsby have took care of +all manner of houses,’ she added with resignation, ‘and we can make +ourselves comfortable amost anywheres, purvided we’ve a bit o’ firing +to bile the kettle for our cup o’ tea and a mouthful of victuals.’ + +Lucius showed Mr. Magsby the premises—the door opening upon the hidden +staircase, all the ins and outs of the place—and told him what was +expected of him. + +After this induction of the Magsbys, he went up-stairs and saw Lucille. +She was awake, but her mind still wandered. She looked at him with a +far-off unrecognising gaze that went to his heart, and murmured some +broken sentence, in which the name of ‘father’ was the only word he +could distinctly hear. + +‘Pray to our Father in heaven, dearest,’ said Lucius, tenderly +supporting the weary head, which moved so restlessly upon the pillow. +‘He is the only Father who never wrongs His children; in whose love and +wisdom we can believe, come weal, come woe.’ + +He stayed by the bedside a little while, gave his instructions to Mrs. +Milderson, and then went to the other sick room. + +Here he found Mr. Sivewright, fretful and impatient, but decidedly +improved since the suspension of the medicine; a fact which that +gentleman dwelt upon in a somewhat cynical spirit. + +‘You may remember that at the beginning of our acquaintance I +professed myself a sceptic with regard to medical science,’ he said +with his harsh laugh, ‘and I cannot say that my experience even of +your skill has been calculated to conquer my prejudices. You are a +very good fellow, Lucius, but the only effect of your medicines for +the last month or so has been to make me feel nearer death than ever +I felt before. I seem to be twice the man I was since I left off that +confounded tonic of yours.’ + +‘I am very glad to hear it—not glad that the tonic has failed, but that +you are better. Try to believe in me a little, however, in spite of +this.’ + +‘Have you sent away those thieves?’ + +‘Mr. and Mrs. Wincher? Yes, they are gone.’ + +‘So ends five-and-twenty years’ service! And I thought them faithful!’ +said Mr. Sivewright with a sigh. ‘And by what models of honesty have +you replaced these traitors?’ + +Lucius explained his arrangements, to which Mr. Sivewright gave but +doubtful approval. + +He inquired anxiously about Lucille, and seemed grieved to find that +she was too ill to come to him as usual. + +‘Though for these many years past I have doubted the existence of any +relationship between us, she has made herself dear to me somehow, +in spite of myself. God knows I have tried to shut my heart against +her. When my son abandoned me, I swore never to care for any living +creature—never again to subject myself to the anguish that an ingrate +can inflict.’ + + +END OF VOL. II. + + + LONDON: + ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + pg 8 Changed: You loved this mam! + to: You loved this man! + + pg 152 Changed: conger eel and mackarel were unpopular + to: conger eel and mackerel were unpopular + + pg 263 Changed: having no farther business there + to: having no further business there + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75876 *** |