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diff --git a/75877-0.txt b/75877-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d00d99f --- /dev/null +++ b/75877-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7865 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75877 *** + + + + + + 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. III. + + [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. III. + + + Book the Third + + (_Continued_). + + CHAP. PAGE + + XIII. HOW GEOFFREY ENJOYED THE GARDEN-PARTY 1 + + XIV. LUCILLE HAS STRANGE DREAMS 31 + + XV. THE DAWN OF HOPE 43 + + XVI. AN OLD FRIEND REAPPEARS 51 + + XVII. LUCIUS SEEKS ENLIGHTENMENT 75 + + XVIII. MR. AGAR’S COLONIAL CLIENT 86 + + XIX. LUCILLE’S CONFESSION 96 + + XX. LUCILLE MAKES A NEW FRIEND 132 + + + Book the Last. + + I. AT ROUEN 144 + + II. THE STORY GROWS CLEARER 164 + + III. JULIE DUMARQUES 184 + + IV. COMING TO MEET HIS DOOM 201 + + V. ‘’TIS WITH US PERPETUAL NIGHT’ 220 + + VI. LUCIUS IN QUEST OF JUSTICE 242 + + VII. THE END OF ALL DELUSIONS 256 + + VIII. AUNT GLENLYNE 264 + + IX. GEOFFREY HAS THOUGHTS OF SHANGHAI 291 + + X. LUCIUS SURRENDERS A DOUBTFUL CHANCE 314 + + EPILOGUE 330 + + + + +LUCIUS DAVOREN + +Book the Third. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +HOW GEOFFREY ENJOYED THE GARDEN-PARTY. + + +While Lucius Davoren was thus occupied at the east end of London, +Geoffrey Hossack was making the best of an existence which he had made +up his mind to consider utterly joyless, so long as adverse fate denied +him the one desire of his heart. For him in vain warm August skies were +deeply blue, and the bosky dells and glades of the New Forest still +untouched by autumn’s splendid decay. For him vainly ran the bright +river between banks perfumed with wild flowers. He beheld these things +from the lofty standpoint of discontent, and in his heart called Nature +a poor creature. + +‘I would rather be mewed up in Whitecross-street prison, or in the +Venetian Piombi, with Janet for my wife, than enjoy all that earth can +give of natural beauty or artificial splendour without her,’ he said +to himself, when his cousins had bored him into a misanthropical mood +by their insistence upon the charms of rural life, as exemplified at +Hillersdon Grange. + +‘I’m afraid you have no soul for Nature,’ said Belle, when she had +kept Geoffrey on his feet for an hour in the cramped old-fashioned +hot-houses, where she went in desperately for ferns and orchids, and +imitated Lady Baker on a small scale. + +‘I’m afraid not—for Nature in flower-pots,’ answered Geoffrey, with an +unsympathetic yawn. ‘I daresay these Calopogons, and Gymnadenia, and +what’s-its-names are very grand, but I’ve seen finer growing wild in +the valleys on the southern side of the Rocky Mountains. You English +people only get nature in miniature—a poor etiolated creature. You have +no notion of the goddess Gea in her Titanic vigour, as she appears on +“the other side.” + +‘Meaning America?’ said Belle contemptuously, as if that western +continent were something too vulgar for her serious consideration. + +The sun shone upon Lady Baker’s fête as gaily as if fine weather +had been a matter within her ladyship’s power of provision, like the +luncheon from Gunter’s, or the costumes for the tableaux vivants. The +lady herself was radiant as the sunlight. Everybody had come—everybody +worth receiving, at any rate. She gave Geoffrey a smile of particular +cordiality as she shook hands with him, and murmured the conventional +‘How good of you to come early!’ + +Belle and Jessie were speedily told off for croquet: a sport for +which Geoffrey professed an unmitigated dislike, in a most churlish +spirit, his cousins thought. Thus released from attendance on these +fair ones, he roamed the vast gardens at large, finding solitudes in +that spacious domain, even on such a day as this. In these secluded +walks—where he only occasionally encountered a stray couple engaged in +that sentimental converse which he slangily denominated ‘spooning’—Mr. +Hossack indulged his own thoughts, which also were of a spooney +character. Here, he thought, Janet Davoren had been happy in the brief +summer-tide of her life; here she had felt the first joys and pains +of an innocent girlish love; and here, alas, had given that peerless +blossom of the soul, a girl’s first love, to a scoundrel. The thought +of this filled him with a savage jealousy. + +‘I wish I had fired that shot out yonder instead of Lucius,’ he said +to himself. ‘Egad, I’d have made sure my ball went through him. There +should have been no shilly-shally about my fire.’ + +Luncheon found Mr. Hossack more attentive to the various Rhine wines +than to _pâté de foie gras_ or chicken-salad, or even the wants of +the damsel who sat next him. He was out of humour with all the world. +His artfully-worded advertisement had appeared several times, and had +produced no response. He began to think the Fates were opposed to his +happiness. + +‘I suppose if a man is pretty well provided for in the way of +three-per-cents he must hope for nothing else from Fortune,’ he +thought, as he punished her ladyship’s cabinet hocks. + +Luncheon over, Mr. Hossack conducted his damsel to the sunny +greensward, where enthusiastic archers—seven-and-twenty ladies to +five gentlemen—were stringing their Cupid bows for a grand match. +Here he shunted her into the care of one of the five male archers, +all of whom looked ineffably bored, and anon departed, whither he +cared not—anywhere, anywhere out of this world of luncheons, croquet, +flirtation, and frivolity. + +Wandering at random, he came by and by to an obscure outskirt of +the Mardenholme grounds, given over to the cultivation of huge +rhododendrons, where there was a little wicket-gate opening into a +green lane. He made his escape from Mardenholme altogether by this +gate, glad to get away from the polite world, as represented by the +croquet-players and toxopholites, and above all by those exacting first +cousins of his, Belle and Jessie. + +The green lane was rustic and secluded, well sheltered from the +westward sloping sun by spreading boughs of chestnut and sycamore, with +here and there the grander bulk of an oak, making an oasis of deep +shadow in the afternoon sunlight. Altogether a pleasant lane, even for +the indulgence of saddest thoughts. + +It was on the side of a hill. Right and left of him stretched +undulating meadow-land, small enclosures between those straggling +unkempt hedges which make the glory of English landscape, and below, +almost at his feet as it were, lay a little village nestling in a +cup-shaped valley, so snugly sheltered by those gently-sloping meads, +so fenced from north and east by those tall screens of foliage, that +one might fancy the bleak winds of winter must roll high above those +modest roofs, ruffling no leaf in those simple gardens; that hails and +snows and frosts must waste their fury on the encircling hills, and +leave this chosen nook unassailed; that even the tax-gatherer must +forget its existence. + +There were about half a dozen cottages, the perfection of +rusticity—gardens running over with roses, beehives, honeysuckle; a +village inn, so innocent and domestic of aspect that one would suppose +nothing could be farther from the thoughts of its patrons than strong +drink of any kind; a little high-shouldered old church, with a squat +square tower and crumbly whitewashed wall; a green burial-ground, all +ups and downs like the waves of the sea, overshadowed by two vast yews, +whose never-withering foliage canopied those rustic graves from January +to December. + +There was a little patch of greensward in the midst of the scattered +houses, and some feet below the churchyard, no two edifices in this +village being on the same level. Here a meditative donkey cropped the +soft herbage at leisure, and here on the bosom of a crystalline pool +swam half a dozen geese, untroubled by forebodings of Michaelmas. + +It was altogether a deliciously rustic picture, and Geoffrey, for the +first time since his return to Hampshire, felt reconciled to Nature. + +‘This is better than all the tigered orchids in Lady Baker’s +collection,’ he mused, as he perched himself on a stile and took out +his cigar-case for a quiet smoke. ‘Why do great ladies cultivate +lady’s-slippers and pitcher-plants when for less money they might +surround themselves with model villages and happy peasantry? Has the +rôle of Lady Bountiful gone quite out of fashion, I wonder?’ + +He lighted his cigar and meditated upon life in general, dreamily +contemplating the cottages and wondering about their inmates, as +he had often wondered about the inhabitants of the dull old houses +in the dull old country towns. These cottages seemed above the +ordinary level, cleaner, brighter, more prosperous-looking. He could +not fancy wife-beating or any other iniquity going on within those +homely plastered walls. Those twinkling diamond-paned lattices seemed +transparent as a good man’s conscience, and in most of these dwellings +the outer door stood wide open, as if the inmates invited inspection. +He could see an eight-day clock, a dresser decked with many-coloured +crockeryware, a little round table spread for tea, a cradle, a snug +arm-chair, a wicker birdcage, a row of geranium pots—all the furniture +of home. He felt that he had alighted upon a small Arcadia. + +While he sat thus musing, slowly smoking, very loth to go back to +the civilised world, pert country cousins, and tableaux vivants, and +tepid ices, and classical music, and general inanity, the door of that +solitary cottage whose interior did not invite inspection was suddenly +opened, and a child came skipping out—a child who wore a broad-brimmed +Leghorn hat, with long yellow tresses streaming beneath it, and a +pretty holland pinafore, and displayed symmetrical legs clad in blue +stockings—a child after the order of Mr. Millais. + +Geoffrey made as if he would have fallen off the stile; the half-smoked +cigar fell from his hand. For a few moments he sat transfixed and +statue-like, and could only stare. Then, with a sudden rush, he darted +across the little strip of green, and clasped this butterfly child in +his arms. + +‘Why, it’s my little Flossie!’ he cried rapturously, smothering the +small face with kisses, which the little maiden received without a +murmur. Had not Mr. Hossack endeared himself to her by all the arts +of bribery and corruption, in the shape of costly French bonbons, +_éditions de luxe_ of popular fairy tales and German hobgoblin stories, +and mechanical white mice that ran across the floor, and mechanical +mail-coaches that, on being wound up, rushed off at breakneck speed +to nowhere in particular, and came to grief after a few headlong +journeys? ‘It’s my precious little Flossie! My darling, where’s mamma?’ + +‘Mamma, mamma!’ screamed the child, looking back towards the cottage. +‘Come out and see who’s come.’ And then, turning to Geoffrey again, she +said with childhood’s candid selfishness, ‘Have you brought me some +more French bonbons in a box with a picture on the lid, like the last?’ + +‘My sweet one, I ought to be provided with a box of that very +description,’ replied Geoffrey, grasping the little maiden’s hand and +dragging her to the cottage; ‘but how could I anticipate such bliss as +to find you here in this O-for-ever-to-be-sanctified-village?’ cried +the lover, coining a Germanic compound in his rapture. ‘Is mamma in +there? O, take me to her, darling, take me!’ + +Tableaux vivants, pert cousins, Lady Baker, the claims of civilised +society, all melted into thin air amidst the delight of this discovery. +He was as unsophisticated as if he had been a Blackfoot, brought up in +the pathless hunting-grounds of the West. + +‘Take me to her, thou dearest child,’ he exclaimed; and the little +one led him into the cottage garden, where the bees were humming in +the sunset, the air sweet with roses and carnations, happy swallows +twittering in the eves. + +Here, on the threshold of the cottage door, framed like a picture by +the stout black timbers, stood that one woman whom his soul worshipped, +tall, slender, lovely, like a goddess who for a little while deigned to +walk this lower earth. + +She looked at Geoffrey with a tender gladness, a wild surprise, +opposite feelings curiously blended in the expression of that eloquent +face. + +‘O, Janet,’ said he, ‘how could you be so cruel as to run away from me?’ + +‘How could you be so unkind as to follow me?’ she asked reproachfully. + +‘I have not followed you. ’Twas chance that led me here this afternoon. +There is a providence kind to true lovers, after all. I did not follow +you, Janet, but I was heartbroken by the loss of you. I went down to +Stillmington to carry you what I dared to think good news.’ + +‘Good news!’ she repeated wonderingly. + +‘Yes, the tidings of your freedom.’ + +Janet’s pale face grew a shade paler. + +‘Come in for a little while,’ she said; ‘we cannot stand here talking +of such things. Flossie, run and play on the green, darling; I’ll come +to you presently. Now, Mr. Hossack.’ + +She led the way into the simple cottage room, spotlessly clean, and +with that dainty brightness of furniture and whiteness of drapery +which industrious hands can give to the humblest surroundings. It was +a small square room, with two of its angles cut off by old-fashioned +corner cupboards whose shining glass doors displayed the treasures of +glass and china within. A dimity-covered sofa, a couple of basket-work +arm-chairs, an ancient bureau of darkest mahogany, and a solid Pembroke +table formed the chief furniture of the room. One of Flossie’s +fairy-tale books—Geoffrey’s gift—lay open upon the table, the mother’s +workbox beside it. A bowl of cut flowers adorned the broad sill of the +long low casement, and the afternoon sunlight was filtered through the +whitest of dimity curtains. To Geoffrey this old room, with its low +ceiling sustained by heavy black beams, was perfectly delightful. + +‘Do you mean to tell me that my husband is dead?’ asked Janet, when she +had brought her visitor in and shut the door, looking him full in the +face with grave earnest eyes. + +Geoffrey quailed beneath that searching gaze. In this crisis, which +involved the dearest wish of his heart, he had become the veriest child. + +‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘he is dead. It is a most extraordinary story, and +as I have no evidence to prove my statement, you may be inclined to +doubt me. Yet I pledge my honour—’ + +‘I shall not doubt your honour,’ said Janet, with a superb smile, ‘but +I may doubt your discretion. How do you know that my husband is dead?’ + +‘I met him in America, and heard of his death there—heard it on the +highest possible authority.’ + +‘You met him in America. Why did you not tell me that at Stillmington?’ + +‘Because I had at that time no means of identifying Matchi, the man +I met in the West, with Mr. Vandeleur. I have seen your husband’s +portrait within the last fortnight, and I can take my oath that Mr. +Vandeleur and the man I knew in America are one and the same.’ + +‘Where could you see my husband’s portrait?’ asked Janet incredulously. + +‘Lady Baker showed me a photograph of a group in which you and Mr. +Vandeleur both appear.’ + +‘Have you no other reason to suppose that this American traveller, whom +you call Matchi, and my husband are the same, except the evidence of a +photograph?’ asked Janet, somewhat contemptuously. ‘What more common +than an accidental resemblance between two men who are utter strangers +to each other?’ + +‘Not such a likeness as that which I am speaking of; nor is a genius +for music the commonest thing in the world. The violin-playing of the +man in the western pine-forest exactly resembled that which Lady Baker +described to me.’ + +‘What,’ cried Janet, with a wounded air, ‘you have been taking Lady +Baker into your confidence?’ + +‘Forgive me, Janet. I am bent upon bringing this matter to a happy +issue. Lady Baker is your true friend. She bitterly reproaches herself +for her part in bringing about your unhappy marriage; she went to +Melksham in search of you, when she accidentally learned that Mr. +Vandeleur had been seen there, and was deeply grieved at arriving too +late to find you.’ + +‘She is very good,’ answered Janet, with a sigh. ‘And now tell me about +this man you met in America. Tell me everything, without reserve.’ + +Without reserve; that would be rather difficult. Not for worlds—no, +not even to secure his own happiness—could Geoffrey Hossack betray his +friend. + +He told his story as best he could; but in his fear of saying too much, +stumbled a little over the details. Altogether the story had a garbled +air, and before he came to the end he saw plainly enough that Janet was +unconvinced. + +‘I can trust your truth,’ she said, looking at that frank honest face +with her clear eyes, ‘but I cannot trust your judgment. You had but +just recovered from a fever, in which your senses had been astray, when +you heard of his death. He was shot, you say, in the forest. Who shot +him?’ + +‘I—I cannot tell you,’ faltered Geoffrey, in a cold perspiration. + +This Janet understood to mean ‘I do not know.’ + +‘See how vague your information is,’ she exclaimed, with an incredulous +laugh. ‘You were told that he was shot, but you were not told who shot +him; you were not told the motive of the murder. Even in the backwoods +I suppose people do not shoot each other quite without motive.’ + +Geoffrey stood before her dumbfoundered. + +‘Did you kill him yourself?’ she asked, with a sudden flash of +suspicion. + +‘No, I wish I had; there should have been no mistake about it then.’ + +‘Say no more, Mr. Hossack; this is a subject upon which you and I can +hardly agree. When you can bring me direct and legal evidence of Mr. +Vandeleur’s death, I will believe it.’ + +‘And if I ever can do that—and from the manner of his death it is +almost impossible—you will give me some reward for my fidelity—eh, +Janet?’ + +‘I will make no bargains,’ she answered gravely. ‘I beg you to hold +yourself entirely free, and for the sake of your own happiness I trust +you may speedily get rid of this boyish infatuation.’ + +‘Boyish!’ echoed Geoffrey, with the proud consciousness of his +eight-and-twenty years. ‘Why I am your senior by two years. Lucius told +me so.’ + +‘Sorrow does the work of time in some lives,’ said Janet, with her sad +smile; ‘I feel myself very old at six-and-twenty. Come, Mr. Hossack, +you have been always very good to me, and for once in a way I will +treat you as a friend. Little Flossie is very fond of you, and I know +she is dying for a long talk about her new pets, the tame rabbits and +the tortoiseshell kitten, whose acquaintance she has made down here. +Stop and drink tea with us, and tell me how you happened to find me out +in this quiet corner of the earth.’ + +‘You forget that we are not a mile from one of the gates of +Mardenholme,’ said Geoffrey, enchanted at the prospect of drinking tea +with his goddess. + +‘True; but I didn’t think you knew Lady Baker.’ + +‘Didn’t you?’ said this Jesuit, in an artless tone. ‘Why, you see my +people live down hereabouts—Hillersdon Grange—and my cousins and Lady +Baker are uncommonly thick.’ + +Mrs. Bertram called to Flossie through the open window. The child +was walking up and down the little path by the beehives, nursing her +tortoiseshell kitten. She came bounding in joyfully at this summons, +and exhibited this feline treasure to Mr. Hossack, that good-natured +individual allowing the small member of the tiger tribe to make a +promenade upon his outstretched arm, and pur triumphantly from a lofty +perch on his coat-collar. + +Mrs. Bertram rang a little tinkling handbell, and a decent old +woman—who must surely have been what is called ‘upon the listen,’ +or she could hardly have heard that feeble summons—appeared with a +tea-tray, and spread the neat little table with the best china teacups, +a brown home-baked loaf, the yellowest of butter-pats, the richest of +cream in a little glass jug, a great wedge of golden honeycomb, a few +ripe apricots nestling in a bed of mulberry leaves,—a repast at once +Arcadian and picturesque. + +‘But perhaps you may not care for such a womanish beverage as orange +pekoe,’ said Janet doubtfully, as Mr. Hossack surveyed the banquet from +his altitude of something over six feet, the kitten still promenading +his shoulder. + +‘Not care for tea! Why, on the shores of the Saskatchewan the teapot +was our only comfort,’ exclaimed Geoffrey. ‘We had a cask or two of rum +with us, and had no end of trouble in hiding it from the Indians; but +they got the most of the fire-water out of us sooner or later, by hook +or by crook. We rarely took any of it ourselves, except as a medicine. +Travellers are a temperate race, I can assure you, Mrs. Bertram.’ + +They sat down to tea, the kitten now perambulating the backs of +their chairs, now sending forth appealing miaws for milk or other +refreshment. Geoffrey, who had been too much out of humour with the +world in general to do justice to Lady Baker’s luncheon, was ravenous, +and devoured bread-and-honey like the queen in the nursery rhyme, of +which Flossie did not fail to remind him. It was the first meal he +had ever eaten with the woman he loved. That fragrant tea was more +intoxicating than Lady Baker’s choicest Johannisberger or Steinberger. + +He forgot that he was perhaps no nearer a happy issue to his suit than +he had been that day in the botanical gardens at Stillmington, when he +made his first desperate appeal to his inexorable goddess; he forgot +everything except the present moment—this innocent rustic interior, the +fair-haired child, whose gay laugh rang out every now and then, the +perambulatory kitten, the perfect face of the woman he loved, smiling +at him with that proud slow smile he knew so well. + +‘So you went back to Stillmington,’ Janet said presently, when Geoffrey +had appeased the pangs of hunger with the contents of the honeycomb and +the crustiest side of the home-baked loaf, and had consumed three cups +of that exquisite tea. + +‘Went back!’ repeated Geoffrey; ‘of course I went back. I should have +gone back exactly the same if Stillmington had been in the centre of +Africa, or on the top of Elburz. How cruel of you to leave no address! +They told me you had gone to the seaside.’ + +‘Well, I did not leave a very definite account of myself, certainly. +You see I was so tired of Stillmington and of my pupils; and thanks to +concert-singing and pupils, I had contrived to save a little money. So, +as my health was not quite so good as it might be—I had been working +rather hard for the last few years, you see—I thought I would give +myself a month or so of thorough rest. I had a fancy—amounting almost +to an irresistible longing—to see my old home once more—the graves +of those dear ones my ingratitude had wronged. I knew that to come +back to the scenes of my girlhood would be the keenest suffering, +yet I longed to come. I did not want to be very near Wykhamston, as +that would be to run the risk of recognition; but I wished to be +somewhere within the reach of the dear, dear old place. I thought of +this village and of Sally, my kind old nurse, who came to live here +in this cottage, which she had bought with her savings, when she left +the Rectory. I was only fourteen when she left us; and one of our +greatest treats—Lucius’s and mine and the dear sister we lost—was to +come here of a summer afternoon and drink tea with dear old Sally. So +I said to myself, “If God has spared my old nurse, I will go and ask +her to give me a lodging;” and Flossie and I came straight here—to this +out-of-the-way corner—to take our holiday. Flossie has been enraptured +with the rustic life, the pigs and fowls, and the old gray donkey on +the green, with whom she has formed quite a friendship. She feeds him +with bread-and-milk every morning, foolish child!’ + +She said this with the mother’s tender look at the fair-haired damsel, +who disposed of the bread-and-honey as fast as if she had laid a wager +with Geoffrey as to which of them should devour most. + +‘And have you been happy here?’ asked Geoffrey. + +‘Yes—after the first bitter pain of seeing my lost home, and +remembering how I lost it. I have been happier than I had hoped ever to +be again. After all, there is some magic in one’s native air.’ + +‘Yes,’ exclaimed Geoffrey, with an air of conviction, ‘of course there +is. I have a place in Hampshire myself, not a stone’s-throw, in a +rural point of view—that is to say, five-and-twenty miles or so—from +here. No end of arable and meadow-land, and copse and rabbit-warren, +and some well-wooded ground about the house, which my father took the +liberty to call a park; and a nice old house enough, of the Queen-Anne +period; stiffish and squarish and reddish, but by no means a bad kind +of barrack. I’ll give the sugar-broker notice—no, I can’t do that—I’ll +offer to buy back his lease to-morrow.’ + +‘The sugar-broker!’ repeated Janet, perplexed. + +‘Yes, a fellow I was foolish enough to let my place to when I came of +age—seven, fourteen, or twenty-one years. He’s keeping it up uncommonly +well, I’m told; has put up a good deal of glass in the kitchen-garden, +and so on, and improved the farm-buildings. But he shall go. He’s on +for his fourteen years; so I can’t give him notice to quit, but I can +offer him a tempting price for the lease. I daresay he’s tired of the +place by this time. People always do get tired of their places.’ + +‘But what can you want with a great place like that?’ asked Janet. + +‘I don’t know. Didn’t you say you were fond of this part of the +country?’ asked Geoffrey, in some confusion. Those cups of orange pekoe +had proved far more intoxicating than the vintages of Rhineland. + +‘O, Mr. Hossack, pray do not let _my_ fancies influence your life!’ +said Janet earnestly. ‘Remember we may never be more to each other than +we are now,—very good friends, who may meet once in a way, at some +chance turn in life’s road.’ + +Geoffrey pleaded his hardest, but felt that he was pleading in vain. +All arguments were futile. Honour counselled Janet to be firm, and she +was steadfast as a rock. + +‘I will not tell you that you are indifferent to me,’ she said, in her +low sweet voice, unembarrassed by the presence of the child, who was +absorbed in the antics of her kitten, and troubled herself in no manner +about what Mr. Hossack might be saying to her mother, and presently, +having eaten to repletion, roamed out into the garden among the +clove-carnations and late roses and tall gaudy hollyhocks. ‘That would +be too ungrateful, after all the trouble you have taken for my sake. +I can only say that, until I have proof positive of my first husband’s +death, I shall continue to consider myself bound to him.’ + +‘But what stronger proof can you hope for than my assurance of the +fact? Remember that Mr. Vandeleur perished in a solitude where there +are no registrars to take note of a man’s death, no coroner to hold an +inquest on his body, no undertakers to give him decent burial; where a +rough-and-ready grave under the pine-trees would be the sole witness of +his end.’ + +‘We will trust in Providence, Mr. Hossack,’ answered Janet, with that +steadfast look he knew so well, and which made her seem a creature +so far above him—a being exempt from common temptations and human +passions. ‘If my husband died as you tell me he died, I do not doubt +that in due time there will arise some confirmation of your story.’ + +Geoffrey sighed, and shrugged his shoulders. + +‘If the pine-trees or the songless birds of the wilderness could talk, +you might receive such confirmation,’ he said; ‘but from any other +source it is impossible.’ + +‘Why, my brother was with you all the time, was he not?’ inquired +Janet, with a wondering look. ‘He at least must be able to vouch for +the truth of your story.’ + +Geoffrey grew deadly pale, and for a few moments was speechless. + +‘Unhappily,’ he faltered, after that awkward pause, ‘Lucius had a bad +attack—brain fever, or apoplexy he called it—just at the time of this +man’s death. His evidence would therefore hardly satisfy you.’ + +‘In point of fact, Mr. Hossack, it seems that neither you nor my +brother were in a condition to know anything about the event. You could +have only hearsay evidence. Who was your informant?’ + +This question was a home-thrust. To name Lucius would have been almost +to betray him; and again, he had just given her to understand that +Lucius was unconscious at the time of the event. Again there came a +pause, painfully awkward for Geoffrey. He felt that Mrs. Bertram was +watching him with gravely questioning eyes. How was he to reply? + +‘There was a little German with us,’ he said at last, with a +desperate plunge, knowing not how near to his friend’s betrayal this +admission might lead him; ‘a sea-captain, a native of Hamburg, called +Schanck—Absalom Schanck—a very good fellow, who was with us—our +fellow-traveller. I—I think you must have heard me speak of him. He saw +the shot fired.’ + +‘And saw my husband die?’ + +‘Yes,’ answered Geoffrey, but not with perfect conviction; ‘I believe +so.’ + +‘And pray, where is Mr. Schanck? His evidence may be worth very little, +but it would be as well to hear it.’ + +‘Upon my word,’ said Geoffrey, crestfallen, ‘I’m afraid that at this +present moment Schanck is washing gold in San Francisco, unless he has +been made mincemeat of by larger diggers.’ + +‘We must wait for some other witness then,’ said Janet, in a tone of +calm certainty, which made reply seem impossible. + +Geoffrey could but submit. He must needs obey this lovely image of +destiny. + +‘So be it,’ he said, with a despairing sigh; ‘but you will let me come +to see you sometimes—won’t you, Janet?’ very tenderly, and evidently +expecting a reproof; instead of which his devotion was rewarded with a +smile. ‘And you’ll receive me just as you have done this afternoon, and +give me a cup of that delicious Pekoe?’ + +‘A cup!’ exclaimed Janet; ‘I think you had five.’ + +‘I may come to tea again, mayn’t I, once in three weeks or so, like a +boy who has a Saturday afternoon at home? Flossie likes me, you see,’ +pleaded he jesuitically. + +‘Well, you may come once a month, or so, if you happen to be in the +neighbourhood.’ + +‘Happen to be in the neighbourhood! I would cross the Balkan range in +January to obtain such a privilege.’ + +‘But remember you come only as my friend. If you talk to me as you have +talked this afternoon, I shall ring for Sally, and tell her to show you +to the door. It would be only a formula—as the street-door opens out of +this room—but I should do it nevertheless.’ + +‘There shall not be one word that can offend you.’ + +‘On that condition you may come; but, believe me, your own happiness +would be better secured by your utter forgetfulness of a woman who may +never be free to reward your fidelity. There are so many who would be +proud of such a lover. Amongst them you might surely find one who would +realise your ideal as well as, if not better than, I.’ + +‘Never!’ protested Geoffrey, with warmth. ‘I never knew what a great +love was till I knew you. I will never open my heart to a lesser love.’ + +Janet gave a little sigh, half regret, half satisfaction. After all, +a woman does not easily relinquish such devotion. She has a duty to +fulfil, and her little lecture, her few words of wise counsel, to +pronounce; and having done that duty, she is hardly sorry if her +foolish adorer refuses to hear. + +So they parted—not briefly, for little Flossie hung about Geoffrey, and +impeded his departure; nay, at his and Flossie’s joint request, Janet +walked half the length of the lane with Geoffrey and the child. They +only parted within sight of the distant towers of Mardenholme. + +‘How pleased Lady Baker would be if she knew you were so near!’ said +Geoffrey. + +‘Pray, don’t tell her. She was very good to me, and I was fond of +her; but she would want me to go to that great house of hers, full of +strange faces, and sing to her company, and be made a show of. I have +contrived to keep very clear of her pathway so far, near as I am. Pray, +do not betray me.’ + +‘To hear is to obey. But you really do mean to stay here?’ inquired +Geoffrey anxiously. ‘When I come a month hence to claim that cup of +Pekoe, I sha’n’t find you fled, eh?’ + +‘I promise that if anything should induce me to leave Foxley—that’s +the name of our little village—I will write you a line to say where I +am going. But my present intention is to stay here till November—just +long enough for a thorough rest—and then go back to my pupils at +Stillmington.’ + +Geoffrey sighed. The thought of those sol-fa classes, and the hard +labour they involved, always smote him to the quick; and he was rioting +in the Three per cents, as he told himself. + +He took his time in returning to Mardenholme; and the tableaux +vivants had begun when he pushed his way in among the crowd of young +men standing at the back of the picture-gallery, Lady Baker having +naturally invited a good many more guests than could find even standing +room. Here he stood patiently enough, and saw as much of the living +pictures after Frith, Faed, and Millais as he could conveniently +behold above the heads of the crowd in front of him. He was not deeply +interested in the performance, his mind indeed being rather occupied +with tender recollections of the humble tea-party at which he had +lately assisted than by the charms of the graceful young lady who +danced with Claude Duval, or of the pretty peasant lassie, with her +shepherd’s plaid and neatly-snooded hair, or the damsel in white satin, +who took a sad farewell of her Black Brunswicker under the glare of the +lime-light. He applauded mechanically when other people applauded, and +felt that he had done all that society could expect of him. His cousins +came out presently among the crowd, and straightway pounced upon him, +and reproached him with acrimony. + +‘Why, Geoffrey, where have you been hiding yourself?’ asked Belle. + +‘I’ve been strolling about the gardens a little,’ replied that arch +hypocrite. ‘It’s rather warm in here.’ + +‘Rather warm!’ exclaimed Jessie, who was evidently out of temper. ‘It’s +insufferably hot, and I’m tired to death. These tableaux are a mistake +after a garden-party. Lady Baker always tries to do too much. One feels +so dowdy, too, in morning-dress when the lamps are lighted. But, pray, +how have you managed to keep out of everybody’s way all the afternoon, +Geoffrey? I haven’t set eyes on you since luncheon.’ + +‘I hope you haven’t been looking for me all the time,’ said Geoffrey, +with unruffled coolness. ‘I’ve been meandering about the grounds, +enjoying nature.’ + +‘Which I thought was not worth looking at in England,’ remarked Belle. +‘But perhaps, now we have found you,’ with angry emphasis, ‘you’ll +be kind enough to get us some refreshment. I daresay you have had +something, but I know I am ready to sink.’ + +‘Yes, I’ve done pretty well, thanks. I had some bread-and-honey.’ + +‘Bread-and-honey!’ cried Jessie. + +‘O, that’s to say, something in that way. Your sweets and kickshaws are +all the same to me—I never know what to call them. Come along, Belle, +we’ll fight our way to the refreshment-room. You sha’n’t sink if I can +help it.’ + +He piloted the two damsels through the crowd to a large room, which +had been arranged after the model of a railway refreshment-buffet, +save that it was liberally furnished with things good to eat. Here +Lady Baker’s men and maids dispensed strawberry ices, tea, coffee, +Italian confectionery, German wines and German salads, to the famishing +crowd; and here Geoffrey, by cramming them with ices, and creamy +vanille-flavoured pastry, contrived to restore his cousins’ equanimity. +There was some talk of dancing, and a few enthusiastic couples were +already revolving in the drawing-room; but Geoffrey pleaded that no +man could waltz in gray trousers, and thus escaped the infliction; +and having the good fortune to find his uncle, tired of vestry and +quarter-session talk and inclined to go home, this heartless young man +had the satisfaction of packing Belle and Jessie into the landau before +Lady Baker’s _fête_ was half over, as Jessie said discontentedly. + +They avenged themselves by abusing the party all the way home. + +‘Those huge garden-parties are detestable!’ exclaimed Belle. ‘I know +Lady Baker only gives them in order to be civil to a herd of people she +doesn’t care a straw about. She gives nice little parties for her real +friends. I wonder people can be so slavish as to go to her in droves.’ + +‘I thought you said Lady Baker’s parties were delightful,’ said +Geoffrey. ‘I know you wrote to me rapturously about her.’ + +‘I’m only just beginning to see through her,’ replied Belle, who +couldn’t get over the day’s annoyances. This tiresome Geoffrey had not +been the least good to them. He might just as well have been in Norway. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +LUCILLE HAS STRANGE DREAMS. + + +For a few nights, while Lucille’s fever was at the worst, Lucius +Davoren took up his abode in Cedar House, and established himself in +that little room adjoining Mr. Sivewright’s bedchamber which had been +lately occupied by Lucille. Here he felt himself a sure guardian of his +patient’s safety. No one could harm the old man while he, Lucius, was +on the spot to watch by night, and while Mrs. Milderson, the nurse, in +whom he had perfect confidence, was on guard by day. His own days must +needs be fully occupied out of doors, whatever private cares might gnaw +at his heartstrings; but after introducing the ex-policeman and his +wife, who came to him with a kind of warranty from Mr. Otranto, and +who seemed honest people, he felt tolerably satisfied as to the safety +of property in the old house, as well as about that more valuable +possession—life. He had locked the door of the room which contained +the chief part of Mr. Sivewright’s collection, and carried the key +about with him in his pocket; but there was still a great deal of very +valuable property scattered about the house, as he knew. + +One thing troubled him, and that was the existence of the secret +staircase, communicating in some manner—which he had been up to this +point unable to discover—with Mr. Sivewright’s bedroom. He had sounded +Homer Sivewright cautiously upon this subject, and the old man’s +answers had led him to believe that he, so long a tenant of the house, +knew absolutely nothing of the hidden staircase; or it might be only +an exaggerated caution and a strange passion for secrecy which sealed +Homer Sivewright’s lips. + +Once, when his patient was asleep, Lucius contrived to examine the +panelling in front of the masked staircase, but he could discover no +means of communication. If there were, as he fully believed, a sliding +panel, the trick of it altogether baffled him. This failure worried +him exceedingly. He had a morbid horror of that possible entrance to +his patient’s room, which it was beyond his power to defend by bolt, +lock, or bar, since he knew not the manner of its working. For worlds +he would not have alarmed Mr. Sivewright, who was still weak as an +infant, although wonderfully improved during the last few days. He was +therefore compelled to be silent, but he felt that here was the one +hitch in his scheme of defence from the hidden enemy. + +‘After all, there is little need to torment myself about the mystery,’ +he thought sometimes. ‘It is clear enough that these Winchers were +guilty alike of the robbery and the attempt to murder. The greater +crime was but a means of saving themselves from the consequences of +the lesser; or they may possibly have supposed that their old master +had left them well provided for in his will, and that the way to +independence lay across his grave. It is hard to think that human +nature can be so vile, but in this case there is scarcely room for +doubt.’ + +He thought of that man whom he had seen in the brief glare of the +frequent lightning—the man who had raised himself from his crouching +attitude to look up at the lighted window on the topmost story, and had +then scaled the wall. + +‘The receiver of stolen goods, the medium by which they disposed of +their booty, no doubt,’ he said to himself; ‘their crime would have +been incomplete without such aid.’ + +Although all his endeavours to find the key belonging to the door of +the staircase leading to the upper story had failed, Lucius had not +allowed himself to be baffled in his determination to explore those +unoccupied rooms. Now that Lucille’s prostration and the Winchers’ +dismissal had made him in a manner master of the house, he sent for a +blacksmith and had the lock picked, and then went up-stairs to explore, +accompanied by the man, whom he ordered to open the doors of the rooms +as he had opened the door of the staircase. There was little to reward +his perseverance in those desolate attic chambers. Most of them were +empty; but in one—that room whose door he had seen stealthily opened +and stealthily closed on his previous visit to those upper regions—he +found some traces of occupation. Two or three articles of battered +old furniture—an old stump bedstead of clumsy make, provided with +bedding and blankets, which lay huddled upon it as if just as its last +occupant had left it—the ashes of a fire in the narrow grate—a table, +with an old ink-bottle, a couple of pens, and a sheet of ink-stained +blotting-paper—an empty bottle smelling of brandy on the mantelpiece, a +bottle which, from its powerful odour, could hardly have been emptied +very long ago—a tallow-candle, sorely gnawed by rats or mice, in an old +metal candlestick on the window-seat—a scrap of carpet spread before +the hearth, a dilapidated arm-chair drawn up close to it: a room which, +to Lucius Davoren’s eye, looked as if it had been the lair of some +unclean creature—one of those lost wretches in whom the fashion of +humanity has sunk to its lowest and vilest phase. + +He looked round the room with a shudder. + +‘There has been some one living here lately,’ he said, thinking aloud. + +‘Ay, sir,’ answered the blacksmith, ‘it looks like it; some one who +wasn’t over particklar about his quarters, I should think, by the +look of the place. But he seems to have had summat to comfort him,’ +added the man, with mild jocosity, pointing to the empty bottle on the +chimneypiece. + +Some one had occupied that room; but who was that occupant? And had +Lucille known this fact when she so persistently denied the evidence of +her lover’s senses—when she had shown herself so palpably averse to his +making any inspection of those rooms? + +Who could have been hidden there with her cognisance, with her +approval? About whom could she have been thus anxious? For a moment the +question confounded him. He could only wonder, in blank dull amazement. + +Then, in the next moment, the lover’s firm faith arose in rebuke of +that brief suspicion. + +‘What, am I going to doubt her again,’ he said to himself, ‘while she +lies ill and helpless, with utmost need of my affection? Of course she +was utterly ignorant of the fact that yonder room was occupied, and +therefore ridiculed my statement about the open door. Was it strange if +her manner seemed flurried or nervous, when she had just been startled +by the sight of her father’s portrait? I am a wretch to doubt her, even +for a moment.’ + +He went up to the loft, and thoroughly examined that dusty receptacle, +but found no living creature there except the spiders, whose webs +festooned the massive timbers that sustained the ponderous tiled roof. +This upper portion of the house was vacant enough now; of that there +could be no doubt. There was as little doubt that the room yonder +had been lately occupied. There could but be one solution of the +mystery, Lucius decided, after some anxious thought. Jacob Wincher had +accommodated his accomplice with a lodging in that room while the two +were planning and carrying out their system of plunder. + +This examination duly made, and the doors fastened up again in a +permanent manner, by the help of the blacksmith, Lucius felt easier in +his mind. There was still that uncomfortable feeling about the secret +staircase; but with the upper part of the house under lock-and-key, +and the lower part carefully guarded, no great harm could come from the +mere existence of that hidden communication. In any case, Lucius had +done his utmost to make all things secure. His most absorbing anxiety +now was about Lucille’s illness. + +His treatment had been to a considerable extent successful; the +delirium had passed away. The sweet eyes recognised him once again; the +gentle voice thanked him for his care. But the fever had been followed +by extreme weakness. The sick girl lay on her bed from day to day, +ministered to by Mrs. Milderson, and had scarcely power to lift her +head from the pillow. + +This prostration was rendered all the more painful by the patient’s +feverish anxiety to recover strength. Again and again, with a piteous +air of entreaty, she asked Lucius when she would be well enough to get +up, to go about the house, to attend to her grandfather. + +‘My dearest,’ he answered gravely, ‘we must not talk about that yet +awhile. We have sufficient reason for thankfulness in the improvement +that has taken place already. We must wait patiently for the return of +strength.’ + +‘I can’t be patient!’ exclaimed Lucille, in the feeble voice that had +changed so much since her illness. ‘How can I lie here patiently when +I know that I am wanted; that—that everything may be going on wrong +without me?’ + +‘Was there ever such ingratitude and distrustfulness,’ cried the +comfortable old nurse, with pretended chiding, ‘when she knows I’m that +watchful of the poor old gentleman, and give him all he wants to the +minute; and that when things was at the worst you slept in the little +room next him, Mr. Davoren, so as to keep guard, as you may say, at +night?’ + +‘Forgive me,’ said Lucille, stretching out her wasted hand to the +nurse, and then to the doctor, who bent down to press his lips to the +poor little feverish hand. ‘I daresay I seem very ungrateful; but it +isn’t that—I only want to be well. I feel so helpless lying here; it’s +so dreadful to be a prisoner, bound hand and foot, as it were. Can’t +you get me well quickly somehow, Lucius? Never mind if I’m ill again by +and by; patch me up for a little while.’ + +‘Nay, dearest, there shall be no half cure, no patching. With God’s +help, I hope to restore you to perfect health before very long. But if +you are impatient, if you give way to fretfulness, you will lessen your +chances of a rapid recovery.’ + +Lucille gave no answer save a long weary sigh. Tears gathered slowly in +her sad eyes, and she turned her face to the wall. + +‘Yes, poor dear,’ said Nurse Milderson, looking down at her +compassionately; ‘as long as she do fret and werrit herself so, she’ll +keep backarding of her recovery.’ + +Here the nurse beckoned mysteriously to Lucius, and led him out of the +room into the corridor, where she unbosomed herself of her cares. + +‘It isn’t as I want to alarm you, Dr. Davoren’—Lucius held brevet rank +in the Shadrack-road,—‘far from it; but I feel myself in duty bound +to tell you that she’s a little wrong in her head still of a night, +between sleeping and waking, as you may say, and talks and rambles more +than I like to hear. And it’s always “father,” rambling and rambling on +about loving her father, and trusting him in spite of the world, and +standing by him, and suchlike. And last night—it might have been from +half-past one to two—say a quarter to two, or perhaps twenty minutes,’ +said Mrs. Milderson, with infinite precision, ‘I’d been taking forty +winks, as you may say, in my chair, being a bit worn out, when she +turns every drop of my blood to ice-cold water by crying out sudden, +in a voice that pierced me to the marrow—’ + +‘_What_, nurse? For goodness’ sake, come to the point,’ cried Lucius, +who thought he was never to hear the end of Mrs. Milderson’s personal +sensations. + +‘I was coming to it, sir,’ replied that lady, with offended dignity, +‘when you interrupted me; I was only anxious to be exack. “O,” she +cried out, “not poison! Don’t say that—no, not poison! You wouldn’t +do that—you wouldn’t be so wicked as to poison your poor old father.” +I think that was enough to freeze anybody’s blood, sir. But, lor, +they do take such queer fancies when they’re lightheaded. I’m sure, I +nursed a poor dear lady in Stevedor-lane, in purpleoral fever—which her +husband was in the coal-and-potato line, and ginger-beer and bloaters, +and suchlike—and she used to fancy her poor head was turned into a +york-regent, and beg and pray of me ever so pitiful to cut the eyes out +of it. I’m proud to say, tho’, as I brought her round, and there isn’t +a healthier-looking woman between here and the docks.’ + +Lucius was silent. His own suggestion of a possible attempt to poison +was sufficient to account for these delirious words of Lucille. It was +only strange that she should have associated her father’s name with +the idea; that in her distempered dream, he, the father—to whose image +she clung with such fond affection—should have appeared to her in the +character of a parricide. + +‘We must try and get back her strength, nurse,’ said Lucius, after a +thoughtful pause; ‘with returning health all these strange fancies will +disappear.’ + +‘Yes, sir, with returning health!’ sighed Mrs. Milderson, whose +cheerfulness seemed somewhat to have deserted her. + +This sick-nursing was, as she was wont to remark, much more trying +than attendance upon matrons and their new-borns. It lacked the lively +element afforded by the baby. ‘I feel lonesome and down-hearted-like +in a sick-room,’ Mrs. Milderson would remark to her gossips, ‘and the +cryingest, peevishest baby that ever was would be a blessing to me +after a fever case.’ + +‘You don’t think her worse, do you?’ asked Lucius, alarmed by that sigh. + +‘No, sir; but I don’t think her no better,’ answered Mrs. Milderson, +with the vagueness of an oracle. ‘She’s that low, there’s no cheering +of her up. I’m sure, I’ve sat and told her about some of my reglar +patients—Mrs. Binks in the West Inja-road, and Mrs. Turvitt down by the +Basin—and done all I could think of to enliven her, but she always +gives the same impatient sigh, and says, “I do so long to get well, +nurse.” She must have been very low, Dr. Davoren, before she took to +her bed.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Lucius, remembering that sudden fainting-fit. ‘She had +allowed herself too little rest in her attendance upon her grandfather.’ + +‘She must have worn herself to a shadder, poor dear young creature,’ +said Mrs. Milderson. ‘But don’t you be uneasy, sir,’ pursued the +matron, having done her best to make him so; ‘if care and constant +watchfulness can bring her round, round she shall be brought.’ + +Thus Lucius Davoren went about his daily work henceforward with a new +burden on his mind—the burden of care for that dear patient, for whom, +perchance, his uttermost care might be vain. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +THE DAWN OF HOPE. + + +The glory of the summer had departed from the Shadrack-road. The +costermongers no longer bawled their fine fresh ‘Arline’ plums, their +‘gages’ at four-pence per quart; cucumbers had grown too yellow and +seedy even for the Shadrackites; green apples were exhibited on +the stalls and barrows; the cracking of walnuts was heard at every +street-corner; and the great bloater season—which was a kind of minor +saturnalia in this district—had been inaugurated by the first triumphal +cry of ‘Rale Yarmouths, two for threehalfpence!’ The pork-butchers, +whose trade had somewhat slackened during the dog-days—though the +Shadrackites were always pork-eaters—now began to find demand growing +brisker. In a word, autumn was at hand. Not by wide plains of ripening +corn, or the swift flight of the scared covey rising from their nest in +the long grass, did the Shadrackites perceive the change of seasons, +but by the contents of the costermongers’ barrows. At this time, also, +that raven cry of cholera—generally arising out of the sufferings of +those unwary citizens who had indulged too freely in such luxuries as +conger-eel and cucumber—dwindled and died away; and the Shadrackites, +moved by that gloomy spirit which always beheld clouds upon the +horizon, prophesied that the harvest would be a bad one, and bread dear +in the coming winter. + +Lucius went among them day after day, and ministered to them, and +was patient with them, and smiled at the little children, and talked +cheerily to the old people, despite that growing anxiety in his own +breast. He neglected not a single duty, and spent no more of his +day in Cedar House than he had done before he took up his quarters +there. He ate his frugal meals in his own house, and only went to Mr. +Sivewright’s dreary old mansion at a late hour in the evening. He had +carried some of his medical books there, and often sat in his little +bedroom reading, long after midnight. His boy had orders to run on to +Cedar House should there be any call for his aid in the dead hours of +the night. + +He brooded much over that small packet of letters which he counted +among his richest treasures—those letters from the man who signed +himself ‘H. G.,’ and the lady whom he wrote of as Madame Dumarques, +the lady whose own delicate signature appeared in clearest characters +upon the smooth foreign paper—written with ink that had paled with the +lapse of years—Félicie. + +Lucius read these letters again and again; and the result of this +repeated perusal was the conviction that the writers of those lines +were the parents of Lucille. Why should they have been thus deeply +interested in Ferdinand Sivewright’s child, or how should he have been +able to put forward a claim for money on that child’s behalf? + +Lucius had taken these letters into his custody with the determination +to turn them to good account. If it were within the limits of +possibility, he would discover the secret to which these letters +afforded so slight a clue. That was the resolve he had made when +he took the packet from Homer Sivewright’s desk—and time in nowise +diminished the force of his intention. But he had no heart to begin his +search just yet, while Lucille was dangerously ill. + +In the mean time he thought the matter over, repeatedly deliberating as +to the best means of beginning a task which promised to be difficult. +Should he consult Mr. Otranto—should he commit his chances to the +wisdom and experience of that famous private detective? + +His own answer to his own question was a decided negative. ‘No,’ he +said to himself, ‘I will not vulgarise the woman I love by giving the +broken links of the story of her birth to a professional spy, leaving +him to put them together after his own fashion. If there should be +a blot upon her lineage, his worldly eyes shall not be the first to +discover the stain. Heaven has given me brains which are perhaps as +good as Mr. Otranto’s; and constancy of purpose shall stand me in the +stead of experience. I will do this thing myself. Directly Lucille is +in a fair way to recovery, I will begin my task; and it shall go hard +with me if I do not succeed.’ + +The days passed slowly enough for the parish doctor’s hard-worked +brain, which felt weary of all things on earth, or of all those things +which made up the sum of his monotonous life. September had begun, +and a slight improvement had arisen in Lucille’s condition. She was +a little stronger, a little more cheerful—had rewarded her doctor’s +care with just a faint shadow of her once-familiar smile. She had +been lifted out of her bed too one warm afternoon, and wrapped in her +dressing-gown and an old faded Indian shawl that had belonged to Homer +Sivewright’s Spanish wife, and placed in an easy-chair by the open +window to drink tea with Mrs. Milderson. Whereupon there had been a +grand tea-drinking, to which Lucius was admitted, and in which there +was some touch of the happiness of bygone days. + +‘Do you remember the first time you gave me a cup of tea, Lucille,’ +said Lucius, ‘that winter’s night, in the parlour down-stairs?’ + +The girl’s eyes filled with sudden tears, and she turned her head aside +upon the pillow that supported it. + +‘I was so happy then, Lucius,’ she said; ‘now I am full of cares.’ + +‘Needless cares, believe me, dearest,’ answered her lover. ‘Your +grandfather is a great deal better—weak still, but much stronger than +you are. He will be down-stairs first, depend upon it. I should have +brought him in to take tea with us this afternoon if I had not been +afraid of agitating you. I never had such a nervous excitable patient.’ + +‘Ah, you may well say that, Dr. Davoren,’ said Nurse Milderson, with +her good-natured scolding tone. ‘I never see such an eggsitable +patient—toss and turn, and worrit her poor dear self, as if she had +all the cares of this mortial world upon her blessed shoulders. Why, +Mrs. Beck, in Stevedor-square, that has seven children and a chandler’s +business to look after, doesn’t worrit half as much when she keeps her +bed, tho’ she knows as everythink is at sixes and sevens down-stairs; +those blessed children tumbling down and hurting of themselves at every +hand’s turn—and a bit of a girl serving in the shop that don’t know +where to lay her hand upon a thing, and hasn’t headpiece to know the +difference between best fresh and thirteen-penny Dorset.’ + +Altogether this tea-drinking had been a happy break in Lucius Davoren’s +life, despite those tears of Lucille. He had been with her once more; +it had seemed something like old times. He saw a great peril past, and +was thankful. After tea he read to her a little—some mild tender lines +of Wordsworth’s—and then they sat talking in the dusk. + +Many times during her illness Lucille had embarrassed her lover by +her anxious inquiries about the Winchers. He had hitherto waived the +question; now he told her briefly that they were gone—Mr. Sivewright +had dismissed them. + +She protested against this as a great cruelty. + +‘They were devoted to my grandfather; they were the best and most +faithful servants that ever any one had,’ she said. + +‘They might seem so, Lucille, and yet be capable of robbing their old +master on the first good opportunity. Your grandfather’s long illness +afforded them that opportunity, and I believe they took it.’ + +‘How can you know that? Was anything stolen?’ she asked eagerly. + +‘Yes; some valuable pieces of old silver, and other property, were +taken.’ + +A look of intense pain came into the pale care-worn face. + +‘How can you be sure those things were taken by the Winchers?’ she +asked. + +‘Simply because there is no one else who could possibly get at them. +Jacob Wincher showed himself very clever throughout the business, acted +a little comedy for my edification, and evidently thought to hoodwink +me. But I was able to see through him. In point of fact, the evidence +against him was conclusive. So at my advice your grandfather dismissed +him, without an hour’s warning; and strange to say, his health has been +slowly mending ever since his faithful servant’s departure.’ + +‘What!’ cried Lucille, with a horrified look, ‘you think it possible +that Wincher can have—’ + +‘Tampered with the medicine by your grandfather’s bedside. Yes, +Lucille, that is what I do believe; but he is now safe on the outside +of this house, and you need not give yourself a moment’s uneasiness +upon the subject. Think of it as something that has never been, and +trust in my care for the security of the future. No evil-disposed +person shall enter this house while I am here to guard it.’ + +The girl looked at him with a wild despairing gaze—looked at him +without seeing him—looked beyond him, as if in empty space her eyes +beheld some hideous vision. She flung her head aside upon the pillow, +with a gesture of supreme dejection. + +‘A thief and a murderer!’ she said in tones too low to reach the +lover’s ear. ‘O, my dream, my dream!’ + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +AN OLD FRIEND REAPPEARS. + + +Lucius had been working a little harder than usual on one of those +September afternoons, and was just a shade more weary of Shadrack-Basin +and its surroundings than his wont. He looked at the forest of spars +visible yonder above the housetops, and wished that he and Lucille +could have sailed together in one of those great ships, far out into +the wild wide main, to seek some new-made world, where care was not, +only love and hope. He had often envied the stalwart young Irishmen, +the healthy apple-cheeked girls, the strong hearty wayfarers from +north and south and east and west, whom he had seen depart, happy and +hopeful, from possible penury here to follow fortune to the other +side of the globe, in some monster emigrant-ship, which sailed gaily +down the river with her cargo of human life. To-day he had felt more +than usually oppressed by the fetid atmosphere of narrow alleys, the +dirt-poison which pervaded those scenes in which he had been called to +minister—human dens, many of them, which only he and the pale-faced +High-Church curate of St. Winifred’s, Shadrack-road, ever penetrated, +excepting always the landlord’s agent, who came as regular as Monday +morning itself, with his book and his little ink-bottle in his +waistcoat-pocket, ready to make his entry of the money which so very +often was _not_ to hand. He gave a great sigh of relief as he came out +of the last of the narrow ways to which duty had called him; a lane of +tall old houses, in which one hardly saw the sky, and where smallpox +had lately appeared—a more hateful visitor than even the agent with his +ink-bottle. + +‘I must get the taint of that place blown out of me somehow before I go +to _her_,’ thought Lucius. ‘I’ll take a walk down by the docks, and get +what air is to be had from the river.’ + +Air in those narrow streets there was none; life in a diving-bell +could hardly have been much worse. The fresh breeze from the water +seemed more invigorating than strong wine. Lucius got all he could of +it—which was not very much—so completely was the shore occupied by tall +warehouses, stores, provision-wharfs, and so on. + +He walked as far as St. Katharine’s Wharf, always hugging the river; +and here, having some time to spare before his usual hour for +presenting himself at Cedar House, he folded his arms and took his +ease, lazily watching the bustle of the scene around him. + +He had been here before many times in his rare intervals of leisure—the +brief pauses in his long day’s work—and had watched the departing +steamers with a keen envy of the travellers they carried—a longing for +quiet old German cities—for long tranquil summer days dawdled away in +the churches and picture-galleries of quaint old Belgian towns—for idle +wanderings in Brittany’s sleepy villages, by the sunlit Rance,—for +anything, in short, rather than the dusty beaten track of his own dull +life. Of course this was before he knew Lucille; all his aspirations +nowadays included her. + +On this bright sunny afternoon, a west wind blowing freshly down the +river, he lounged with folded arms, and watched the busy life of that +silent highway with a sense of supreme relief at having ended his day’s +work. The wharf itself was quiet enough at this time. A few porters +loitered about; one or two idlers seemed on the look-out, like Lucius, +for nothing in particular. He heard the porters say something about the +Polestar, from Hamburg—heard without heeding, for his gaze had wandered +after a mighty vessel—an emigrant-ship, he felt assured—which had just +emerged from the docks, and was being towed down the broadening river +by a diminutive black tug, which made no more of the business than if +that floating village had been a cockle-shell. He was still watching +this outward-bound vessel, when a loud puffing and panting and snorting +arose just below him. A bell rang: the porters seemed to go suddenly +mad; a lot of people congregated from nowhere in particular, and the +wharf was all life and motion, frantic hurry and eagerness. + +The Polestar steamer had just arrived from Hamburg, three hours after +her time, as he heard the porters tell each other. Lucius looked +down at that vessel, with her cargo of commonplace humanity—looked +listlessly, indifferently—while the passengers came scrambling, up the +gangway, all more or less dilapidated by the sea voyage. + +But presently Lucius gave a great start. Just beneath him, among those +newly disembarked voyagers, he beheld a little fat man, with a round +comfortable florid face, close shaven—a supremely calm individual, +amidst all that turmoil and hurry, carrying a neat little shiny +portmanteau, and resolutely refusing all assistance from porters. +Lucius had last seen this man on the shores of the Pacific. That round +contented Saxon visage belonged to none other than Absalom Schanck. + +The sight of that once-familiar face had a powerful effect upon Lucius. +It brought back the memory of those dark days in the forest—the vision +of the log-hut—those three quiet figures sitting despondently by the +desolate hearth, where the pine-branches flared and crackled in the +silence—three men who had no heart for cheerful talk—who had exhausted +every argument by which hope might be sustained. And still more vividly +came back to him the image of that fourth figure—the haggard face, with +its tangled fringe of unkempt hair, the wild eyes and tawny skin, the +long claw-like hands. Yes, it came back to him as he had seen it first +peering in at the door of the hut—as he had seen it afterwards in the +lurid glare of the pine-logs—as he had seen it last of all, distorted +with a sudden agony—the death pang—when those bony hands relaxed their +clutch upon the shattered casement. + +Swiftly did these hated memories flash through his mind. His time for +thought was of the briefest, for the little sea-captain had not far to +come before he must needs pass his old travelling companion. He looked +about him gaily as he mounted, his cheery countenance and bearing +offering a marked contrast to the dishevelled and woebegone air of his +fellow passengers. Presently, as his gaze roved here and there among +the crowd, his eyes lighted upon Lucius. His face became instantly +illuminated. He had been warmly attached to the captain of the small +band, yonder in the West. + +‘Thank God,’ thought Lucius, seeing that glad eager look, ‘at least he +doesn’t think of me as a murderer. The sight of me inspires no horror +in his mind.’ + +‘Yase,’ said the sea-captain, holding out his plump little hand; ‘there +is no misdakes—it is my froint Daforen.’ + +He and his ‘froint Daforen’ grasped hands heartily, and suffered +themselves to be pushed against the wooden railing of the wharf, while +the crowd surged by them. + +‘I thought you were in California,’ said Lucius, after that cordial +salutation. + +‘Ah, zat is der vay mit von’s froinds. Man goes to a place, and zey +tink he is pound to sday there for the ewigkeit. He is gone, zey say, +as if he had the bower of logomotion ferlost. Man dalks of him as if +he vas dead. Yase, I have to Galifornia gebeen. I have diggit, and +golt not gefounden, and have come to England zuruck; and have gone +to Hampurg to see my families; and have found my families for the +mosten dead, and am come back to my guddy at Pattersea, vhere my little +housegeeper geep all things sdraight vhile I am avay. If I am in the +Rocky Moundains, if I am in Galifornia, it is nichts. She geep my place +didy. She haf my case-bottle and my bipe bereit vhen I go home. And +now, Daforen, come to Pattersea one time, and let us have one long +talk.’ + +‘Yes,’ answered Lucius thoughtfully. ‘I want a long talk with you, my +dear old Schanck. The time when we parted company seems to me something +like a dream. I can just remember our parting. But when I look back to +those days I see them through a mist—like the dim outline of the hills +in the cloudy autumn daybreak. Our journey through the forest with +those Canadians—our arrival at New Westminster. I know that such things +were, but I feel as if they must have happened to some one else, and +not to me. Yet all that went _before_ that time is clear enough, God +knows. I shall never lose the memory of _that_.’ + +‘Ah, you was fery ill—you valked in your head, for long time. If I hat +not mate one little hole in your arm, and let the blood spurten, like +one fountain, you might have shall died becomen been,’ said the German, +somewhat vague in his grasp of English compound tenses, which he was +apt to prolong indefinitely, ‘Yes, you valk in your talk—vat it is +you say? ramblen. But come now, shall ve dake a gab—it is long vays to +Pattersea—or vait for a steamer at Dowers Varf.’ + +‘The steamer will be quicker, perhaps,’ said Lucius, ‘and we can talk +on board her. There are some questions I want to ask you, Schanck. I +shall have to touch upon a hateful subject; but there are some points +on which I want to be satisfied.’ + +‘You shall ask all questions das you vish. Come quick to Dowers Varf.’ + +‘Stay,’ said Lucius, ‘I am expected somewhere this evening, and the +Battersea voyage will take some time. You want to get home at once, I +suppose, old fellow?’ + +‘That want I much. There is the little housewife. I want that she has +not run away to see.’ + +‘Run away to sea,’ cried Lucius, puzzled. ‘Has she any proclivity of +that kind?’ + +‘I want to see she not has run away. Where is it you English put your +verb?’ + +‘Well, just let me send a message, Salom’—Salom was short for Absalom, +a pet name bestowed on the little German in the brighter days of their +expedition—‘and I’m at your service.’ + +Lucius scrawled a few lines in pencil on a leaf of his pocket-book, +which he tore out and folded into a little note. This small missive he +addressed to Miss Sivewright, Cedar House, and intrusted to a porter, +whose general integrity and spotlessness of character were certified by +a metal badge, and who promised to deliver the note for the modest sum +of sixpence. + +The note was only to inform Lucille that Lucius had an unexpected +engagement for that evening, and could not be at Cedar House till late. +It had become a custom for him to drink tea in the sick room, with +Lucille, and Mrs. Milderson, who was overflowing with sympathy. + +This small duty accomplished, Lucius accompanied Mr. Schanck to Tower +Wharf, where they speedily embarked on a steamer bound for the Temple +Pier, where they could transfer themselves to another bark which plied +between that pier and Chelsea. + +The boat was in no wise crowded, yet Lucius felt it was no place for +confidential talk. Who could say what minion of Mr. Otranto’s might +be lurking among those seedily-clad passengers, most of whom had a +nondescript vagabond look, as if they had neither trade nor profession, +and had no motive for being on board that boat save a vague desire to +get rid of time? + +Influenced by this insecurity Lucius spoke only of indifferent +subjects, till, after stopping at innumerable piers, and lowering +their chimney beneath innumerable bridges, as it seemed to Lucius, +they came at last to Cadogan Pier, whence it was an easy walk across +Battersea-bridge to the sea-captain’s domicile. + +This bit of the river-side has an old-world look, or had a few years +ago—a look that reminded Mr. Schanck pleasantly of little waterside +towns on the shores of the mighty Elbe. The wooden backs of the +dilapidated old houses overhung the water; the tower of Chelsea Church +rose above the flat; there were a few trees, an old bridge; a generally +picturesque effect produced out of the humblest materials. + +‘It buts me in mint of my faterlant,’ said Absalom, as they paused on +the bridge to look back at the Chelsea shore. + +Mr. Schanck’s abode was small and low—on a level with the river; +whereby at spring-tide the housewife’s kitchen was apt to be flooded. +A flagstaff adorned the little square of garden, which was not floral, +its chief decorations being a row of large conk shells, and two ancient +figure-heads, which stood on either side of the small street-door, +glaring at the visitor, painted a dead white, and ghastly as the +spectres of departed vessels. + +One was a gigantic Loreley, with flowing hair; the other was Frederick +the Great; and these were the tutelary gods of Mr. Schanck’s home. + +Within, the visitor descended a step or two—the steps steep and +brassbound, like a companion-ladder—to the small low-ceiled +sitting-room which Mr. Schanck called his cuddy. Here he was provided +with numerous cupboards with sliding-doors—in fact, the walls were +all cupboard—in which were to be found all a ship’s stores on a small +scale, from mathematical instruments and case-bottles to tinned +provisions and grocery. From these stores Mr. Schanck dealt out the +daily rations to his housewife, a little woman of forty-five or so, +whose husband had been his first mate, and had died in his service. +There was a small cellar, approached by a trap-door, below this +parlour or cuddy, where there were more tinned provisions, groceries, +ship-biscuit, and case-bottles, and which Mr. Schanck called the +lazarette. The galley, or kitchen, was on the other side of a narrow +passage, and a stair of the companion-ladder fashion—steep and +winding—led to three small staterooms or bedchambers, one of which was +furnished with the hammock wherein Mr. Schanck had slept away so many +unconscious hours, rocked in the cradle of the deep. + +Above these rooms was the well-drained and leaded roof, which the +proprietor of the mansion called the poop-deck—the place where, in fine +weather, he loved best to smoke his long pipe and sip his temperate +glass of schiedam-and-water. + +He produced a case-bottle and a couple of bright little glasses from +one of the cupboards, gave the housewife a tin labelled ‘stewed +rumpsteak’ out of another, and bade her prepare a speedy dinner. She +seemed in no wise disturbed or fluttered by his return, though he had +been absent three months, and had sent no intimation of his coming home. + +‘All’s well?’ he said interrogatively. + +‘Ay, ay, sir,’ answered the housekeeper. And thus the question was +settled. + +‘The ship has leaked a bit now and then, I suppose?’ + +‘Yes, sir, there was three feet of water in the lazarette last +spring-tide.’ + +‘Ah, she is one good ship for all that. Now, Daforen, you will make +yourself zu heim, and we will have some dinner presently.’ + +The dinner appeared in a short space of time, smoking and savoury. Mr. +Schanck, in the mean while, had laid the cloth with amazing handiness, +and had produced a little loaf of black bread from one of the +cupboards, and a sour-smelling cheese of incredible hardness; they may +both have been there for the last three months; and with these _hors +d’œuvres_ proceeded to take the edge off his appetite. Notwithstanding +which prelude he devoured stewed rumpsteak ravenously; while Lucius, +who was in no humour to eat, made a feeble pretence of sharing his meal. + +Finally, however, Mr. Schanck’s appetite seemed to be appeased, or he +had, at any rate, eaten all there was to eat, and he dismissed his +housekeeper with a contented air. + +‘Let us go up to the poop for our dalk and krok,’ he said; to which +Lucius assented. They would seem more alone there than in close +proximity to that busy little housewife, who was washing plates and +dishes within earshot. + +They ascended the companion-ladder, the host carrying a case-bottle in +one hand, and a big brown water-jug in the other, and seated themselves +on a wide and comfortable bench, which had once adorned the stern +of Mr. Schanck’s honest brig. There was a neat little table for the +case-bottle and jug, the glasses and pipes. + +‘This is what I gall gomfortable,’ said Mr. Schanck, who got more +English in his mode of expression, as he talked with Lucius, and forgot +his ‘families’ in Hamburg, with whom he had lately held converse. + +The sun was setting behind the western flats out Fulham way; the tide +was low; the crimson orb reflected on the bosom of the shining mud, +with an almost Turneresque effect. + +‘It was to live at Chelsea that made your Turner one great painter,’ +said Mr. Schanck, with conviction. ‘Where else out of Holland could he +see such landscapes?’ + +They began to talk presently of those old days in America, but Lucius +shrank with a strange dread from that one subject which he was most +anxious to speak about. There was one faintest shadow of a doubt which +a few words from Absalom Schanck could dispel. That worthy, in talking +over past experiences, dwelt more on the physical privations they had +undergone—above all, on their empty larder. + +‘When I count my tinned provisions—man improves daily in the art of +tinned provisions—I can scarcely believe I was one time so near to +starve. I sometimes feel as if I could never eat enough to make up for +that treatful beriod.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Lucius gloomily, without the faintest idea of what the +other had been saying. ‘I was very ill yonder, wasn’t I, Schanck, when +you bled me?’ + +‘Yes, and after. Vhen you did rave—ach, mein Gott, how you did rave!’ + +‘My brain was on fire when I shot that wretch. Yet I think, had I been +full master of my senses, which I believe I was not, I should have done +just the same. Tell me, Schanck, you who knew all, and were my witness +in that trying hour, did I commit a great crime when I killed that man?’ + +‘I think you gommit no grime at all vhen you did shoot him, and if you +had killed him it vould have been one very good job.’ + +‘_If_ I had killed him!’ cried Lucius, starting up. ‘Is there any doubt +of his death?’ + +‘Sit down, Daforen, be dranguil; the man is not worth that we should be +uneasy for him. You asked if there is any doubt of his death? There is +this much doubt, das when I saw him last he was alife.’ + +‘Good God!’ cried Lucius; ‘and I have suffered an agony of remorse +about that man, wretch as I knew him to be. I have carried the burden +of a great sin on my soul day and night; my dreams have been haunted, +my lonely hours miserable.’ + +He clasped his hands before his face with a passionate gesture, and a +hoarse sob broke from that breast, from which a load had been suddenly +lifted. The sense of relief, of thankfulness, was keen as the keenest +pain. + +‘Tell me,’ he cried eagerly—‘tell me all about it, Schanck. Was not +that shot fatal? I aimed straight at his heart.’ + +‘And you hit him zumvare,’ answered the German, ‘for vhen I vent out +and looked apout for him an hour aftervarts, there were draces of bloot +on the snow; but it couldn’t have been his heart, or he vould hardly +have been able to grawl avay. I followed him a little vay by that drack +of bloot, and the broken snow through which he had tragged himself +along; but I could not go far; I was anxious about you, and I went back +to the hut. If the man lay dead in the snow, or if he was shifering +under the binedrees, kroaning with the bain of his vounds, I cared not.’ + +‘Was that the last you saw of him,’ asked Lucius—‘those traces of blood +on the snow?’ + +‘It vas the last for one long time. If you vill be patient I vill tell +you all the story.’ + +Then, with many peculiarities of expression—desperate compound +substantives, and more desperate compound tenses of the subjunctive +mood, which it were well to leave unrecorded—the little German told all +he had to tell of that which followed Lucius Davoren’s fire. How, while +Geoffrey slowly mended, Lucius lay in the torments of fever, brain +distracted, body enfeebled, and life and death at odds which should be +master of that frail temple. + +‘You were still very ill when, by God’s mercy, the Canadian party came +our way. Geoffrey met them in the woods, while he was prowling about +with his gun on the look-out for a moose, or even a martin, for we +were as near starvation as men could be and not starve. We had kept +ourselves alive somehow, Geoffrey and I, on the pieces of buffalo +you brought home the night before your illness, and when those were +gone, on a tin of arrowroot which Geoffrey had the luck to find in his +travelling bag. When the Canadians offered to take us on with their +party, you were very feeble, helpless as a little child. Geoffrey and I +looked at each other; it seemed hard to lose such a chance. They had a +spare horse, or at least a horse only laden with a little baggage—their +provisions having shrunk on the journey—they offered to put you on +this horse, and we accepted the offer. Geoffrey walked beside you and +led the horse; we made a kind of bed for you on the animal’s back, and +there you lay tied safely to the saddle.’ This was, in brief, what the +sea-captain told him. + +‘For Heaven’s sake, come to the other part of your story, when you saw +that man alive,’ cried Lucius; ‘never mind the journey. I have a faint +memory—as if at best I had been but half conscious—of travelling on +and on, under everlasting pine-trees, of perpetual snow that dazzled +my aching eyes, of pains in every limb, and a horrible throbbing in my +head, and a parching thirst which was the worst torment of all. I am +not likely to forget that journey.’ + +‘And you remember how we parted at New Vestminster? I left you and +Geoffrey to gome back to England your own way, while I went to the golt +dickens. Your dravels had been for bleasure; I had an eye to pusiness. +“Since I can make nothing out of furs,” I said to myself, “let me see +what I can do with golt. It can require no great genius to dik for +golt.” You puy a spade and pickaxe, and you dik; you get a bail of +vater, and you vash; dat is all.’ + +‘But the man?’ cried Lucius, in an agony of impatience. ‘When and where +did you see him?’ + +‘Dear heaven, how impatient he is!’ exclaimed the little German, +puffing stolidly at his pipe, and without the faintest intention of +quickening his accustomed jog-trot pace. ‘It was long ways off, it was +long times after I wisht you both farewell at New Vestminster. I leaf +you, and go off to San Francisco, and then to the dickens. Here I find +rough savage men. I have no chance among them; the life is hart. I am +knocked about; I am not strong enough for the work. I wish myself—ach, +how I wish myself at home here in my snug little guddy, or sitting to +watch the sun go down on my poop-deck! I begin to feel what it is to +be olt. One day after I have toiled—all zu nichts—I stretch my veary +limbs to rest unter my wretched shelter. At mitternacht I hear a lout +voice in a tent near at hant—the voice of a man playing at euchre with +other men—a voice I know. My heart beats fast and lout. “It is that +teufel,” I say to myself, “who eats his fellow-men!” I grawl out of +my tent along the ground, to the tent from which I hear the sound of +that voice—a tent which had been set up only that night; they are close +together, my own tent and this new one, just a little space between, +in which I am hidden, in the dark night. I lift the edge of the canvas +and look in. There are men playing cards on the head of a barrel by +the light of a candle. The candle shines on the face of one man. He is +talking, with loud voice and excited gestures. “If this new claim over +here turns out as well as our claim yonder, mates, a month longer I +shall go back to England,” he says. “Pack to England,” I say to myself; +“you are von vicked liar; for in the log-hut you tell us you have +never to England been.” I stopped to listen to no more. Varever your +pullet may have hit him—and it did hit him somevare, for I saw the +bloot—there he vas.’ + +‘You have mistaken some one else for him,’ said Lucius, ‘in that +doubtful light.’ + +‘Mistaken! Den I am’mistaken in myself; dis is not me, but only some +von like me. De light vas not toubtful. I see his face blain as I see +yours; dis eye-vink, dis moment, de teep-set plack eyes—such eyes, eyes +like der teufel’s—and ze little beak of hair on ze forehead. There was +no mistakes. No, Daforen, es war der mann.’ + +‘Did you see any more of him?’ + +‘Nein,’ answered the little man, shaking his head vehemently; ‘ein mal +vas enough. I vent back to San Francisco next day, and started for +England in the first fessel dat vould confey me. I had had enough of de +dickens.’ + +‘How long ago was this?’ + +‘It is von year dass I am returned.’ + +‘A year!’ repeated Lucius dreamily. ‘And I did not kill that man after +all—grazed his shoulder perhaps, instead of shooting him through the +heart. The wretch was wriggling in at the window like an eel when +I fired, and care and famine may have made my hand unsteady. Thank +God—ay, with all my heart and soul—that his blood is not on my head. +He deserved to die; but I am glad he did not die by my hand.’ + +‘I do not pelieve he vill effer die,’ said Mr. Schanck. ‘He is a +deffil, and has more lifes dan a cat.’ + +‘He had made money,’ mused Lucius, ‘and was coming to England. He is in +England at this very moment perhaps, and may claim his daughter, or the +girl he called his daughter. It is time that I should solve the mystery +of those letters.’ + +This discovery materially altered the aspect of things. Ferdinand +Sivewright living and in England meant danger. Would he leave Cedar +House unassailed? Would he fail to discover sooner or later the fact +that it contained valuable property? Would he not by some means or +other endeavour to possess himself of that property? + +He would come back to his old father with pretended affection, would +act the part of the remorseful prodigal, would cajole Homer Sivewright +into forgetfulness or forgiveness of the past, and thus secure the +inheritance of his father’s treasures. + +Then a new idea flashed across Lucius Davoren’s brain. What if this +spirit of evil, this relentless villain, were at the bottom of the +robbery? He remembered that lithe figure seen so briefly in the glare +of the lightning, just such a form as that of the gaunt wanderer in +the pine-wood. What more likely than that Ferdinand Sivewright was the +thief, and Wincher only the accomplice? The old servant might have been +bribed to betray his master by promises of future reward, or by some +division of the plunder in the present. + +‘In any case, at the worst, I think I have securely shut the door upon +this villain now and henceforward,’ thought Lucius. + +Yet the idea of Ferdinand Sivewright’s possible presence in England +filled him with a vague anxiety. It was an infinite relief to feel +himself no longer guilty of this man’s death; but it was a new source +of trouble to know that he was alive. Of all men, this man was the most +to be feared. His presence—were he indeed the man Lucius had seen enter +Cedar House after midnight—would account for the poison. That secret +staircase might have given him access to his father’s room. Yet how +should he, a stranger to the house, know of the secret staircase? + +Here Lucius was at fault. There was now a new element in that mystery, +which had so far baffled his penetration. + +‘I will see old Wincher, and try to get the truth out of him,’ he said +to himself. ‘If he is, as I now suspect, only an accomplice, he may be +willing to inform against his principal.’ + +After this revelation, so calmly recited by the worthy Schanck, Lucius +was eager to be gone. The proprietor of the sea-worthy little dwelling, +having said his say, sat placidly contemplating the level Middlesex +shore, now wrapped in the mists of evening. He could not sympathise +with his friend’s feverish condition. + +‘Led us have some subber,’ he remarked presently, as if in that +suggestion there was balm for all the ills of life. ‘A gurried rappit +vould not pe pad, or a lopster varmed in a zauzeban mit some mateira.’ + +Even these delicacies offered no temptation to Lucius. + +‘I must get to the City as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘Good-bye, +Schanck. I’ll come and see you again some day; or you, who are an idle +man, might come to see me. Here’s my card with the address, ever so +far eastward of the wharf where you landed this afternoon. I thank +Providence for our meeting to-day. It has taken a great load off my +mind; but it has also given me a new source of anxiety.’ + +This was Greek to Mr. Schanck, who only sighed, and murmured something +about ‘subber,’ and ‘gurried rappit,’ strong in his supply of +tinned provisions. Lucius bade him a hearty good-night, and departed +from the calm flats of Battersea, eager to wend his way back to the +Shadrack-road. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +LUCIUS SEEKS ENLIGHTENMENT. + + +Lucius was more than usually solicitous for the security of the +old house in the Shadrack-road after his meeting with Absalom +Schanck; locks and bolts were adjusted with an almost mathematical +precision under his eye, or even by his own hand; and Mr. Magsby, +the ex-policeman, remarked to Mrs. Magsby, in the confidence of the +domestic hearth, that for a young gentleman, Mr. Davoring was the +fidgettiest and worritingest he had ever had dealings with. Whereupon +Mrs. Magsby, who entertained a reverential admiration for Lucius, +protested that she could see no fidgettiness in taking precautions +against thieves in a house which had already been robbed; and that +burnt children are apt to be timid of fire; and, in short, that in her +opinion, whatever Mr. Davoren did, he was always ‘the gentleman.’ + +Early on the day following his visit to Battersea, Lucius went in quest +of Jacob Wincher at the address which the old servant had given him at +departing. + +Mrs. Hickett’s, Crown-and-Anchor-alley, was an abode of modest +dimensions, the ground floor being comprised by a small square parlour +with a corner cut off for the staircase, and an offshoot of an +apartment, with a lean-to roof, in the rear, which served as a kitchen. + +The parlour, into which the street-door opened directly, was, in +the continental sense, Mr. and Mrs. Wincher’s ‘apartment,’ since it +constituted their sole and entire abode. That convenient fiction, a +sofa-bedstead, with a chintz cover which frequent washing had reduced +to a pale pea-soup colour, occupied one side of the apartment; a +Pembroke table, a chest of drawers, and three Windsor chairs filled the +remaining space, and left limited standing room for the inhabitants. + +But if the domain was small, it was, in the eyes of the +Crown-and-Anchor world, genteel, if not splendid. There was a +looking-glass in a mahogany frame over the mantelpiece, with a pair of +black-velvet kittens, and a crockery shepherd and shepherdess in front +of it; a pair of fancy bellows hung from a nail on one side of the +fireplace, and a fancy hearthbrush adorned the other side. Altogether, +Mrs. Wincher felt that in Mrs. Hickett’s ground floor she was +sumptuously lodged, and could hold her head high in the Shadrack-road +when, in her own phrase, she ‘fetched her errands,’ with no galling +sense of having descended the social ladder. + +She felt the strength of her position with peculiar force this morning +when she opened the door to Lucius Davoren. + +Her first sensation on beholding him was, as she informed Mrs. Hickett +in a subsequent conversation, ‘astarickle.’ She fully believed he had +come to announce the apprehension of the thief, or the recovery of the +stolen property. But in the next moment her native dignity came to her +rescue, and she received her guest with a freezing politeness and an +assumption of profound indifference. + +Some memory of the summer evenings when Mrs. Wincher had played the +duenna, the happy talk of a bright future to which she had listened +approvingly, came back to Lucius at sight of her familiar countenance. +He had once thought her the soul of fidelity; even now he preferred to +think her innocent of any complicity in her husband’s guilt. + +Jacob Wincher was sitting by the fireless grate in a somewhat +despondent attitude. He had found ‘odd jobs’ harder to get than he had +supposed they would be, and enforced idleness was uncongenial. Nor was +his slender stock of money calculated to hold out long against the +charges of rent and living. + +‘Good-morning,’ said Lucius with cold civility. ‘I should be glad to +have a few minutes’ talk with you alone, Mr. Wincher, if you’ll allow +me.’ + +‘I have no secrets from my good lady, sir. You can say what you have to +say before her. You haven’t found out who took that silver. I can tell +as much as that from your manner,’ said Jacob Wincher quietly. + +‘I can’t say that I have actually found the thief,’ answered Lucius; +‘but I have made a discovery which may help me to find him.’ + +‘Eh, sir? What discovery?’ + +‘Mr. Wincher,’ said Lucius, seating himself opposite the old man and +leaning across the table to look into his face, ‘who was the man you +let into your master’s house, by the brewhouse door, between one and +two o’clock on the seventeenth of last month?’ + +‘Sir,’ said Jacob Wincher, steadily returning the questioner’s steady +gaze, ‘as surely as there is a higher Power above us both, that knows +and judges what we do and say, I have told you nothing but the truth. I +let no one into my master’s house on that night or any other night.’ + +‘What! You had no light burning long after midnight—you set no candle +in one of the upper rooms for a signal—you never gave your accomplice +a lodging in one of the attics? Why, I tell you, man, I found the bed +he had slept in—the ashes of the fire that warmed him—his empty brandy +bottle! If you want to go scot-free yourself, or to be paid handsomely +for your candour, the truth will best serve you, Mr. Wincher. Who was +the man you kept hidden in that upstair room at Cedar House?’ + +‘I can but repeat what I have said, sir. I never admitted any living +creature to that house surreptitiously. I never lodged so much as a +strange cat in those upstair rooms. How could I? Miss Lucille always +kept the key of the upper staircase.’ + +‘Pshaw! What was to prevent your having a duplicate key?’ exclaimed +Lucius impatiently. + +This old man’s protestations sounded like truth; but Lucius told +himself they could not be truth. After all, when a man has once made +things easy with his conscience—settled with himself that he will not +attempt to square his life by the right angle of fair dealing—there +need be nothing so very difficult in lying. It can only be a matter of +invention and self-possession. + +‘Come, Mr. Wincher,’ said Lucius, after a pause; ‘believe me, candour +will best serve your interests. I know the name of your accomplice, +and I am ready to believe that you were ignorant of the darker purpose +which brought him to that house. I am ready to believe that you had no +hand in the attempt to poison your old master.’ + +‘Sir,’ said Jacob Wincher, with another solemn appeal to the Highest of +all Judges, ‘all that you say is incomprehensible to me. I admitted no +one. I know nothing of any attempt to injure my old master, whom I have +served faithfully and with affection for five-and-twenty years. I know +no more of the robbery than I told you when I informed you of it. There +is some mistake, sir.’ + +‘What, will you tell me that my own senses have deceived me—that I did +not see the door opened and the light in the upper window that night? +Who was there in the house to open that door or set that beacon light +in the window except you—or Miss Sivewright?’ + +Or Miss Sivewright! What if it was Lucille who opened the door—Lucille +who gave the man shelter in that upper room? Was she not capable of +any act, however desperate, for the sake of the father she loved with +such a morbid affection? If he came to her as a suppliant, entreating +for shelter, pleading perhaps for her influence to bring about a +reconciliation between himself and his father, would this fond +confiding daughter refuse to admit him? Would she foresee the danger of +his presence in that house; or could her innocent mind conceive so deep +a guilt as that of the would-be parricide? + +A new light broke in upon Lucius Davoren’s mind. He remembered all that +had been strange in Lucille’s manner and conduct since the evening +when they went up to the loft and he saw the opening of the attic +door. He remembered her anxiety on that occasion—her agitation on +every subsequent recurrence to the same subject—her impatient denial +of any foundation for his suspicions about the Winchers—how she fell +unconscious at his feet when he plainly declared his discovery; and +last of all, that fever in which the mind rather than the body had +been affected. He recalled her wandering words, in which the name of +father had been so often reiterated, and, most significant of all, that +strange appeal which Mrs. Milderson had repeated to him, ‘You couldn’t +be so wicked as to poison your poor old father.’ To whom but a son +could those words have been spoken? And could delirium suggest so deep +a horror if it were utterly baseless? + +‘No, it was memory, and not a mind distraught, that shaped those +fearful words,’ thought Lucius. + +He was silent for some time, pondering this new view of the question. +Jacob Wincher waited patiently, his poor old head shaking a little from +the agitation of the foregoing conversation. Jacob Wincher’s good lady +stood with her arms folded, like a statue of female stoicism, as if it +were a point of honour with her not to move a muscle. + +‘Well, Mr. Wincher,’ said Lucius at last, ‘it is not for me to +decide whether you are guilty or innocent. You will hardly deny that +circumstances conspired to condemn you. I did what I felt to be my duty +when I advised Mr. Sivewright to dismiss you.’ + +‘After five-and-twenty years, and never a fault to find with neither of +us,’ interjected Mrs. Wincher. + +‘The result has in a considerable measure justified that act. The +attempt to poison a helpless old man has made no further progress.’ + +Jacob Wincher cast up his eyes in mute appeal to heaven, but said +nothing. + +‘We could have poisoned him in Bond-street, if we’d wanted to it,’ +protested Mrs. Wincher. ‘It would only ’a been to cook his bit of +minced weal or Irish stew in a verding-greasy copper saucepan, and all +the juries as ever sat couldn’t have brought it home to us.’ + +‘Now, if you are, as you allege, an innocent man,’ pursued Lucius +thoughtfully, ‘you will be glad to give me the utmost assistance. I +have made a discovery that may in some measure affect this question. +Ferdinand Sivewright is alive, and probably in England!’ + +‘Then it was he who stole that silver!’ cried the old man, starting up +with sudden energy. + +‘Is not that a hasty conclusion?’ + +‘You would not say so, sir, if you knew that young man as well as I +do. He was capable of anything—clever enough for anything in the way +of wickedness. The most artful man couldn’t be a match for him. He +deceived me; he hoodwinked his father, over and over again. There was +no lock that could keep anything from him. He robbed his father in +every way that it was possible for a man to rob, and looked in his face +all the time, and shammed innocence. His mother had trained him to lie +and cheat before he could speak plain. If Ferdinand Sivewright is in +England, Ferdinand Sivewright is the thief.’ + +‘And the poisoner?’ asked Lucius. + +‘I don’t know! Perhaps. He did not shrink from stupefying his father’s +senses with an opiate, when it suited his purpose. He may have grown +more hardened in wickedness since then, and may be capable of trying to +poison him.’ + +‘Mind, I do not say that he is in England,’ said Lucius, ‘only that he +may be. Now, there is one thing very clear to me, namely, that whoever +put the arsenic in that medicine must have entered your master’s room +by the secret staircase. Mr. Sivewright’s door was kept locked at +night, and his room was carefully watched by day—especially during the +two or three days immediately before my discovery of the poison. Now, +you pretend to have been ignorant of the existence of that staircase +until I showed it to you.’ + +‘I have told you nothing but the truth, sir.’ + +‘But if you, who had lived in that house for several years, knew +nothing about it, how should a stranger, coming into the house by +stealth, discover it?’ + +‘I cannot tell you, sir,’ answered the old man helplessly. + +‘Does your master know of that staircase, do you think?’ + +‘He may, sir, though he never mentioned it to me. He is a close +gentlemen at all times. He chose the room he now sleeps in for his +bedroom when we first came to the house. He would have no painting, +or whitewashing, or repairs of any kind done—saying that the place was +good enough for him, and he didn’t want to waste money upon it. My wife +cleaned up the rooms as well as she could, and that was all that was +done. There were no workmen spying about, to find out secret staircases +or anything else.’ + +‘From whom did your master take the house?’ asked Lucius. + +‘From an agent, Mr. Agar, in the Shadrack-road.’ + +‘To whom does it belong?’ + +‘I’ve never heard, sir; but I believe it’s the property of somebody +that lives abroad. Mr. Agar always collected the rent half-yearly.’ + +‘Then, no doubt, Mr. Agar knows all about that staircase,’ said Lucius; +‘I’ll go to him at once.’ + +‘Heaven grant you may be able to come at the truth, sir; though I can’t +see how that staircase can help you.’ + +‘I don’t know about that, Mr. Wincher,’ returned Lucius; and with a +hasty ‘Good-morning,’ he departed. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +MR. AGAR’S COLONIAL CLIENT. + + +Lucius went straight to Mr. Agar’s office—a little wedge-shaped box +of a place squeezed corner-wise off a larger shop, for space was +precious in the Shadrack-road. In this small temple of industry, Mr. +Agar professed himself ready to value property, survey estates, sell by +auction, let lands, houses, or apartments, collect rents, and even at a +push to undertake the conduct of genteel funerals. + +Here Lucius found him—a busy little man, with a bald head, and an ear +that had been pushed into high relief by having a pen continually stuck +behind it. + +‘Pray, what can I do for you, sir?’ he asked, with his fingers in his +order-book, ready to write an order to view any species of property +within a ten-mile radius of the Shadrack-road. + +‘I want to ask you a few questions about a house in which I am +interested.’ + +‘As an intending tenant, sir, or purchaser?’ inquired Mr. Agar, turning +round upon his high stool, and nursing his leg, in an attitude which +was at once easy and inviting to confidence. + +‘Certainly not as a tenant, for the house is let.’ + +‘As a purchaser, then?’ exclaimed Mr. Agar, stimulated by the vision of +five per cent. ‘Have we’—a very grand we—‘advertised the property?’ + +‘No, Mr. Agar; nor have I any reason to suppose that it is for sale.’ + +‘But you think that we might negotiate something—make a speculative +offer—eh?’ inquired the agent briskly. ‘My dear sir, in any delicate +little matter of that kind, you may rely upon my discretion—and I think +I may venture to say, upon my diplomatic powers.’ + +‘I want you to answer two or three plain questions, Mr. Agar—that is +all. Some years ago you let Cedar House to my friend and patient, Mr. +Sivewright.’ + +‘Cedar House—dear me, that is really curious; not an attractive +property, one would think—no frontage to speak of—house out of repair, +and yet—’ + +‘And yet what, Mr. Agar?’ + +‘Let me answer your inquiries first, sir.’ + +‘In the first place, then, to whom does the house belong?’ + +‘To two old maiden ladies, who reside in Paris. Their grandfather was +a great man in the City—a brassfounder, I believe—and lived at Cedar +House in very grand style, but not within the memory of anybody now +living. The house has degenerated since his day, but it is still a +valuable property. As a public institution, now, it would offer great +advantages; or it might be made the nucleus of a large fortune to a +medical practitioner in the shape of a private lunatic asylum,’ added +the agent, with a sharp glance at Lucius. + +‘Mr. Agar, I am bound to inform you that I am not on the look-out for +a house for the purpose you suggest. But I am very curious to know all +about Cedar House. When you let it to Mr. Sivewright were you aware of +a secret staircase, which ascends from an outbuilding at the back to +the first floor?’ + +‘And to the attic floor,’ said the agent. + +‘What, does it go higher than the first floor?’ + +‘It ascends to one of the rooms on the upper story, sir. A fact you +might have discovered for yourself if you had taken the trouble to +examine the staircase thoroughly; but it’s an abominably crooked +and dangerous place, and I don’t wonder you left some portion of it +unexplored.’ + +‘To which of the upper rooms does it ascend?’ asked Lucius eagerly. + +‘To the north-east attic. There is a door at the back of the closet +in that room—you’d hardly distinguish it from the rest of the +panelling—communicating with that staircase.’ + +‘Did Mr. Sivewright know of the staircase when you let the house to +him?’ + +Mr. Agar was silent for a few moments, and rubbed his bald head +meditatively. + +‘Well, no. I doubt if he heard of it; that is to say, I don’t remember +mentioning it. You see, to the candid mind,’ continued the agent, +taking a high moral tone, ‘there is something peculiarly repellent in +secrecy; even a secret staircase is not a pleasant idea. And the house +had acquired a queer reputation in the neighbourhood. Noises had been +heard—strange cats, no doubt—silly people even pretended to having seen +things; in short, the ignorant populace described the house as haunted. +Idle boys chalked “Beware of the ghost” on the garden wall; and when a +tenant came forward at last in the person of Mr. Sivewright—a somewhat +eccentric old gentleman, as you are no doubt aware, but most upright +and honourable in his dealings—I was glad to let him the old place at a +ridiculously low rent.’ + +‘And you did not show him the staircase?’ + +‘No, I certainly didn’t show it to him.’ + +‘Nor tell him anything about it?’ + +‘I cannot recall having mentioned it.’ + +‘Then I think we may take it for granted that he knows nothing about +it. By the way, how does the communication work with the room on the +first floor—it’s a sliding panel, I suppose?’ + +‘Yes; there’s a bit of moulding on one of the panels that looks rather +loose; press that inwards, and the panel slides behind the other part +of the wainscot. I don’t suppose it works very easily, for it must be a +long time since it was used.’ + +‘Do you know for what purpose this staircase was originally built?’ + +‘No, sir; that end of the house belongs, I believe, to Henry the +Eighth’s time. That staircase is built in what was once a great square +chimney—the chimney of the old banqueting-hall, in fact; for there was +a banqueting-hall in Cedar House in Henry the Eighth’s time, though +there’s nothing left of it now; that end is clean gone, except the said +chimney. I got an architect to look over the place once for the Miss +Chadwicks, my clients, with a view to reparation; but the reparations +mounted up so, that when the elder Miss Chadwick got the specification +she wrote and told me she and her sister would sooner have the place +pulled down at once, and sold for building materials, than lay out such +a lot of money; for they are rather close, are the Miss Chadwicks. +The architect didn’t seem to think that old chimney over safe either, +on account of their having pulled down the hall, and took away its +supports, in a measure. “But it’ll last our time, I daresay,” says +he; “and if it falls it’s bound to fall outwards, where it can’t hurt +anybody.” For, as I daresay you are aware, there’s only a bit of waste +ground—a cat-walk, as you may say—on that side of the house.’ + +‘Rather a hazardous condition though for a house to be left in,’ said +Lucius, thinking that this would give him a new incentive to find +a better home for Lucille speedily. ‘Then you don’t know why that +staircase was built, nor who built it?’ + +‘Well, no, sir; I can’t say I do. I’ve often wondered about it. +You see, the staircase may not have been a secret one in the first +instance, but may have been converted to a means of escape in the +troublesome times that came later. There is no allusion to it in any of +the deeds belonging to the house.’ + +‘You spoke just now of my inquiry being curious,’ said Lucius after a +pause; ‘why was that?’ + +‘I thought it rather strange that you should make an inquiry about +Cedar House, because some six weeks ago I had another gentleman here +who made the same inquiry.’ + +‘About the staircase?’ + +‘No, he didn’t inquire about the staircase. I told him about that +afterwards, in the course of conversation, and he seemed struck by +the fact. We had a good bit of talk together, first and last, for +he was a very free and open kind of a gentleman, and had just come +from Australia, or America, I really forget which, and he insisted +on standing a bottle of champagne—a thing I shouldn’t have cared to +partake of in the middle of the day, if he hadn’t been so pressing.’ + +‘What kind of man was he?’ asked Lucius, burning with impatience. + +‘Well, a good-looking fellow enough, but rather peculiar-looking with +it. Tall and thin, with a sallow complexion, and the blackest eyes and +hair I ever saw in a European. The hair grew in a little peak on his +forehead, such as I’ve heard some facetious folks call a widower’s +peak. It was rather noticeable.’ + +‘The very man!’ muttered Lucius. + +‘Do you know the gentleman, sir?’ + +‘Yes, I think he is a person I know. And pray what inquiries did he +make about the house?’ + +‘More than I can remember,’ answered the agent; ‘there never was such +a gentleman for asking questions, and so business-like too. He made +me take a sheet of paper and sketch him out a plan of the house in +pencil—how all the rooms lay, and the passages and stairs, and so on. +That’s how we came to speak of the private staircase. He seemed quite +taken aback by the notion. It might be handy, he said, and work into +something that he wanted.’ + +‘What motive did he state for these inquiries?’ + +‘They were made with a view to making an offer for the property, which +I had reason to think my clients, the Miss Chadwicks, would be not +unwilling to part with. The gentleman is trying to get a patent for +an invention of his, which will make his fortune when carried out, he +says, and he wants good roomy premises within an easy distance of the +docks. A thorough man of business, I can assure you, though only just +returned from abroad,’ added Mr. Agar, as if England were the only +country in which business was properly understood. + +‘Has this gentleman made any attempt to forward the transaction?’ asked +Lucius. ‘Have you ever seen him since the day when he treated you to +champagne?’ + +‘Treated is hardly the word, sir!’ said Mr. Agar with dignity. ‘The +gentleman _stood_ a bottle of Peerer Jewitt. It was as much for his +pleasure as for mine.’ + +‘I have no doubt of that, Mr. Agar. But have you seen any more of this +agreeable gentleman?’ + +‘No, sir, he hasn’t been in here since. I fancy there’s some difficulty +about the patent. It isn’t easy to hurry things where you’ve got to +deal with Government offices. But I expect to hear from him before very +long. He was quite the gentleman.’ + +‘I doubt if you will ever see him again, Mr. Agar, gentleman or not; if +he be the man I take him for.’ + +‘Indeed, sir. Do you know anything to the gentleman’s disadvantage?’ + +‘Only that he is a most consummate villain.’ + +‘Good gracious me, sir. That’s a sweeping charge.’ + +‘It is, Mr. Agar; and I am unable just now to substantiate it. I can +only thank you for the information you have kindly given me, and wish +you good-morning.’ + +He left the little office, glad to be in the open air again to have +room to breathe, and to be able to contemplate this new aspect of +affairs alone. + +‘He is here then, and henceforward it must be a hand-to-hand fight +between us two.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +LUCILLE’S CONFESSION. + + +One of Lucius Davoren’s first thoughts, after that interview with +the house-agent, was of his sister Janet and of Geoffrey Hossack. +The discovery, which lifted a load from his conscience, changed the +aspect of Geoffrey’s fortunes. The man who had married Janet still +lived, and whether the marriage were legal or not—a fact difficult of +ascertainment in a life so full of double-dealing—Janet would doubtless +count herself bound to him. She had told Lucius, when they met at +Stillmington, that she did so consider herself; and he knew that calm +proud nature too well not to know that she would be firm, whatever +sorrow to herself were involved in such constancy. + +Lucius lost no time in writing to Geoffrey, at the Cosmopolitan, the +only safe address for that nomadic gentleman. He knew that the people +at the Cosmopolitan were generally acquainted with Mr. Hossack’s +whereabouts, and had instructions to forward his letters. + +Lucius wrote briefly thus: + + ‘Dear Geoffrey,—The last week has been full of discoveries. I have + seen Absalom Schanck, and learned from him that I am guiltless of that + scoundrel’s blood—a surprise which has infinitely relieved my mind, + but which has also given me new cause for uneasiness. To you, poor + old Geoff, I fear it will be a disappointment to learn that Janet’s + husband is still in the land of the living; but I hope that this + knowledge may have a beneficial effect, and help to cure you of a + foolish passion, which I told you from the first was hopeless. Would + to heaven, for your sake and Janet’s, that it were otherwise! But Fate + is stronger than man. And, after all, there are plenty of charming + women in the world who would be proud to call Geoffrey Hossack husband. + + ‘I try to write lightly, but I am full of anxiety. This man’s + existence means peril for those I love, and I know not what shape the + danger may assume. Let me hear of you soon.—Ever yours, + + ‘LUCIUS DAVOREN.’ + +Ferdinand Sivewright’s existence meant peril for his old father and for +the innocent girl who believed herself to be his daughter. Of that fact +Lucius had no doubt, and the one question was how to meet the danger. +That the old house was now securely defended, he felt tolerably sure—as +sure as one could be about a rambling old place which was all doors +and windows, and for aught he knew might still be approachable by some +hidden way that had escaped his ken. The great point now would be to +prove to Lucille that this man had no claim upon her; that no tie bound +her to him, not even the duty of common gratitude for any kindness +shown to her in her childhood, since he had made her existence an +excuse for extorting money from her father. He, Lucius, must show her +that the fancy which her girlish heart had cherished—the fond belief in +this father’s love—was more baseless than the dreams of fever, wilder +than the fancies of madness. How would he prove this to her? He might +show her those letters. But would the evidence of the letters be strong +enough to dispel so deep-rooted a belief, so long-cherished a fancy? + +No, Lucius told himself. The letters, which told their story plainly +enough for him, might fail to convince Lucille. + +‘I must have some stronger proof than the letters,’ he thought. + +How to obtain that proof, how to begin the search that was to end +in the discovery of Lucille’s parentage, was the question which +now absorbed all his thoughts. He had made up his mind to seek no +assistance in this difficult task. Whatever blunders he might make, +however awkwardly he might transact a business so foreign to the bent +of his life, he would do this work for himself, and succeed or fail +unaided. + +‘If there is a stain upon her birth, no one but I shall discover it,’ +he said to himself. + +Homer Sivewright had read those letters as relating to a secret +marriage, yet their wording might be taken to indicate a less +honourable relation between the gentleman who signed himself H. G. and +the lady who called herself Madame Dumarques. + +Throughout the letters there was but one positive clue to the +identification of the writers. That lay in the address given by the +lady, at Rouen. She was staying in that city with friends—relations +perhaps. It was just possible that Lucius might be so fortunate as to +find some of these people still resident in the same city. The date +of the letters was only fourteen years ago, and in some slow tranquil +lives fourteen years make but little difference. The hair grows a shade +grayer; the favourite old dog or the familiar household cat dies, +and is replaced by a younger and less cherished animal; the ancient +asthmatic canary is found dead in his cage; the old Sunday silk gown, +which has been worn with honour for a decade, is converted into a +petticoat; the old husband takes to stronger spectacles, and shortens +his constitutional walk by the length of a couple of streets; the old +wife dies perhaps, and is buried and feebly mourned for a little while; +and with such faint ripples of change the slow dull river glides on to +the eternal ocean. + +Lucius was hopeful that, in a quiet by-street in the city of Rouen, +he might find things very much as they had been fourteen years ago. +He made up his mind to start for that city on the following night. A +train leaving London-bridge at dusk would take him to Newhaven; he +would reach Dieppe by six o’clock next morning, and Rouen by breakfast +time. Once there he knew not how long his researches might detain him; +but he could so arrange his affairs, with the help of a good-natured +brother-medico in the Shadrack district, as to absent himself for a few +days without inconvenience to his numerous patients. + +That one dear patient whose safety was so near to his heart was now out +of danger. The fever was past, and the only symptom which now gave him +cause for anxiety was a deep melancholy, as of a mind overburdened +with care, or weighed down by some painful secret. + +‘Could I but dare to speak openly I might dispel some of those +apprehensions which now disturb her,’ thought Lucius; ‘but I cannot +venture to do that until she is better able to bear the shock of a +great surprise, and until I am able to confirm my statements.’ + +Lucille was now well enough to come down to the old wainscoted parlour, +where her lover had first seen her on that dark winter’s night which, +when looked back upon, seemed like the beginning of a new life. Mr. +Sivewright still kept his room, but had improved considerably, and had +relented towards Mrs. Milderson, whom he graciously allowed to minister +to his wants, and would even permit to discourse to him occasionally of +the domestic annals of those lady patients into whose family circles +she was from time to time admitted. He would make no farther protest +than an impatient sniff when the worthy nurse stood for a quarter of an +hour, cup-and-saucer in hand, relating, with aggravating precision of +date and amplitude of detail, the little differences between Mr. Binks +the chandler and his good lady on the subject of washing-days, or the +‘stand-further’ between Mrs. Binks and ‘the girl.’ + +Under the gentle sway of Mrs. Milderson, who was really an honest and +sober specimen of her race, demanding only a moderate supply of those +creature-comforts which the Gamp tribe are apt to require, life had +gone very smoothly at Cedar House. Mrs. Magsby took charge of the lower +part of the premises and her own baby (which seemed to absorb the +greater part of her attention), and was altogether a mild and harmless +person. Mr. Magsby, as guardian of the house, did nothing particular +but walk about with a somewhat drowsy air, and smoke his pipe in open +doorways, looking up at the sky, and enunciating speculative prophecies +about the weather, which, as he never went out of doors, could have +been of very little consequence to him. + +Thus administered, what citadel could seem more secure than Cedar +House? Lucius, after thinking of the subject from every possible point +of view, decided that he could run no hazard in absenting himself for a +few days. He went at the usual hour that afternoon, when his day’s work +was done. Lucille seemed a little brighter and happier than she had +been of late, and the change cheered him. + +‘My darling,’ he said fondly, as he looked down at the pale face, +which had lost something of its care-worn expression, ‘you have almost +your old tranquil look—that calm sweet face which came upon me like a +surprise one dark November night, nearly a year ago, when yonder door +opened, and you came in, carrying a little tray.’ + +‘How well you remember things, Lucius! Yes, I have been happier to-day. +I have been sitting with grandpapa, and he really seems much better. +You do think him improved, don’t you, Lucius?’ + +‘I think him on the high-road to recovery. We may have him hale and +vigorous yet, Lucille—sitting by the hearth in our new home.’ + +‘Our new home—yes,’ said the girl, looking round her with a perceptible +shudder, ‘I shall be glad to leave this dull old house some day. It is +full of horrible thoughts. But now that I am well again, I can take +care of grandpapa.’ + +‘Not quite well yet, Lucille; you want care yourself.’ + +‘I should think she do, indeed,’ said Mrs. Milderson, who came in with +the tea-tray, having discreetly allowed the lovers time for greeting; +‘and care she shall have, and her beef-tea reglar, and no liberties +took, which invalidses’ mistake is always to think they’re well ever so +long before they are. There was Mrs. Binks, only the other day, down +in the shop serving the Saturday-night customers, which is no better +nor Injun American savages in the impatience of their ways, before that +blessed baby was three weeks old.’ + +‘I think I can rely upon you to take care of both my patients, nurse, +while I am away for a few days.’ + +‘You are going away, Lucius?’ said Lucille anxiously. + +‘Yes, dear; but for two or three days only. I think I may venture to +leave you in Mrs. Milderson’s care for that time.’ + +‘I should hope you could, sir,’ exclaimed that matron, ‘after having +had two years’ experience of me in all capacities—and even the old +gentleman up-stairs, which was inclined to be grumpy and standoffish at +first, having took to me as he has.’ + +‘I shall be quite safe, Lucius,’ said Lucille, ‘but I shall miss you +very much.’ + +‘It shall be only for a few days, dearest. Nothing but important +business would tempt me away from you even for that time.’ + +‘Important business, Lucius! What can that be? Is it another visit to +that tiresome friend of yours, Mr. Hossack?’ + +‘No, dear, it is something which concerns our own future—something +which I hope may bring you a new happiness. If I succeed in what I am +going to attempt, you shall know all about it, and quickly. If I fail—’ + +‘What then, Lucius?’ she asked, as he hesitated. + +‘Better that you should never know anything, darling, for then you can +feel no disappointment.’ + +‘O!’ said Lucille, with a little sigh of resignation. ‘I suppose it +is something connected with your professional career, some ambitious +project which is to make me very proud of you if you succeed in it. Are +you going very far?’ + +‘To Rouen.’ + +‘Rouen!’ cried Lucille; ‘Rouen in France?’ with as much astonishment as +if he had said the centre of Africa. + +‘To Rouen, in the department of the lower Seine,’ he answered gaily; +with assumed gaiety, for it pained him even to leave her for so brief a +span. + +‘What can take you to France?’ + +‘Simply that ambitious project you spoke of just now. My dearest +girl, you look as distressed as if I were going to Australia, when my +journey is only a question of three or four days. I shall leave London +to-morrow evening, and be in Rouen before noon next day. A day, or at +most two days, will, I trust, accomplish my business there. I shall +travel at night both ways, so as to save time; and on the fourth day +I hope to be back in this dear old parlour drinking tea with you and +nurse.’ + +‘Of course!’ exclaimed Mrs. Milderson, as if she had known all about it +from the very beginning. ‘Do you suppose Dr. Davoren would go wasting +of his precious time in France or anywheres else, with all his patients +fretting and worriting about him—and left to the mercy of a strange +doctor, which don’t know the ins and outs of their cases, and the +little peculiarities of their constitushuns, no more than a baby?’ + +After tea Mrs. Milderson retired with the tray, and was absent for +some time in attendance on Mr. Sivewright, who took his light repast +of dry toast and tea also at this hour. Thus Lucius and Lucille were +alone together for a little while. They stood side by side at the open +window, which commanded no wider prospect than the bare courtyard or +garden, where a few weakly chrysanthemums languished in a neglected +bed, and two or three feeble sycamores invited the dust, while one +ancient poplar, whose branches had grown thin and ragged with age, +straggled up towards the calm evening sky. A high wall bounded this +barren domain and shut out the world beyond it. + +‘We must go up to grandpapa presently,’ said Lucille; ‘he likes us to +sit with him for an hour or two in the evening now that he is so much +better.’ + +‘Yes, dear, we will go; but before we go I want to ask you about +something that has often set me wondering, yet which in all our talk we +have spoken of very little.’ + +‘What is that, Lucius?’ + +‘About your earliest memories of childhood, Lucille. The time before +you lived in Bond-street with your grandfather.’ + +To his surprise and distress she turned from him suddenly, and burst +into tears. + +‘My darling, I did not mean to grieve you!’ he exclaimed. + +‘Then never speak to me again of my childhood, Lucius,’ she said with +sorrowful earnestness. ‘It is a subject I can never speak of, never +think of, without grief. Never again, if you wish me to be happy, +mention the name of father.’ + +‘What?’ said Lucius; ’then that dream is over?’ + +‘It is,’ answered Lucille, in a heartbroken voice, ‘and the awakening +has been most bitter.’ + +‘Thank Heaven that awakening has come, Lucille—even at the cost of +pain to your true and tender heart,’ replied her lover earnestly. ‘My +dearest, I am not going to torture you with questions. The mystery of +these last few weeks has been slowly growing clear to me. There has +been a great peril hanging over us; but I believe and hope that it is +past. Of your innocent share in bringing that danger beneath this roof, +I will say not a word.’ + +‘What, you know, Lucius?’ she said, with a perplexed look. + +‘I know, or can guess, all, Lucille. How your too faithful affection +has been traded upon by a villain.’ + +‘O, do not speak of him!’ she cried. ‘Remember, how ever dark his guilt +may be, I once loved him—once, and O, so long, believed in him; hoped +that he was only unfortunate, and not wicked; clung to the thought +that he was the victim of circumstances. Lucius, have some pity upon +me. Since that night when you first spoke of your dreadful fear—first +suggested that some one was trying to poison my poor old grandfather—I +have lived in a horrible dream. Nothing has seemed clear to me. Life +has been all terror and confusion. Tell me once for all, is it true +that some one tried to poison him—is it true?’ + +Words failed her. She stopped, stifled by sobs. + +‘Lucille, do not speak of these things,’ said Lucius, drawing the +too fragile form to his breast, smoothing the loose hair on the pale +forehead. ‘Is it not enough to know that the danger is past? That +fatal blindness—the fatal delusion which made you cling to the memory +of a bad man—has been dispelled. You will never admit Ferdinand +Sivewright to this house again.’ + +He looked at the pale face resting on his shoulder as he made this +straight assertion. There was no indignant denial, not even surprise +in the look of those plaintive eyes which were slowly lifted to meet +his own—a beseeching look, as of one who asked forgiveness for a great +wrong. + +‘I have been more than foolish,’ she said, with a shudder, as if at +some terrible memory. ‘I have been very wicked. If my grandfather had +died, I should have been an unconscious accomplice in his murder. But +he _is_ my father; and when he came to me, after so many years of +separation, shelterless, hopeless, only pleading for a refuge, and the +opportunity to win his father’s pardon—O Lucius, I can never tell you +how he pleaded, by the memory of his old love for me—’ + +‘His love for you! I trust you may soon know, dearest, what that love +was worth.’ + +‘Heaven grant I may never see his face or hear his name again, Lucius. +The memory of him is all horror.’ + +‘You shall not be troubled by him any more if I can help it,’ answered +her lover tenderly. ‘But you will never again keep a secret from me, +will you, dearest?’ + +‘Never, Lucius. I have suffered too much from this one sin against your +love. But if you knew how he pleaded, you would forgive me. You would +not even wonder that I was so weak. Think, Lucius; a repentant son +pleading for admission to his father’s house, without a roof to cover +him, and longing for a reconciliation with the father he had offended.’ + +‘My poor confiding child, you were made the dupe of a villain. Tell me +no more than you like to tell; but if it is any relief to you to speak—’ + +‘It is, Lucius. Yes, it is a relief to trust you. I thought I never +could have told you. The burden of this dreadful secret has weighed +down my heart. I dared not tell you. I thought you would bitterly +reproach me for having kept such a secret from you, and then it is such +pain to speak of him—now—now that I know he was never worthy of my +love. But you are so kind, and it will relieve my mind to tell you all.’ + +‘Speak freely then, darling, and fear no reproaches from me.’ + +‘It was while you were away at Stillmington, Lucius, that this secret +first began. I was in the garden alone, at dusk one evening.’ + +Lucius remembered what Mrs. Wincher had told him about Lucille coming +in from the garden with a pale horror-stricken face, and saying that +she had seen a ghost. + +‘I was low-spirited because of your absence, and a little nervous. +The place seemed so dull and lonely. All the common sounds of the day +were over, and there was something oppressive in the silence, and the +hot smoky atmosphere, and the dim gray sky. I was standing in the old +summer-house, looking at the creek, and thinking of you, and trying +to have happy thoughts about brighter days to come—only the happy +thoughts would not stay with me—when I saw a man come from the wharf on +the other side of the water, and step lightly from barge to barge. I +was frightened, for the man had a strange look somehow, and was oddly +dressed, buttoned to the neck in a shabby greatcoat, and with his +face overshadowed by a felt hat that was slouched over his forehead. +He came so quickly that I had hardly time to think before he had got +upon the low garden wall, and dropped down close to the summer-house. +I think I gave a little scream just then, for he came in, and put his +hand across my lips. Not roughly, but so as to prevent my calling +out. “Lucille,” he said, “don’t you know me? Am I so changed that my +dear little daughter, who loved me so well once, doesn’t know me?” The +voice was like the memory of a dream. I had not an instant’s doubt. +All fear vanished in that great joy. The sad sweet thought of the past +came back to me. The firelit parlour where I had sat at his feet—that +strange wild music—his voice—his face—he had taken off his hat now, and +was looking down at me with those dark bright eyes. I remembered him as +well as if we had been only parted a few days.’ + +‘And was there nothing in his presence—in the tone of his voice, the +expression of his face—from which your better instinct recoiled? Had +nature no warning for you? Did you not feel that there was something of +the serpent’s charm in the influence which this man had exercised over +you?’ + +Lucille was silent for a few moments, looking thoughtfully downwards, +as if questioning her own memory. + +‘I can scarcely tell you what I felt in that moment,’ she said. ‘Joy +was uppermost in my mind. How could I feel otherwise than happy in the +return of the father I had mourned as dead? Then came pity for him. +His worn haggard face—his threadbare clothes—spoke of struggle and +hardship. He told me very briefly the story of a life that had been +one long failure, and how he found himself at this hour newly returned +from America, and cast penniless and shelterless upon the stones of the +London streets. “If you can’t give me a hole to lie in somewhere in +that big house, I must go out and try to get lodged in the workhouse, +or steal a loaf and get rather better fare in a gaol.” That was what he +said, Lucius. He told me what difficulties he had encountered in his +search after me. “My heart yearned for you, Lucille,” he said; “it was +the thought of you and of the poor old father that brought me back from +America.”’ + +‘And no instinct warned you that this man was lying?’ + +‘O no, no; I had no such thought as that,’ answered Lucille quickly. +‘Yet I confess,’ she went on more deliberately, ‘there was a vague +feeling of disappointment in my mind. This long-lost father, so +unexpectedly restored to me, did not seem quite all that I had dreamed +him; there was something wanting to make my joy perfect—there was a +doubt or a fear in my mind which took no definite shape. I only felt +that my father’s return did not make me so happy as it ought to have +done.’ + +‘Did he see this, do you think?’ + +‘I don’t know. But when I hesitated about admitting him to the +house—unknown to my grandfather—he reproached me for my want of natural +affection. “The world is alike all over,” he said; “and even a daughter +has no welcome for a pauper; though he comes three thousand miles to +look at the girl who used to sit on his knee and put her soft little +arms round his neck, and vow she loved him better than any one else in +the world.” I told him how cruel this accusation was, and how I had +remembered him and loved him all through these long years, and how the +dearest wish of my heart had been for such a meeting as this. But I +said that I did not like to keep his return a secret from his father, +and I begged him to let me take him straight to my grandfather, and +to trust to a father’s natural affection for forgiveness of all that +had severed them in the past. My father greeted this suggestion with +scornful laughter. “Natural affection!” he exclaimed. “Did he show much +natural affection when he turned me out of doors? Did he show natural +affection to my mother when his cruelty drove her out of his house? Has +he ever spoken of me with natural affection during the last ten years? +Answer me that, Lucille!” What answer could I give him, Lucius? You +know how my grandfather has always spoken of his only son.’ + +‘Yes, dear; and I know what your grandfather’s affection concealed from +you—the shameful cause of that severance between father and son.’ + +‘I could give him no hopeful answer. “I see,” he said, “there has been +no relenting. Homer Sivewright is made of iron. Come, child, all I want +is a shelter. Am I to have it here or in the workhouse, or, in fault of +that, a gaol? If I sleep in the street another night I shall be in for +a rheumatic fever. I’ve had all manner of aches and pains in my bones +for some days past.” “You shall not sleep in the streets,” I said, +“while I have power to give you shelter.” I thought of all those empty +rooms on the top floor. I had the key of the staircase always in my own +charge, and thought it would be easy enough to keep any one up there +for weeks, and months even, without my grandfather or the Winchers +ever knowing anything about it. Or if the worst came to the worst, I +thought I might venture to trust the Winchers with the secret. “Have +you made up your mind?” asked my father impatiently. “Yes, papa,” I +said—and the old name came back so naturally—“I have made up my mind.” +I told him he must wait a little, till Mr. and Mrs. Wincher were safely +out of the way, and then I would take him into the house; unless he +would make up his mind to trust the Winchers with his secret. “I will +trust not a living creature but yourself,” he said; “and if you tell +any one a word about me, I shall have done with you for ever. I come +back to my father’s house as an outcast and a reprobate. Fathers don’t +kill their fatted calves nowadays for prodigal sons. I want no one’s +help, I want no one’s pity but yours, Lucille, for I believe you are +the only creature in this world who loves me.” This touched me to the +heart. What could I refuse him after that? I told him to wait in the +summer-house till all was safe, and that I would come for him as soon +as I could venture to do so. I went in and went straight up-stairs +to the attic floor, where I dragged that old bedstead into the most +comfortable room, and carried up blankets from down-stairs. I lighted +a fire, for the room felt damp, and made all as decent as I could. By +the time I had done this, the Winchers had gone to bed; and I unbolted +the door of the brewery as quietly as I could—but it is a long way +from the room where they used to sleep, as you know, so there was very +little fear of their hearing me—and went to the summer-house to fetch +my father. We crept slowly past the Winchers’ room and up the stairs, +for I was afraid of grandpapa’s quick ear, even at that hour. When I +showed my father the room I had chosen for him, he objected to it, +and asked to see the other rooms on this floor, which I had told him +were entirely unoccupied. He selected the room at the north end of the +house.’ + +‘Of course,’ thought Lucius; ‘he had been informed about the secret +staircase!’ + +‘I told him that this room was exactly over my grandfather’s, and that +he couldn’t make a worse choice if he didn’t want to be heard. “I’ll +take care,” he said; “I can walk as softly as a cat when I like. The +other rooms are all damp.” He carried the bedstead and an old table and +chair into this room, lit a fire, taking great care to make no noise, +and made himself tolerably comfortable, while I went down-stairs to get +what provisions I could out of our scantily-furnished larder. After +this he came and went as he liked; sometimes he would sleep away whole +days, sometimes he would be absent three or four days at a time. I had +to let him out at night or let him in, just as he pleased; sometimes +I sat up all night waiting for him. When he was away I had to keep a +candle burning in one of the back windows on the top floor, to show +that all was safe if he wanted to return. I cannot tell you the anxiety +I suffered all through this time. The power of sleep seemed to leave +me altogether. Even when I did not expect my father’s return, I was +always listening for his signal—a handful of gravel thrown up against +the window of my room. I knew that I was doing wrong, and yet could not +feel sorry that I had granted his request. It seemed such a small thing +to give my father an empty garret in this great desolate house. So +things went on till the day when you and I were in the loft together; +and when you saw the door of my father’s room opened and shut. You can +guess what I suffered then, Lucius.’ + +‘Poor child, poor child!’ he murmured tenderly. + +‘And then came the day when you—No, I can’t speak of it any more, +Lucius. All that followed that time is too dreadful. I woke up to the +knowledge that my father had tried to—murder—’ The words came slowly, +stifled with sobs, and once more Lucille broke down altogether. + +‘Not another word, darling,’ cried her lover. ‘You have no reason to +reproach yourself. When you admitted Ferdinand Sivewright to this +house, you only obeyed the natural impulse of a woman’s tender heart. +Had the most fatal result followed that man’s baneful presence no blame +could have attached to you; and now, dearest, listen to me. Brief as +my absence will be, I don’t mean to leave you here while I am away. +You have had enough of this house for the present. This faithful heart +has been too much tried—this active brain too severely tasked. As +your medical adviser, I order change of air and scene. As your future +husband, I insist upon being obeyed.’ + +‘Leave poor grandpapa! Impossible, Lucius.’ + +‘Poor grandpapa shall be reconciled to your departure. He is going on +very well, and is in excellent hands. Nurse Milderson is as true as +steel. Besides, you are not going to be absent long, Lucille. I shall +take you away to-morrow morning, and bring you back again, God willing, +a week hence.’ + +‘Take me away! Where, Lucius?’ + +‘To my sister Janet.’ + +He had spoken of this sister to his betrothed of late; rarely, but with +a quiet affection which Lucille knew to be deep. + +The pale face flushed with a bright happy look at this suggestion. + +‘I am to go to see your sister, Lucius!’ she cried. ‘I should like that +of all things.’ + +‘I thought so, darling. Janet is staying in a little rustic village in +my part of the country. I had a letter from her a week ago, telling +me of her change of residence. She is with an old woman who was +our nurse when we were little ones; so if you want to hear what an +ill-conditioned refractory imp Master Lucius Davoren was in an early +stage of his existence, you may receive the information from the +fountain-head.’ + +Lucille smiled through the tears that were hardly dry yet. Everything +relating to lovers is interesting—to themselves. + +‘I daresay you were a very good boy, Lucius,’ she said, ‘and that your +old nurse will do nothing but praise you. I shall be so pleased to see +your sister, and the place where you were born—if grandpapa will only +let me go.’ + +‘I’ll get his permission, dearest. Be assured of that.’ + +‘And do you think your sister will like me—a little? I know I shall +love her.’ + +‘The love will be mutual, depend upon it, darling. And now I think +I’d better go up-stairs to Mr. Sivewright and talk to him about your +holiday.’ + +‘My holiday!’ cried Lucille. ‘How strange that sounds! I have not spent +a day away from this house since I came home from school three years +ago.’ + +‘No wonder such imprisonment has paled my fair young blossom,’ said her +lover tenderly. ‘Hampshire breezes will bring back the roses to my +darling’s cheeks.’ + +He left her to propose this somewhat daring scheme to Mr. Sivewright, +over whom he felt he had acquired some slight influence. In all his +talk with Lucille to-night—which had taken a turn he had in no manner +anticipated—he had not asked those questions he wished to ask about +her life before the Bond-street period. It did not very much matter, +he thought. Those questions could stand over till to-morrow. But +before he started for Rouen he wanted to fortify his case with all the +information Lucille’s memory could afford him. + +‘And the recollections of earliest childhood are sometimes very clear,’ +he said to himself, as he went up the dark staircase to his interview +with Homer Sivewright. + +The old man granted his request more readily than Lucius had expected. +Lucille’s illness had served as a rousing shock for the selfishness of +age. Mr. Sivewright had awakened to the reflection that this gentle +girl, who had ministered to him with such patience and tenderness, and +had received such small requital for her love, was very necessary to +his comfort, and that even his dim gray life would be darkened, were +relentless Death to snatch her away, leaving him to end his journey +alone. He had hitherto thought of her as young and strong, and in a +manner warranted to live and thrive even under the least favourable +circumstances. His eyes were opened now. The change which illness had +wrought in her had impressed him painfully. For once in his life he +felt the sharp sting of self-reproach. + +‘Yes, let her go by all means,’ he said, when Lucius had told him +his plan. ‘I daresay your sister’s a very nice person, and of course +Lucille ought to make the acquaintance of your relations. She has need +of friends, poor child, for it would be difficult to find any one more +alone in the world than she is. Yes, let her go. But you’ll not keep +her away long, eh, Davoren? I shall miss her sorely. I never knew that +her absence could make much difference in my life, seeing how little +sympathy there is between us, until the other day when she was ill.’ + +‘She shall not be away from you more than a week,’ answered Lucius. +‘She was strongly opposed to the idea of leaving you at all, and only +yielded to my insistence.’ + +He then proceeded to inform Mr. Sivewright of his intended journey to +Rouen. The old man seemed more than doubtful of success; but did not +endeavour to throw cold water on the scheme. + +‘It’s a tangled skein,’ he said; ‘if you can straighten it you’ll do +a clever thing. I should certainly like to know the history of that +child’s birth; yet it will cost me a pang if I find there is no blood +of mine in her veins.’ + +Thus they parted, Homer Sivewright perfectly reconciled to the idea +of being left to the care of Mrs. Milderson and the Magsbys. Lucius +felt that justice demanded Mr. and Mrs. Wincher should be speedily +reinstated, and all stain removed from their escutcheon. Yet, ere +he could do this, he must tell Mr. Sivewright the true story of the +robbery, and of his son’s return; a story which would be difficult for +Lucius to tell, and which might occasion more agitation than the old +man, in his present condition, could well bear. + +‘Let time and care complete his cure,’ thought Lucius, ‘and then I will +tell him all.’ + +He arranged the hour of starting with Lucille, after due consultation +of the South-Western timetable, which Mrs. Magsby fetched for him +from the nearest stationer’s. There was a train from Waterloo at a +quarter-past nine. + +‘I shall come for you in a cab at a quarter-past eight,’ said Lucius +decisively. + +‘Bless your dear hearts!’ exclaimed Mrs. Milderson, in a burst of +enthusiasm. ‘It seems for all the world as if you was a-planning of +your honeymoon; and I do think as how a fortnight in a quiet place +in the country, where you can get your new potatoes and summer +cabbages fresh out of the garden, and a new-laid egg and a drop of +rich cream for your breakfasts, is better than all your rubbiging ‘To +Paris and back for five pounds,’ which Mrs. Binks went when she and +Binks was married, and was that ill with the cookery at the cheap +restorers—everythink fried in ile, and pea-soup that stodgy you could +cut it with a knife, and cold sparrowgrass with ile and vinegar—and the +smells of them drains, as if everybody in the place had been emptying +cabbage-water, as her life was a burding to her.’ + +‘We’re not quite ready for our honeymoon yet, nurse,’ answered Lucius; +‘but depend upon it, when that happy time does come, we won’t patronise +Paris and the cheap restaurants. We’ll find some tranquil corner +in this busy world, almost as remote from the haunts of man as the +mountains of the moon.’ + +Mrs. Milderson charged herself with the responsibility of packing +Lucille’s portmanteau that night, though the girl declared herself +quite equal to the task. + +‘I won’t have you worritin’ and stoopin’ over boxes and pulling out +drawers,’ said the nurse; ‘everythink shall be ready to the moment; and +if I forget so much as a hairpin, you may say the unkindest things you +can to me when you come back.’ + +Having settled everything entirely to his own satisfaction, Lucius +departed, after a tender farewell which was to last only till +to-morrow. He looked forward to this first journey with his betrothed +with an almost childish delight. Only two or three hours’ swift transit +through green fields, and past narrow patches of woodland, chalky +hills, rustic villages, nameless streams winding between willow-shaded +banks, white high-roads leading heaven knows where: but, with Lucille, +such a journey would be two or three hours in paradise. And then what +a joy to bring those two together—those two women whom alone, of all +earth’s womankind, he fondly loved! + +The clocks were striking ten as he left Cedar House, after impressing +upon Lucille the necessity for a long night’s rest. His homeward way +would take him very near that humble alley in which Mr. and Mrs. +Wincher had found a shelter for their troubles. He remembered this, and +resolved to pay them a visit to-night, late as it was, in order to tell +Mr. Wincher that he stood acquitted of any wrong against his master. + +‘I was quick enough to suspect and to accuse them,’ thought Lucius; +‘let me be as quick to acknowledge my error.’ + +Crown-and-Anchor-court was still astir when Lucius entered its modest +shades. It was the hour of supper beer, and small girls in pinafores, +who, from a sanitary point of view, ought to have been in bed hours +before, were trotting to and fro with large crockeryware jugs, various +in colour and design, but bearing a family likeness in dilapidation, +not one being intact as to spout and handle. There were farther +indications of the evening meal in an appetising odour of fried onions, +a floating aroma of bloaters, faint breathings of stewed tripe, and +even whispers of pork-chops. The day may have gone ill with the +Crown-and-Anchorites, and dinners may have run short, but the heads of +the household made it up at night with some toothsome dish when the +children—except always the useful errand-going eldest daughter—were +snug in bed, and there were fewer mouths to be filled with the choice +morsel. + +A light twinkled in Mr. Wincher’s parlour, but he and his good lady had +sought no consolation from creature-comforts. A fragment of hardest +Dutch cheese and the heel of a stale half-quartern alone adorned their +melancholy board. Mrs. Wincher sat with her elbows on the table, in a +contemplative mood; Mr. Wincher came to the door chumping his dry fare +industriously. + +‘My good people,’ said Lucius, coming straight to the point, ‘I have +come to beg your forgiveness for a great wrong. I have only this night +discovered the actual truth.’ + +‘You have found the property, sir?’ cried Mr. Wincher, trembling +a little from very joy, and making a sudden bolt of his unsavoury +mouthful. + +Mrs. Wincher gave a shrill scream, followed by a shriller laugh, +indicative of that most troublesome of feminine ailments, hysteria. +Lucius knew the symptoms but too well. His lady-patients in the +Shadrack-road were, as a rule, hysterical. They ‘went off,’ as they +called it, on the smallest provocation. Their joys and sorrows +expressed themselves in hysteria; their quarrels ended in hysteria; +they were hysterical at weddings, christenings, and funerals; and they +prided themselves on the weakness. + +After having tried all remedies suggested by the highest authorities +upon this particular form of disease, Lucius had found that the most +efficacious treatment was one ignored by the faculty. This simple mode +of cure was to take no notice of the patient. He took no notice of Mrs. +Wincher’s premonitory symptoms; and instead of ‘going off,’ that lady +‘came to.’ + +‘No, Mr. Wincher,’ he said, in answer to the old man’s eager question, +‘the property has not been recovered—never will be, I should think; but +I am tolerably satisfied as to the thief, and I know you are not the +man.’ + +‘Thank God, sir—thank God!’ cried Mr. Wincher devoutly. ‘I am very +thankful. I couldn’t have died easy while you and my old master thought +me a thief and a liar.’ + +The tears rolled down Mr. Wincher’s wrinkled cheek. He dropped feebly +into his chair, and wiped those joyful tears with a corner of the +threadbare tablecloth. + +‘I wouldn’t be so wanting to my own self in proper pride, Wincher,’ +said his wife, who was not disposed to forgive Lucius at a moment’s +warning. Had she not liked and praised him and smiled benignantly on +his wooing, and had he not turned upon her like the scorpion? ‘We had +the conscientiousness of our own innocence to support us, and with that +I could have gone to Newgate without blinching. It’s all very well to +come here, Dr. Davory, and demean yourself by astin’ our pardings; but +you can’t make up to us for the suffering we’ve gone through along of +your unjust suspicions,’ added Mrs. Wincher, somewhat inconsistently. + +Lucius expressed his regret with supreme humility. + +‘If ever I am a rich man,’ he said, ‘I will try to atone for my mistake +in some more substantial manner. In the mean time you must accept this +trifle as a proof of my sincerity.’ + +He pressed a five-pound note upon Mr. Wincher—a poor solatium for the +wrong done, but a large sum for the parish doctor to give away, on the +eve of an undertaking which was likely to be expensive. + +‘No, sir—not a farthing,’ said Mr. Wincher resolutely. ‘You offered me +money before, and it was kindly done, for you thought me a scoundrel, +and you didn’t want even a scoundrel to starve. I appreciate the +kindness of your offer to-night, but I won’t take a farthing. We shall +rub on somehow, I make no doubt, though the world does seem a little +overcrowded. You’ve acknowledged the wrong you did me, Mr. Davoren, and +that’s more than enough.’ + +Lucius pressed the money upon him, but in vain. + +‘Do you find life so prosperous, and work so plentiful, that you refuse +a friendly offer?’ he asked at last. + +‘Well, not exactly, sir,’ replied Mr. Wincher with a sigh. ‘I do get +an odd job now and then, it’s true, but the now and then are very far +apart.’ + +‘And you find it hard to pay the rent of this room and live without +trenching on your little fund?’ + +‘Sir, our savings are melting day by day; but we are old; and, after +all, better people than we are have had to end their days in a +workhouse. There’s no reproach in such an end if one has worked one’s +hardest all the days of one’s life.’ + +‘You shall not be reduced to the workhouse if I can help it, Mr. +Wincher,’ said Lucius heartily. ‘If you are too proud to take money +from me—’ + +‘No, sir, not too proud; it isn’t pride, but principle.’ + +‘If you won’t take my money, Mr. Wincher, I must try to find you a +home. Come and live with me. My housekeeper has given me a good deal +of trouble lately; in fact, I’m afraid she’s not so temperate in her +habits as she ought to be, and I sha’n’t be sorry to get rid of her. I +am not in a position to offer you very liberal wages—’ + +‘Bless your heart, sir, we’ve not been accustomed to wages of late +years. “Stay with me if you like,” said Mr. Sivewright, “but I’m too +poor to pay wages. I’ll give you a roof to cover you, and a trifle for +your board.” And we contrived to live upon the trifle, sir, by cutting +it rather fine.’ + +‘I’ll give you what I give my present housekeeper,’ answered Lucius, +‘and you must manage to rub on upon it till my prospects improve. I +think you’ll be able to make my house comfortable—eh, Mrs. Wincher?—and +to get on with its new mistress, when I am happy enough to bring my +wife home.’ + +‘Lor, sir, I can do for you better than I did for Mr. Sivewright, who’s +a deal more troublesomer than ever you could be, even if you tried to +give trouble; and as to Miss Lucille, why, she knows I’d wear the flesh +off my bones to serve her, willing.’ + +It was all settled satisfactorily. Lucius was to give his housekeeper a +week’s notice, as per agreement. She had burnt his chop and smoked his +tea continually of late, despite his remonstrances. And Mr. and Mrs. +Wincher were to take up their abode with him as soon as he returned +from his foreign expedition. They parted on excellent terms with each +other. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +LUCILLE MAKES A NEW FRIEND. + + +The sun shone on the lovers’ journey. It was almost the happiest day +in the lives of either; certainly the happiest day these two had +ever spent together. To Lucille, after perpetual imprisonment in the +Shadrack-road, those green fields and autumnal woods seemed unutterably +beautiful—the winding river—the changing shadows on the hill-side—the +villages nestling in verdant hollows. + +‘How can any one live in London!’ she exclaimed, with natural wonder, +the only London she knew being so dreary and dingy a scene. + +The judicious administration of half-a-crown on Lucius’s part had +procured the lovers a compartment to themselves. He was anxious to +ask those questions which he had meant to ask last night, when the +conversation had taken so unexpected a turn. + +‘Lucille,’ he began, plunging at once to the heart of his subject, +‘I want you to grant that request I made last night. I am not going +to speak of Ferdinand Sivewright; put him out of your thoughts +altogether, as some one who has no further influence upon your fate. I +want you to tell me your first impressions of life, before you went to +Bond-street. Forgive me, dearest, if I ask you to recall memories that +may pain you. I have a strong reason for wishing you to answer me.’ + +‘You might tell me the reason, Lucius.’ + +‘I will tell you some day.’ + +‘I suppose I must be content with that,’ she said; and then went on +thoughtfully, ‘My first memories, my first impressions? I think my +first recollection is of the sea.’ + +‘You lived within sight of the sea, then?’ + +‘Yes. I can just remember—almost as faintly as if it were a dream—being +lifted up in my nurse’s arms, in an orchard on a hill, to look at the +sea. There it lay before us, wide and blue and bright. I wanted to fly +to it.’ + +‘Can you remember your nurse?’ + +‘I know she wore a high white cap and no bonnet, and spoke a language +that I never heard after I came to Bond-street—a language with a +curious twang. I daresay it was some French _patois_.’ + +‘Very likely. And your mother, Lucille? Have you no recollection of +her?’ + +‘No recollection!’ cried the girl, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Why, I +have cherished the memory of her face all my life; it was something too +sacred to speak of, even to you. She is the sweetest memory of those +happy days—a face that bent over my bed every morning when I awoke—a +face that watched me every night when I fell asleep; and I never +remember falling asleep except in her arms. It is all dim and dreamlike +now, but so sweet, so sweet!’ + +‘Is that anything like the face?’ asked Lucius, showing her the +miniature. + +‘Yes, it is the very face!’ she cried, tearfully kissing it. ‘Where did +you get this portrait, Lucius?’ + +‘Your grandfather gave it me.’ + +‘Yes, I remember his showing me this miniature a long time ago. But of +late he has refused to let me see it.’ + +‘He may have feared to awaken sorrowful memories.’ + +‘As if they had ever slept. Will you give me this picture, Lucius?’ + +‘Not yet, dearest. I have a reason for wishing to retain it a little +while longer; but I fully recognise your right to possess it.’ + +‘It is a double miniature,’ said Lucille, turning it round. ‘Whose is +the other portrait?’ + +‘Have you no recollection of that face?’ + +‘No; I can recall no face but my mother’s—not even my nurse’s. I only +remember her tall white cap, and her big rough hands.’ + +‘You remember no gentleman in that home by the sea?’ + +‘Not distinctly. There was some one who was always taking mamma out +in a carriage, leaving me to cry for her. That gentleman must have +been my father, I suppose, yet my vague recollection of the face seems +different. I remember being told to kiss him one night, and refusing +because he always took mamma away from me.’ + +‘Were you happy?’ + +‘O yes, very happy, though I cried when mamma left me. My nurse was +kind. I remember long sunny days in the orchard on that hill, with the +bright blue sea before us, and a house with a thatched verandah, and +a parlour full of all kinds of pretty things—boxes and baskets and +picture-books—and mamma’s guitar. She used to sing every night to the +accompaniment of the guitar. We lived near the top of a high hill—very +high and steep—higher than any hills we have passed to-day.’ + +‘Is that all you can tell me, Lucille?’ + +‘I think so. The life seemed to melt away like a dream. I can’t +remember the end of it. If my mother died in that house on the hill, +I can remember no circumstance connected with her death—no illness, +no funeral. My last recollection of her is being clasped in her +arms—feeling her tears and kisses on my face. Then came a long, long +journey with my father. I was very tired, but he was kind to me, and +held me in his arms while I slept; and one morning I woke to find +myself in the gloomy-looking bedroom in Bond-street. I began to cry, +and Mrs. Wincher came to me; and soon after that some one told me that +my mother was dead. I think it was grandpapa.’ + +‘Poor child! poor lonely deserted child!’ said Lucius. + +‘Not deserted, Lucius. My mother would never have abandoned me while +she lived.’ + +‘Enough, dearest! You have told me much that may help me to a discovery +I am anxious to make.’ + +‘What discovery?’ + +‘I must ask you to be patient, dear. You shall know all before long.’ + +‘I have had some practice in patience, Lucius, and to-day I am too +happy to complain. Do you think your sister will like me?’ + +‘It is not possible she can do otherwise. I sent her a telegram this +morning telling her to expect us.’ + +‘She will be at the station to meet us, perhaps,’ said Lucille with an +alarmed look. + +‘It is just possible that she may.’ + +‘O Lucius, I begin to feel nervous. Is your sister a person who takes +violent likings and dislikings at first sight?’ + +‘No, dear. My sister has some claim to be considered sensible.’ + +‘But she is not dreadfully sensible, I hope; for in that case she might +think me foolish and emptyheaded.’ + +‘I will answer for her thinking no such thing.’ + +‘Can you really, Lucius? But is she like you?’ + +‘She is much better-looking than I am.’ + +‘As if that were possible,’ said Lucille archly. + +‘In your eyes of course it is not.’ + +‘Mrs. Bertram is a widow, is she not?’ asked Lucille. ‘Pray don’t think +me inquisitive; only you have told me so little, and I might make some +awkward mistake in talking to your sister.’ + +‘She is not a widow; but she is separated from her husband, who is a +scoundrel.’ + +‘I am so sorry.’ + +‘Yes, dear; her life, since girlhood, has been a sad one. She made that +one fatal mistake by which a woman can mar her existence—an unhappy +marriage.’ + +‘I shall be careful never to mention Mr. Bertram. Indeed, we shall have +an inexhaustible subject of conversation in you.’ + +‘You will soon wear that topic threadbare. After all, there is not +often much interest in the childhood of great men. Here we are at the +station.’ + +‘How short the journey has seemed!’ said Lucille. + +‘And yet we have been three hours on the road. Think of it as typical +of our life journey, dearest, which will seem only too brief if we but +travel together.’ + +The station was the most insignificant place in the world; yet all the +great folks who went to Mardenholme had to alight here. Foxley-road was +the name of the station, but Foxley itself was a long way off, so far +that the designation seemed intended to deceive. There was a stunted +omnibus to meet the train, labelled Mardenholme and Foxley—Foxley was +the name of that obscure spot where Geoffrey Hossack had found his +lost love—but not in the stunted omnibus was Lucille to travel to her +destination. Janet and Janet’s little girl were there to meet her in a +wagonette borrowed for the occasion, and driven by an ancient man in +knee-breeches, whose garments, though clean and tidy, diffused a faint +odour of pigs. + +Before Lucille had time to wonder how Janet would receive her, she +found herself in Janet’s arms. + +‘I am prepared to love you very dearly, for my brother’s sake and +for your own,’ said Janet with a calm protecting air, kissing the +poor little pale face. ‘I thought you’d like me to be here to meet +you and Lucille, Lucius; so I borrowed a neighbour’s wagonette and a +neighbour’s coachman.’ + +The piggy man grinned at the allusion. It was not often society +dignified him with the name of coachman; and he knew that his master +returned him in the tax-paper as an out-of-door labourer. + +Little Flossie was next kissed and admired, and introduced to her +future aunt. + +‘May I call you aunt Lucille, at once?’ she asked. + +‘Of course you may, darling.’ + +Lucille’s portmanteau was deposited by the side of the piggy man, and +they all mounted the wagonette, and drove off through lanes still gay +with wild flowers and rich with balmy odours even in the very death of +summer. Lucille was delighted with everything. + +‘You can’t imagine what a quiet corner of the earth you are coming to,’ +said Janet. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find it very dull.’ + +‘Not duller than Cedar House,’ interjected Lucius. + +‘And that you’ll soon grow tired of the place and of me.’ + +‘Dull with you! tired of you!’ exclaimed Lucille, putting her little +hand into Janet’s, ‘when I have been longing to know you.’ + +Half-an-hour’s drive in the jolting old wagonette brought them to +Foxley, the cluster of thatched cottages in the green hollow where +Geoffrey had discovered his lost love. Dahlias now bloomed in gaudy +variety to extinguish the few pale roses that lingered behind their +mates of the garden, like dissipated young beauties who stay latest at +a ball. There were even here and there early blooming china-asters, and +the Virginian creeper glowed redly on some cottage walls. Yet, despite +these evidences of advancing autumn, the spot was hardly less fair than +when Geoffrey had first seen it. There was that air of repose about the +scene, that soothing influence of placid dispassionate nature, which is +almost sweeter than actual beauty. No wide glory of landscape made the +traveller exclaim, no vast and various amphitheatre of wood and hill +startled him into wondering admiration; but the settled peacefulness of +the scene crept into his heart, and comforted his griefs. + +To the eyes of Lucille, fresh from the grimy barrenness of the Cedar +House garden, the spot seemed simply exquisite. What a perfume of clove +carnations in the garden! what a sweet scent of lavender in the little +white-curtained bedroom! And then how genial the welcome of the old +nurse, with her benevolent-looking mob-cap and starched white apron; +and what an interesting personage she appeared to Lucille! + +‘And you really remember Mr. Davoren when he was quite a little boy?’ +said Lucille, as the dame waited on her while she took off her bonnet. + +‘Remember him! I should think I did indeed, miss,’ exclaimed the dame. +‘I remember him so well as a boy, that it’s as much as I can do to +believe he can have growed into a man. “Can it really be him,” I says +to myself when I sees him come in at that gate just now, “him as I +remember in holland pinafores, two fresh ones every day, and never +clean half an hour after they were put on?”’ + +‘Did he make his pinafores very dirty?’ asked Lucille with a slight +revulsion of feeling. Lucius ought to have been an ideal boy, and +spotless as to his pinafores. + +‘There never was such a pickle, miss; but so kind and loving with it +all, and so bold and open. Never no fibbing with him. And many a pound +he’s sent me since I’ve lived here; though I don’t suppose he’s got too +many of ’em for hisself, bless his kind heart.’ + +Lucille rewarded the lips that praised her lover with a kiss. + +‘What a dear good soul you are!’ she said. ‘I’m so happy to have come +here.’ + +‘Yes, you’ll be happy with our Miss Janet, begging her pardon; but, +never having seen Mr. Bertram, I haven’t got him in my mind like when I +think of her. You’re sure to take to Miss Janet. She’s a little proud +and high in her ways to strangers, but she has as good a heart as her +brother.’ + +A nice little dinner had been prepared for the travellers. Lucius would +have only just time to dine, and then return to the station, in order +to be back in time for the Newhaven train from London-bridge. It would +be a hard day’s work for him altogether; but what was that when weighed +against the pleasure of having brought these two together thus—the +sister he loved and had once deemed lost, and the girl who was to be +his wife. + +The parting cost them all a pang, though he promised to come back in a +week, if all went well with him, and fetch Lucille. + +‘I could not stay away from my grandfather longer than that, Lucius,’ +she said; ‘and,’ in a lower tone, ‘it will seem a very long time to be +separated from you.’ + + + + +Book the Last. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +AT ROUEN. + + +It was still quite early in the day when Lucius entered Rouen, but the +bustle of commerce had begun upon the quays. Shrill voices bawled to +each other among the shipping, and it seemed as if a small slice of the +West India Docks had been transferred to this bluer stream. The bustle +of business here was a very small matter compared with the press and +clamour of the Shadrack-Basin district. Still the town had a prosperous +progressive air. Lofty stone-fronted mansions and lofty stone-fronted +warehouses glared whitely in the sunshine, some finished and occupied, +but more in process of construction. This mushroom growth of modern +commerce seemed to have risen all at once, to overshadow the quaint old +city where the warrior-maid was martyred. Lucius, who had not seen the +place for some years, looked round him aghast. This broad lime-white +boulevard, these tall lime-white buildings, were as new as Aladdin’s +palace. + +‘What has become of _my_ Rouen?’ he asked himself dejectedly. The city +had pleased him five years ago, when he and Geoffrey passed through +it during a long-vacation excursion, but the queer old gabled houses, +older than the Fronde—nay, many of them ancient as the famous Joan +herself—the archways, the curious nooks and corners, the narrow streets +and inconvenient footways, in a word, all that had made the city at +once delightful to the tourist and unwholesome for its inhabitants, +seemed to be extinguished by those new boulevards and huge houses. + +A quarter of an hour’s exploration, however, showed Lucius that +much that was interesting in _his_ Rouen still remained. There was +the narrow street with its famous sweetmeat shops, once the chief +thoroughfare; yonder the noble old cathedral; there St. Ouen, that +grandest and purest of Gothic churches. Modern improvement had not +touched these, save to renovate their olden splendour. + +The traveller did not even stop to refresh himself, but went straight +to the Rue Jeanne d’Arques, a narrow quiet street in an out-of-the-way +corner, behind the Palais de Justice; so quiet, indeed, that it was +difficult to imagine, in the gray stillness of this retreat, that the +busy, prosperous, Napoleonised city was near at hand. + +The street was as clean as it was dull, and had a peculiar neatness of +aspect, which is, as it were, the seal of respectability. A large white +Angora cat purred upon one of the doorsteps—a canary chirped in an open +window—a pair of mirrors attached to the sides of another casement, in +the Belgian fashion, denoted that there were some observing eyes which +did not deem even the scanty traffic of the Rue Jeanne d’Arques beneath +their notice. Most of the houses were in private occupation, but there +were two or three shops—one a lace-shop, another a watchmaker’s, and +the watchmaker’s was next door to Number 17. + +Lucius crossed to the opposite side of the way and inspected this +Number 17—the house from which Madame Dumarques, Lucille’s mother, +had written to Ferdinand Sivewright. It had no originality in its +physiognomy. Like the rest of the houses in the street, it was dull +and clean—like them it looked eminently respectable. It inspired no +curiosity in the observer—it suggested no mystery hidden among its +inhabitants. + +Should he pull that brightly-polished brass knob and summon the porter +or portress, and ask to see the present inmates of Number 17? There +might be two or three different families in the house, though it was +not large. His eye wandered to the watchmaker’s next door. A shop is +neutral ground, and a watchmaker’s trade is leisurely, and inclines its +practitioners to a mild indulgence in gossiping. The watchmaker would +in all probability know a good deal about Number 17, its occupants past +and present. + +Lucius recrossed the street and entered the watchmaker’s shop. He was +pleased to find that mechanician seated before the window examining the +intestines of a chronometer through a magnifying glass, but with no +appearance of being pressed for time. He was old and gray and small, +with a patient expression which promised good nature even towards a +stranger. + +Lucius gave a conciliatory cough and wished him good-morning, a +salutation which the watchmaker returned with brisk politeness. He gave +a sigh of relief and laid down the chronometer; as if he were rather +glad to be done with it for a little while. + +‘I regret to say that I do not come as a customer,’ said Lucius. The +watchmaker shrugged his shoulders and smiled, as who should say, +‘Fate does not always favour me.’ ‘I come rather to ask your kindly +assistance in my search for information about some people who may be +dead long ago, for anything I know to the contrary. Have you lived any +length of time in this street, sir?’ + +‘I have lived in this street all the time that I have lived at all, +sir,’ replied the watchmaker. ‘I was born in this house, and my father +was born here before me. There is a little notch in yonder door which +indicates my height at five years old; my father cut it in all the +pride of a paternal heart, my mother looking on with maternal love. My +aftergrowth did not realise the promise of that period.’ + +Lucius tried to look interested in this small domestic episode, but +failed somewhat in the endeavour; so eager was he to question the +watchmaker about the subject he had at heart. + +‘Did you ever hear the name of Dumarques in this street?’ he asked. + +‘Did I ever hear my own name?’ exclaimed the watchmaker. ‘One is not +more familiar to me than the other. You mean the Dumarques who lived +next door.’ + +‘Yes, yes—are they there still?’ + +‘They! They are dead. It is not every one who lives to the age of +Voltaire.’ + +‘Are they all dead?’ asked Lucius, disheartened. It seemed strange that +an entire family should be swept away within fifteen years. + +‘Well, no; I believe Julie Dumarques is still living. But she left +Rouen some years ago.’ + +‘Do you know where she has gone?’ + +‘She went to Paris; but as to her address in Paris—no, I do not know +that. But if it be vital to you to learn it—’ + +‘It is vital to me.’ + +‘I might possibly put you in the way of obtaining the information, or +procure it for you.’ + +‘I shall be most grateful if you can do me that favour. Any trifling +recompense which I can offer you—’ + +‘Sir, I require no reward beyond the consciousness of having performed +a worthy action. I am a disciple of Jean Jacques Rousseau; I live +entirely on vegetable diet; and I endeavour to assist my fellow +creatures.’ + +‘I thank you, sir, for your disinterested kindness. And now perhaps you +will lay me under a farther obligation by telling me all you can about +these neighbours of yours?’ + +‘Willingly, sir.’ + +‘Were they tradespeople, or what, these Dumarques?’ + +‘Wait a little, sir, and I will tell you everything,’ said Monsieur +Gastin, the little watchmaker. He ushered Lucius into a neat little +sitting-room, which was evidently also his bedchamber, installed him +in an arm-chair covered with bright yellow-velvet, took a second +yellow-velvet chair for himself, clasped his bony hands upon his +angular knee, and began his story. Through the half-glass door he +commanded an admirable view of his shop, and was ready to spring up at +any moment, should a customer invite his attention. + +‘Old André Dumarques, the father, had been in the cotton trade, when +the cotton trade, like almost every other trade, was a great deal +better than it is now. He had made a little money—not very much, but +just enough to afford him, when judiciously invested, an income that +he could manage to live upon. Another man with a family like his might +not have been able to live upon André Dumarques’ income; but he was a +man of penurious habits, and could make five-and-twenty centimes go +as far as half a franc with most people. He had married late in life, +and his wife was a good deal too young and too pretty for him, and the +neighbours did not fail to talk, as people do talk amongst our lively +nation, about such matters. But Madame Dumarques was a good woman, and +though every one knew pretty well that hers wasn’t a happy marriage, +still no name ever came of it. She did her duty, and slaved herself to +death to make both ends meet, and keep her house neat and clean. Number +seventeen was a model to the rest of the street in those days, I can +assure you.’ + +‘She slaved herself to death, you say, sir? What does that mean?’ +inquired Lucius. + +‘It means that she became _poitrinaire_ when her youngest daughter—she +had three daughters, but no son—was fifteen years old, and as pretty as +her mother at the same age. Everybody had seen the poor woman fading +gradually for the last six years, except her husband. He saw nothing, +till the stamp of death was on her face, and then he went on like a +madman. He spent his money freely enough then—had a doctor from Paris +even to see her, because he wouldn’t believe the Rouen doctors when +they told him his wife was past cure—and would have sacrificed anything +to save her; but it was too late. A little rest and a little pleasure +might have lengthened her life if she’d had it in time; but nothing +could save her now. She died: and I shall never forget old André’s face +when I saw him coming out of his house the day after her funeral.’ + +‘He had been fond of her, then?’ + +‘Yes, in his selfish way. He had treated her like a servant, and worse +than any servant in a free country would submit to be treated, and he +had expected her to wear like a machine. He had always been hard and +tyrannical, and his grief, instead of softening him, changed him for +the worse. He made his children’s home so wretched, that two of his +daughters—Julie and Félicie—went out to service. Their poor mother had +taught them all she could; for André Dumarques vowed he wouldn’t waste +his money on paying for his daughters to be made fine ladies. She had +been educated at the Sacré Cœur, and was quite a lady. She taught them +a good deal; but still people said they weren’t accomplished enough +to be governesses, so they got situations as lady’s-maids, or humble +companions, or something in that way.’ + +‘Was Félicie the youngest?’ + +‘Yes, and the prettiest. She was the image of her mother. The others +had too much of the father in them—thin lips, cold gray eyes, sharp +noses. She was all life and sparkle and prettiness; too pretty to go +out into the world among strangers at sixteen years old.’ + +‘Did she begin the world so young?’ + +‘She did. The neighbours wondered that the father should let her go. +I, who knew him, it may be, better than most people, for he made no +friends, ventured to say as much. “That is too pretty a flower to be +planted in a stranger’s garden,” said I. André Dumarques shrugged his +shoulders. “What would you?” he asked. “My children must work for their +living. I am too poor to keep them in idleness.” In effect, since his +wife’s death Dumarques had become a miser. He had been always mean. He +had now but one desire; and that was to hoard his money.’ + +‘Do you know to whom Félicie went, when she began the world?’ + +‘The poor child!—no, not precisely; not as to name and place. But it +was to an English lady she went—I heard as much as that; for, as I +said just now, Dumarques spoke more freely to me than to others. An +elderly English lady, an invalid, was passing through Rouen with her +brother, also elderly and English—she a maiden lady, he a bachelor. The +lady’s maid had fallen ill on the journey. They had been travelling in +Italy, Switzerland, heaven knows where, and the lady was in sore want +of an attendant; but she would have no common person, no peasant girl +who talked loud and ate garlic; she must have a young person of some +refinement, conversable—in brief, almost a lady. Her brother applied +to the master of the hotel. The master of the hotel knew something of +André Dumarques, and knew that he wanted to find situations for his +daughters. “I have the very thing at the ends of my fingers,” he said, +and sent his porter upon the spot with a note to Monsieur Dumarques, +asking him to bring one of his daughters. Félicie had been pining ever +since her mother’s death. She was most anxious to leave her home. +She accompanied her father to the hotel. The old lady saw her, was +delighted with her, and engaged her on the spot. That was how Félicie +left Rouen.’ + +‘Did you ever see her again?’ + +‘Yes, and how sorely changed! It was at least six years afterwards; and +I had almost forgotten that poor child’s existence. André Dumarques +was dead; he had died leaving a nice little fortune behind him,—the +fruit of deprivations that must have rendered his life a burden, poor +man,—and his eldest daughter, Hortense, kept the house. Julie had also +gone into service soon after Félicie left home. Hortense had kept +her father’s house ever since her mother’s death. She kept it still, +though there was now no father for whom to keep it. She must have been +very lonely, and though the house was a picture of neatness, it had +a melancholy air. Mademoiselle Dumarques kept three or four cats, +and one old servant who had been in the family for years; no one ever +remembered her being young, not even I, who approach the age of my +great countryman, Voltaire.’ + +‘And she came back—Félicie?’ asked Lucius, somewhat exercised in spirit +by the watchmaker’s _longueurs_. + +‘She came back; but, ah, how changed! It was more like the return of +a ghost from the grave than of that bright creature I remembered six +years before. I have no curiosity about my neighbours; and though I +love my fellow creatures in the abstract, I rarely trouble myself +about particular members of my race, unless they make some direct +appeal to my sympathy. Thus, had I been left to myself, I might have +remained for an indefinite period unaware of Félicie’s return. But I +have a housekeeper who has the faults as well as the merits of her sex. +While I devote my leisure to those classic writers who have rendered +my native land illustrious, she, worthy soul, gives her mind to the +soup, and the affairs of her neighbours. One morning, after an autumnal +night of wind and rain—a night upon which a humanitarian mind would +hardly have refused shelter to a strange cur—my housekeeper handed +me my omelet and poured out my wine with a more important air than +usual; and I knew that she was bursting to tell me something about my +neighbours. The omelet, in the preparation of which she is usually care +itself, was even a trifle burned.’ + +‘I hope you allowed her to relieve her mind.’ + +‘Yes, sir; I indulged the simple creature. You may hear her at this +moment, in the little court without yonder window, singing as she +works, not melodious but cheerful.’ + +This was in allusion to a monotonous twanging noise, something between +the Irish bagpipes and a Jew’s-harp, which broke the placid stillness +of the Rue Jeanne d’Arques. + +‘“Well, Margot,” I said in my friendly way, “what has happened?” She +burst forth at once like a torrent. “Figure to yourself then,” she +exclaimed, “that any one—a human being—would travel on such a night +as last night. You might have waded ankle deep upon the pavement.” +“People must travel in all weathers, my good Margot,” I replied +philosophically. I had not been obliged to go out myself during the +storm of the preceding evening, and was therefore able to approach the +subject in a calmly contemplative frame of mind. Margot shrugged her +shoulders, and nodded her head vehemently, till her earrings jingled +again. “But a woman, then!” she cried; “a young and beautiful woman, +for instance!” This gave a new interest to the subject. My philanthropy +was at once aroused. “A young and beautiful woman out in the storm last +night!” I exclaimed. “She applied for shelter here, perhaps, and you +accorded her request, and now fear that I shall disapprove. Margot, +I forgive you. Let me see this child of misfortune.” I was prepared +to administer consolation to the homeless wanderer, in the broadly +Christian spirit of the divine Jean Jacques Rousseau; but Margot began +to shake her head with incredible energy, and in effect, after much +circumlocution on her part, for she is of a loquacious disposition, I +obtained the following plain statement of facts.’ + +Here the little watchmaker, proud of his happy knack of rounding a +period, looked at Lucius for admiration; but seeing impatience rather +than approval indicated in his visitor’s countenance, he gave a +brief sigh, inwardly denounced the unsympathetic temperament of the +English generally, coughed, stretched out his neat little legs upon +the yellow-velvet footstool, stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his +waistcoat, and continued thus: + +‘Briefly, sir, Félicie Dumarques had returned. She had arrived during +that pitiless storm in a fiacre from the station, with luggage. My +housekeeper had heard the vehicle stop, and had run to the door in +time to see the traveller alight and enter the next house. She had +seen Félicie’s face by the light of the street-lamp, which, as you may +have observed, is near my door, and she told me how sadly the poor +girl was changed. “She looks as her mother did a year or two before +she died,” said Margot. “Her cheeks are thin, and there is a feverish +spot of colour on them, and her eyes are too bright. They have made her +work too hard in her situation. She was evidently not expected last +night, for the servant gave a scream when she saw her, and seemed quite +overcome with surprise. Then Mademoiselle Dumarques came down, and I +saw the sisters embrace. ‘Félicie!’ said Hortense. ‘Thou art like the +dead risen from the grave!’” And then the door shut, and my housekeeper +heard no more.’ + +‘You saw Félicie yourself, I suppose, afterwards?’ + +‘Yes. She passed my door now and then; but rarely, for she seldom went +out. Sometimes I used to run out and speak to her. I had known her +from her cradle, remember, and she had always seemed to like me in the +days when she was bright and gay. Now she had an air that was at once +listless and anxious, as if she had no interest in her present life, +but was waiting for something—sometimes hoping, sometimes fearing, and +never happy. She would speak to me in the old sweet voice that I knew +so well—her mother’s voice; but she rarely smiled, and if ever she +did, the smile was almost sadder than tears. Every time I saw her I +saw a change for the worse; and I felt that she had begun that journey +we must all take some day, even if we live to the age of the immortal +Voltaire.’ + +‘Did any one ever come to see her—a gentleman—an Englishman?’ inquired +Lucius. + +‘Ah,’ cried the watchmaker, ‘I see you know her history better than I. +Yes, an English gentleman did visit her. It was nearly a year after +her return that he came, in the middle of summer. He stayed a week at +the hotel, the same to which Félicie went to see the English lady with +whom she left Rouen. This gentleman used to spend most of his time next +door, and he and Félicie Dumarques drove about in a hired carriage +together to different places in the neighbourhood, and for the first +time since her return I saw Félicie with a happy look on her face. But +there was the stamp of death there too, clear and plain enough for any +eyes that could read; and I think the Englishman must have seen it as +well as I. Margot contrived to find out all that happened next door. +She told me that a grand physician had come from Paris to see Félicie +Dumarques, and had ordered a new treatment, which was to cure her. +And then I regret to say that Margot, who has a wicked tongue, began +to say injurious things about our neighbours. I stopped her at once, +forbidding her to utter a word to the discredit of Félicie Dumarques, +and a short time after Margot came to me once more full of importance, +to say that I was right and Félicie was an honest woman. The old +servant next door had told my housekeeper that the English gentleman +was Félicie’s husband. They had been married in England, but they were +obliged to keep their marriage a secret, on account of the Englishman’s +uncle, who would disinherit him if he knew his nephew had married a +lady’s-maid; for this gentleman was nephew of the invalid lady who had +taken Félicie away.’ + +‘I begin to understand,’ said Lucius, and then, producing the double +miniature, he showed the watchmaker the two portraits. + +‘Is either of those faces familiar to you?’ he asked. + +‘Both of them,’ cried the other. ‘One is a portrait of Félicie +Dumarques, in the prime of her beauty; the other of the Englishman who +came to visit her.’ + +‘Did you hear the Englishman’s name?’ inquired Lucius. + +‘Never, though Margot, who does not scruple to push curiosity to +impertinence, asked the direct question of the old servant next door. +She was repulsed with severity. “I have told you there is a secret,” +said the woman, “and it is one that can in no manner concern you. +Madame” (meaning Félicie) “is an angel of goodness. And do you think +Mademoiselle Hortense would allow the English gentleman to come here +if all was not right; she who is so correct in her conduct, and goes +to mass every day?” Even Margot was obliged to be satisfied with this. +Well, sir, the Englishman went away. I saw Félicie drive home in a +_voiture de remise_; she had been to the station to see him off. Great +Heaven, I never beheld so sad a face! “Alas, poor child,” I said to +myself, “all the physicians in Paris will never cure you, for you are +dying of sorrow!” And I was not far wrong, sir. The poor girl died in +less than a month from that day, and was buried on the hill yonder, by +the chapel of our Lady of Bons Secours.’ + +‘And her elder sister?’ + +‘Mademoiselle Hortense? She died two years ago, and lies yonder on the +hill with the rest of them.’ + +‘But one sister remains, you say?’ + +‘Yes, there is still Mademoiselle Julie. She went to Paris, to a +situation in a _magasin des modes_, I believe. She was always clever +with her needle.’ + +‘And you think you can procure me her present address in Paris?’ + +‘I believe I can, and without much difficulty. The house next door +belongs to Mademoiselle Dumarques. The present tenants must know her +address.’ + +‘I shall be beyond measure obliged again if you will obtain it for me.’ + +‘If you will be kind enough to call again this evening, I will make the +inquiry in the mean time.’ + +‘I thank you, sir, heartily. You have already given me some valuable +information, which may assist a most amiable young lady to regain her +proper place in the world.’ + +The disciple of Jean Jacques declared himself enraptured at the idea +that he had served a fellow creature. + +‘There is one point, however, that I might ascertain before I leave +Rouen,’ said Lucius, ‘and that is the name of Félicie’s husband. You +say he stayed at the same hotel at which Félicie had seen the English +lady. Which hotel was it?’ + +‘The Britannique.’ + +‘And can you give me the date of Félicie’s interview with the lady?’ + +The watchmaker shrugged his shoulders. + +‘I cannot say. The years in our quiet life are so much alike. Félicie +was away about six years.’ + +‘And I have a letter written by her after her return—dated. That +will give me an approximate date at any rate. I’ll try the Hôtel +Britannique.’ + +Lucius paused in his passage through the shop to select some trifling +articles from the watchmaker’s small stock of jewelry which might serve +as gifts for Lucille. Slender as his means were he could not leave a +service entirely unrequited. He bought a locket and a pair of earrings, +at the old man’s own price, and left him delighted with his visitor, +and pledged to obtain Mademoiselle Dumarques’ address, even should the +tenant of number seventeen prove unwilling to give it. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +THE STORY GROWS CLEARER. + + +The Britannique was a handsome hotel on the quay, bright of aspect and +many-balconied. The house had a busy look, and early as it was—not long +after noon—a long table in the gaily-decorated dining-room was already +laid for the table d’hôte. Thereupon Lucius beheld showy pyramids of +those woolly peaches and flavourless grapes and wooden pears which +seem peculiar to the soil of France—the Deadsea apples of a table +d’hôte dessert. Already napkins, spread fan-shape, adorned the glasses, +ranged in double line along the vast perspective of tablecloth. Waiters +were hurrying to and fro across the hall, chamber-maids bawled to +each other—as only French chamber-maids can bawl—on the steep winding +staircase. An insupportable odour of dinner—strongly flavoured with +garlic—pervaded the atmosphere. Tourists were hurriedly consulting +time-tables, as if on the point of departure; other tourists, just +arrived and burdened with luggage, were gazing disconsolately around, +as if doubtful of finding accommodation. Habitués of the hotel were +calmly smoking their midday cigarettes, and waiting for the dainty +little breakfast which the harassed cook was so slow to produce through +yonder hatch in the wall, to which hungry eyes glanced impatiently. + +In a scene so busy it hardly seemed likely that Lucius would find any +one willing to lend an ear, or to sit calmly down and thoughtfully +review the past, in order to discover the identity of those English +guests who had taken Félicie Dumarques away from her joyless home. He +made the attempt notwithstanding, and walked into a neat little parlour +to the left, where two disconsolate females—strangers to each other and +regardless of each other’s woes—were poring over the mysteries of a +couple of railway-guides; and where a calm-looking middle-aged female, +with shining black hair and neat little white-lace cap, sat at a desk +making out accounts. + +To this tranquil personage Mr. Davoren addressed himself. + +‘Could I see the proprietor of the hotel?’ + +The lady shrugged her shoulders dubiously. As a rule, she told Lucius, +the proprietor did not permit himself to be seen. He had his servants, +who arranged everything. + +‘Cannot I afford you any information you may require, monsieur?’ she +asked, with an agreeable smile. + +‘That, madame, will depend upon circumstances. May I ask how long you +have been in your present position?’ + +‘From the age of eighteen. Monsieur Dolfe—the proprietor—is my uncle.’ + +‘That may be at most ten years,’ said Lucius, with gallantry. + +‘It is more than twenty, monsieur.’ + +Lucius expressed his amazement. + +‘Yes, monsieur, I have kept these books more than twenty years.’ + +‘You must be very tired of them, I should think,’ said Lucius, who saw +that the lady was good-natured, and inclined to oblige him. + +‘I am accustomed to them, monsieur, and custom endears even the driest +duty. I took a week’s holiday at Dieppe last summer, for the benefit of +my health, but believe me I missed my books. There was a void. Pleasure +is all very well for people who are used to it, but for a woman of +business—that fatigues!’ + +‘The inquiry which I wish to make relates to some English people who +were staying for a short time in this house—about four-and-twenty +years ago, and whose names I am anxious to discover.’ + +Mademoiselle Dolfe elevated her black eyebrows to an almost hazardous +extent. + +‘But, monsieur, four-and-twenty years ago! You imagine that I can +recall visitors of four-and-twenty years ago? English visitors—and this +hotel is three-parts filled with English visitors every year from May +to October. Thirty English visitors will sit down to-day at our table +d’hôte, that is to say, English and American, all the same.’ + +‘It might be impossible to remember them unassisted; yet there are +circumstances connected with these people which might recall them to +you. But you have books in which visitors write their names?’ + +‘Yes, if it pleases them. They are even asked to write; but there is +no law to compel them; there is no law to prevent them writing a false +name. It is a mere formula. And if I can find the names, supposing you +to know the exact date, how are we to identify them with the people you +want? There are several names signed in the visitors’-book every day in +our busy season. People come and go so quickly. It is an impossibility +which you ask, monsieur.’ + +‘I think if I had time for a quiet chat with you I might bring back +the circumstances to your recollection. It is a very important matter—a +matter which may seriously affect the happiness of a person very dear +to me, or I would not trouble you.’ + +‘A person very dear to you! Your betrothed perhaps, monsieur?’ inquired +Mademoiselle Dolfe, with evident sympathy. + +Lucius felt that his cause was half won. + +‘Yes, madame,’ he said, ‘my betrothed, whose mother was a native of +your city.’ + +This clenched the matter. Mademoiselle Dolfe was soft-hearted and +sentimental. Even the books, and the perpetual adding-up of dinners +and breakfasts, service, appartements, bougies, siphons, bouteilles, +demi-bouteilles, and those fatal sundries which so fearfully swell +an hotel bill—even this hard exercise of an exact science had not +extinguished that vital spark of heavenly flame which Mademoiselle +Dolfe called her soul. She had been betrothed herself, once upon a +time, to the proprietor of a rival establishment, who had blighted +her affections by proving inconstant to his affianced, and only too +constant to the brandy-bottle. She had not forgotten that springtime of +the heart, those halcyon summer evenings when she and her Gustave had +walked hand-in-hand in the shadowy avenues across yonder bridge. She +sighed, and looked at Lucius with the glance of compassion. + +‘Would it be possible for you to give me half-an-hour’s quiet +conversation at any time?’ asked Lucius pleadingly. + +‘There is the evening,’ said Mademoiselle Dolfe. ‘My uncle is a severe +sufferer from gout, and rarely leaves his room; but I do not think he +would object to receive you in the evening for half an hour. He has +all the old books of the hotel in his room—they are indeed his only +library. When in want of a distraction he compares the receipts of past +years with our present returns, or examines our former tariffs, with +a view to any modification, the reduction or increase of our present +charges. If you will call this evening at nine o’clock, monsieur, I +will induce my uncle to receive you. His memory is extraordinary; and +he may be able to recall events of which I, in my frivolous girlhood, +took little notice.’ + +‘I shall be eternally obliged to him, and to you, madame,’ said Lucius. +‘In the mean time, if you will kindly send a porter for my bag, which I +left at the station, I will take up my abode here. I shall then be on +the spot whenever Monsieur Dolfe may be pleased to receive me.’ + +‘You will stay here to-night, monsieur?’ + +‘Yes, I will stay to-night. Unhappily I must go on to Paris to-morrow +morning.’ + +Mademoiselle Dolfe surveyed a table of numbers, and rang for a +chambermaid. + +‘Show this gentleman to number eleven,’ she said; and then, turning to +Lucius, she added graciously, ‘It is an airy chamber, giving upon the +river, monsieur, and has but been this instant vacated. I shall have a +dozen applications when the next train from Dieppe comes in.’ + +Lucius thanked Mademoiselle Dolfe for this mark of favour, and went +up to number eleven to refresh himself after his journey, with the +assistance of as much cold water as can be obtained by hook or by crook +in a foreign hotel. His toilet made, he descended to the coffee-room, +where he endeavoured to derive entertainment from a flabby Rouen +journal while his tardy breakfast was being prepared. This meal +dispatched, he went out into the streets of the city, looked for the +picturesque old bits he remembered on his last visit, mooned away a +pleasant hour in the cathedral, looked in at St. Ouen, and finished +his afternoon in the Museum of Arts, contemplating the familiar old +pictures, and turning the vellum leaves of a noble missal in the +library. + +He dined at the table d’hôte, and after dinner returned to the Rue +Jeanne d’Arques. + +The little watchmaker had a triumphant air, and at once handed him +a slip of flimsy paper with an address written on it in a niggling +fly-leggish caligraphy. + +‘I had a good deal of trouble with my neighbour,’ he said. ‘He is a +disagreeable person, and we have embroiled ourselves a little on the +subject of our several dustbins. He objects to vegetable matter; I +object more strongly to the shells of stale fish, of which he and +his lodgers appear to devour an inordinate quantity, judging from +the contents of his dustbin. When first I put the question about +Mademoiselle Dumarques I found him utterly impracticable. He knew +his landlady’s address, certainly, but it was not his business to +communicate her address to other people; she might object to have her +address made known; it might be a breach of confidence on his part. I +was not a little startled when, with a sudden burst of rage, he brought +his clenched fist down upon the table. “Sacrebleu!” he cried; “I +divine your intention. Traitor! You are going to write to Mademoiselle +Dumarques about my dustbin.” I assured him, as soon as I recovered my +scattered senses, that nothing was farther from my thoughts than his +dustbin. Nay, I suggested that we should henceforward regulate our +dustbins upon a system more in accord with the spirit of the _contrat +social_ than had hitherto prevailed between us. In a word, by some +judicious quotations from the inimitable Jean Jacques, I finally +brought him to a more amiable frame of mind, and induced him to give me +the address, and to tell me all he knows about Mademoiselle Dumarques.’ + +‘For which devotion to my cause I owe you a thousand thanks,’ said +Lucius. + +‘Nay, monsieur, I would do much more to serve a fellow creature. The +address you have there in your hand. It appears that Mademoiselle +Dumarques set up in business for herself some years ago at that +address, where she resides alone, or with some pupil to whom she +confides the secrets of her art.’ + +Lucius repeated his acknowledgments, and took his leave of the +loquacious watchmaker. But he did not quit the Rue Jeanne d’Arques +without pausing once more to contemplate the quiet old house in which +Lucille’s fair young mother had drooped and died, divided from her only +child, and in a measure deserted by her husband. A shadowed life, with +but a brief glimpse of happiness at best. + +He reëntered the hotel a few minutes before nine. The little office on +the left side of the hall, where Mademoiselle Dolfe had been visible +all day, and always employed, was abandoned. Mademoiselle had doubtless +retired into private life, and was ministering to her gouty uncle. +Lucius gave his card to a waiter, requesting that it might be taken to +Mademoiselle Dolfe without delay. The waiter returned sooner than he +could have hoped, and informed him that Monsieur and Mademoiselle would +be happy to receive him. + +He followed the waiter to a narrow staircase at the back of the house, +by which they ascended to the entresol. Here, in a small sitting-room, +with a ceiling which a moderate-sized man could easily touch with +his hand, Lucius beheld Monsieur Dolfe reposing in a ponderous +velvet-cushioned chair, with his leg on a rest; a stout man, with very +little hair on his head, but, by way of succedaneum, a gold-embroidered +smoking-cap. The small low room looked upon a courtyard like a +well, and was altogether a stifling apartment. But it was somewhat +luxuriously furnished, Lucius perceived by the subdued light of two +pair of wax candles—the unfinished bougies of the establishment were +evidently consumed here—and Monsieur Dolfe and his niece appeared +eminently satisfied with it, and entirely unaware that it was wanting +in airiness and space. + +The books of the hotel, bulky business-like volumes, were ranged on +a shelf in one corner of the room. Lucius’s eye took that direction +immediately; but Monsieur Dolfe was slow and pompous, and sipped his +coffee as if in no hurry to satisfy the stranger’s curiosity. + +‘I have told my uncle what you wish, Monsieur Davoren,’ said +Mademoiselle graciously, and with a pleading glance at the old +gentleman in the skull-cap. + +‘May I ask your motive in wishing to trace visitors of this +hotel—visitors of twenty-four years back?’ asked Monsieur Dolfe, with +an important air. ‘Is it a will case, some disputed testament, and are +you in the law?’ + +‘I am a surgeon, as my card will show you,’ said Lucius, ‘and the case +in which I am interested has nothing to do with a will. I wish to +discover the secret of a young lady’s parentage—a lady who at present +bears a name which I believe is not her own.’ + +‘Humph,’ said Monsieur Dolfe doubtfully; ‘and there is no reward +attaching to your inquiries—you gain nothing if successful?’ + +‘I may gain a father, or at least a father’s name, for the girl I +love,’ answered Lucius frankly. + +Monsieur Dolfe appeared disappointed, but Mademoiselle was enthusiastic. + +‘Ah, see you,’ she cried to her uncle, ‘is it not interesting?’ + +Lucius stated his case plainly. At the name of Dumarques Monsieur Dolfe +pricked up his ears. Something akin to emotion agitated his bloated +face. A quiver of mental pain convulsed his triple chin. + +‘You are familiar with the name of Dumarques?’ said Lucius, wondering. + +‘Am I familiar with it? Alas, I know it too well!’ + +‘You knew Félicie Dumarques?’ + +‘I knew Félicie Dumarques’ mother before she married that old skinflint +who murdered her.’ + +‘But, my uncle!’ screamed Mademoiselle. + +‘_Tais-toi_, child! I know it was slow murder. It came not within the +law. It was an assassination that lasted months and years. How often +have I seen that poor child’s pale face! No smile ever brightened it, +after her marriage with that vile miser. She did not weep; she did not +complain. The angels in heaven are not more spotless than she was as +wife and mother. She only ceased to smile, and she died by inches. No +matter that she lived twenty years after her marriage—it was gradual +death all the same.’ + +Monsieur Dolfe was profoundly moved. He pushed back his skull-cap, +exposing his bald head, which he rubbed despondently with his fat white +hand. + +‘Did I know her? We were neighbours as children. My parents and hers +lived side by side. Her father was a notary—above my father in station; +but she and I played together as children—went to the same school +together as little ones—for the notary was poor, and Lucille—’ + +‘Lucille!’ repeated Lucius. + +‘Yes, Madame Dumarques’ name was Lucille.’ + +‘I understand. Go on, pray, monsieur.’ + +‘Monsieur Valneau, Lucille’s father, was poor, I repeat, and the +children—there were several—were brought up anyhow. Thus we saw more +of each other than we might have done otherwise. Lucille and my sister +were fast friends. She spent many an evening in our house, which was +in many ways more comfortable than the wretched _troisième_ occupied +by the Valneau family. This continued till I was sixteen, and Lucille +about fourteen. No word of love had passed between us, as you may +imagine, at that early age; but I had shown my devotion to her as +well as a boy can, and I think she must have known that I adored her. +Whether she ever cared, even in the smallest degree, for me, is a +secret I shall never know. At sixteen years of age my father sent me +to Paris to learn my uncle’s trade—my uncle preceded me, you must know, +monsieur, in this house—and I remained there till I was twenty-three. +When I came back Lucille had been two years married to André Dumarques. +My sister had not had the heart to write me the news. She suffered +it to stun me on my return. Valneau’s difficulties had increased. +Dumarques had offered to marry Lucille and to help her family; so the +poor child was sacrificed.’ + +‘A sad story,’ said Lucius. + +‘And a common one,’ resumed Monsieur Dolfe. + +‘The young lady in whom I am interested—in a word, my promised wife—is +the granddaughter of this very Lucille Dumarques,’ said Lucius, to the +profound astonishment of Monsieur Dolfe. + +He produced the miniature, which served in some manner for his +credentials. + +‘I remember both faces,’ said Monsieur Dolfe. ‘Félicie Dumarques, +and the Englishman who stayed in this house for a week, and was seen +driving about the town with Félicie. Unhappily that set people talking; +but the poor child died only a month later, and carried her secret to +the grave.’ + +‘There was no shameful secret,’ said Lucius. ‘That man was Félicie’s +husband.’ + +‘Are you sure of that?’ + +‘I have it from the best authority. And now, monsieur, you will do me a +service if you can recall the name of that Englishman.’ + +‘But it is difficult,’ exclaimed Monsieur Dolfe. ‘I was never good at +remembering names, even of my own nation, and to remember an English +name after twenty years—it is impossible.’ + +‘Not twenty years. It cannot be more than eighteen since that +Englishman was in Rouen. But do not trouble yourself, Monsieur Dolfe. +Even if you remembered, it might be but wasted labour. This gentleman +was especially anxious to keep his marriage a secret. He would +therefore most likely come here in an assumed name.’ + +‘If he troubled himself to give us any name at all,’ said Monsieur +Dolfe. ‘Many of our guests are nameless—we know them only as Number 10 +or Number 20, as the case may be.’ + +‘But there is a name which I should be very glad if you could +recall, and that is the name of the lady and gentleman—brother and +sister—elderly people—who took Félicie Dumarques away with them, as +attendant to the lady, when she left Rouen. As you were interested in +the Dumarques’ family, that is a circumstance which you may possibly +remember.’ + +‘I recall it perfectly,’ cried Monsieur Dolfe, ‘that is to say, +the circumstance, but as for the name, it is gone out of my poor +head. But in this case I think the books will show. Tell me the +year—four-and-twenty years ago, you say. It was in the autumn, I +remember. They had been here before, and were excellent customers. The +lady an invalid, small, pale, fragile. The gentleman also small and +pale, but apparently in fair health. He had a valet with him. But the +lady’s-maid had fallen ill on the road. They had sent her back to her +people. But I remember perfectly. It was my idea to recommend Félicie +Dumarques. Her father, with whom I kept on civil terms—in my heart of +hearts I detested him, but an hotel-keeper must have no opinions—had +told me his youngest girl was unhappy at home since her mother’s death, +and wanted a situation as useful companion—or even maid—to a lady. The +little pale old lady looked as if she would be kind—the little pale +old gentleman was evidently rich. There could not be much work to do, +and there would doubtless be liberal pay. In a word, the situation +seemed made for Félicie. I sent for her—the old lady was delighted, and +engaged her on the spot. She was to have twenty-five pounds a year, and +to be treated like a lady. There is the whole story, monsieur.’ + +‘A thousand thanks for it. But the name.’ + +‘Ah, how you are impatient! We will come to that presently. Think, +Florine,’ to Mademoiselle Dolfe, who rejoiced in this euphonious name, +‘you were a girl at the time, but you must have some recollection of +the circumstances.’ + +Florine Dolfe shook her head with a sentimental air; indeed, sentiment +seemed to run in the Dolfe family. + +‘Alas, I remember but too well,’ she said. ‘It was in the year +when—when I believed that there was perfect happiness upon the earth;’ +namely, before she had been jilted by the faithless Gustave. ‘It was +early in September.’ + +‘Bring me volume six of the daybook and volume one of the +visitors’-book,’ said Monsieur Dolfe, pointing to the shelves. + +His niece brought two bulky volumes, and laid them on the table before +the proprietor. He turned the leaves with a solemn air, as if he had +just completed the purchase of the last of the Sibylline volumes. + +‘September ’41,’ said Monsieur Dolfe, running his puny forefinger along +the list of names. ‘2d, Binks, Jones, Dulau, Yokes, Stokes, Delphin.’ +Lucius listened intently for some good English name with the initial G. +‘3d, Purdon, Green, Vancing, Thomas, Binoteau, Gaspard, Smith.’ Lucius +shook his head despondently. ‘4th, Lomax, Trevor, Dupuis, Glenlyne.’ + +Lucius laid his hand on the puffy forefinger. + +‘Halt there,’ he said, ‘that sounds like a good name.’ + +‘Good name or bad name,’ exclaimed the proprietor, ‘those are the +people—Mr. Reginald Glenlyne, Miss Glenlyne, and servant, from +Switzerland, _en route_ for London. Those are the people. Yes, I +remember perfectly. Now look at the daybook.’ + +He opened the other Sibylline volume, found the date, and pointed +triumphantly to the page headed ‘Numbers 5, 6, and 7,’ beneath which +heading appeared formidable entries of _recherché_ dinners, choice +wines, _bougies_, innumerable teas, coffees, soda-waters, baths, +_voitures_, &c. &c. + +‘They occupied our principal suite of apartments,’ said Monsieur Dolfe +grandly; ‘the apartment we give to ambassadors and foreign potentates. +There is no doubt about it—these are the people.’ + +Monsieur Dolfe might have added, that in this age of economic and +universal travelling he did not often get such good customers. Such +thought was in his mind, but Monsieur Dolfe respected the dignity of +his proprietorial position, and did not give the thought utterance. + +This was a grand discovery. Lucius considered that to have found out +the name of these people was a strong point. If the man who signed +himself H. G. was this lady’s nephew, his name was in all probability +Glenlyne also. The initial being the same, it was hardly too much to +conclude that he was a brother’s son, and bore the family name of +his maiden aunt. Lucius felt that he could now approach Mademoiselle +Dumarques in a strong position. He knew so much already that she would +scarcely refuse him any farther information that it was in her power to +give. + +He had nothing to offer Monsieur and Mademoiselle Dolfe except the +expression of his gratitude, and that was tendered heartily. + +‘If ever I am happy enough to marry the young lady I have told you +about, I will bring my wife here on our wedding tour,’ he said; a +declaration at which Mademoiselle Dolfe melted almost to tears. + +‘I should be very glad to see Lucille Valneau’s granddaughter,’ said +Monsieur Dolfe. He too remembered the halcyon days of youth, when he +had loved and dreamed his dream of happiness. + +Lucius slept more soundly than he had slept for many nights on the +luxurious spring mattresses of number eleven, lulled by the faint +ripple of the river, the occasional voices of belated pedestrians +softened by distance, the hollow tramp of footsteps on the pavement. +He rose early, breakfasted, and set out for the cemetery on the hill, +where, after patient search, he found the Dumarques’ grave. All the +family, save Julie, slumbered there. Lucille Dumarques, the faithful +and beloved wife of André Dumarques—_Priez pour elle_—and then André +Dumarques, and then Félicie, aged twenty-four; here there was no +surname—only ‘Félicie, daughter of the above-named André Dumarques;’ +and then Hortense, at the riper age of forty-one. The grave was +gaily decked with a little blue-and-gold railing, enclosing a tiny +flower-garden, where chrysanthemums and mignonette were blooming in +decent order. The sister in Paris doubtless paid to have this family +resting-place kept neatly. + +Here Lucius lingered a little while, in meditative mood, looking down +at the noble curve of the widening river—the green Champagne country on +the opposite shore—and thinking of the life that had ended in such deep +sadness. Then he gathered a sprig of mignonette for Lucille, put it +carefully in his pocket-book, and departed in time to catch the midday +train for Paris. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +JULIE DUMARQUES. + + +Mademoiselle Dumarques had thriven in a quiet steady-going way. She +had not risen to be a court milliner. She did not give fashions to +Europe, America, and the colonies, or employ the genius of rising +draughtsmen to design her costumes. She was of the _bourgeoisie_, and +lived by the _bourgeoisie_. Her abode was a second floor in one of +the quiet respectable streets in that half-deserted quarter of Paris +which lies on the unfashionable side of the Seine; an eminently gloomy +street which seemed to lead to nowhere, but was nevertheless the abode +of two or three important business firms. Here Mademoiselle Dumarques +confectioned gowns and bonnets, caps and mantles, on reasonable terms, +and in strict accordance with the fashions of last year. + +Lucius ascended a dingy staircase, odorous with that all-pervading +smell of stewed vegetables which is prone to distinguish French +staircases—an odour which in some manner counterbalances the +advantages of that more savoury _cuisine_, so often vaunted by the +admirers of French institutions to the discredit of British cooks. A +long way up the dingy staircase Lucius discovered a dingy door, on +which, by the doubtful light, he was just able to make out the name of +‘Mademoiselle Dumarques, Robes et Chapeaux.’ He rang a shrill bell, +which summons produced a shrill young person in a rusty-black silk +gown, who admitted him with a somewhat dubious air, as if questioning +his ability to order a gown or a bonnet. The saloon into which he was +ushered had a tawdry faded look. A few flyblown pink tissue-paper +models of dresses, life size, denoted the profession of its occupant. +A marble-topped commode was surmounted by a bonnet, whose virgin +beauties were veiled by yellow gauze. The room was clean and tidily +kept, but was spoiled by that cheap finery which is so often found +in a third-rate French apartment. A clock which did not go; a pair +of lacquered candelabra, green with age, yet modern enough to be +commonplace; a sofa of the first empire, originally white and gold, but +tarnished and blackened by the passage of time; chairs, velvet-covered, +brass-nailed, and clumsy; carpet threadbare; curtains of a gaudy +imitation tapestry. + +Mademoiselle Dumarques emerged from an inner chamber with a mouthful of +pins, which she disposed of in the band of her dress as she came. She +was tall, thin, and sallow, might once have been passably good-looking, +but was in every respect unlike the portrait of Félicie. + +‘I come, madame,’ said Lucius, after the politest possible reception +from the lady, who insisted that he should take the trouble to seat +himself in one of the uncomfortably square arm-chairs, whose angles +were designed in defiance of the first principles of human anatomy—‘I +come to speak to you of a subject which I cannot doubt is very near to +your heart. I come to speak of the dead.’ + +Mademoiselle Dumarques looked at him wonderingly, but said nothing. + +‘I come to you on an important matter connected with your sister, +Mademoiselle Félicie, afterwards Mrs. Glenlyne.’ + +He made a bold plunge; for, after all, the name might not have been +Glenlyne; and even if it were, Mademoiselle Dumarques might have known +nothing about it. But the name elicited no expression of surprise from +Mademoiselle Dumarques. She shook her head pensively, sighed, wiped +away a tear from her sharp black eyes, and then asked, + +‘What can you have to say to me about my sister, Madame Glenlyne?’ + +The name was evidently right. + +‘I come to you to speak of her only child, Lucille; who has been +brought up in ignorance of her parents, and whom it is my wish to +restore to her rightful position in society.’ + +‘Her rightful position!’ cried Julie Dumarques, with a scornful look +in her hard pinched face; ‘her rightful position in society, as a +milliner’s niece! You are vastly mistaken, sir, if you suppose that it +is in my power to assist my niece. I find it a hard struggle to support +myself by the labour of my hands.’ + +‘So,’ thought Lucius, ‘Mademoiselle Julie inherits her father’s miserly +nature. She has a house in Rouen which must bring her in seventy to a +hundred pounds a year, and she has a fairly prosperous business, but +repudiates the claims of her niece. Hard world, in which blood is no +thicker than water. Thank Heaven, my Lucille needs nothing from her +kindred.’ + +‘I am happy to tell you, madame,’ he said after a little pause, ‘that +Miss Glenlyne asks and requires no assistance from you or any other +relative.’ + +‘I am very glad to hear that,’ answered Mademoiselle Julie. ‘Of course +I should be pleased to hear of the poor child’s welfare, though I +have never seen her face, and though her mother treated me in no very +sisterly spirit, keeping from me the secret of her marriage, while she +confided it to my sister Hortense. True that I was here at the time of +her return to Rouen, and too busy to go yonder to see her. The tidings +of her death took me by surprise. I had no idea of her danger, or I +should naturally have gone to see her. But as for Félicie’s marriage or +the birth of her child, I knew nothing of either event till after the +death of my sister Hortense, when I found some letters and a kind of +journal, kept by poor Félicie, among her papers.’ + +‘Will you let me see that journal and those letters?’ asked Lucius +eagerly. + +‘I should hardly be justified in showing them to a stranger.’ + +‘Perhaps not; but although a stranger to you, mademoiselle, I have a +strong claim upon your kindness in this matter.’ + +‘Are you a lawyer?’ + +‘No. I have no mercenary interest in this matter. Your niece, Lucille +Glenlyne, is my promised wife.’ + +He produced the double miniature and the packet of letters. + +‘These,’ he said, ‘will show you that I do not come to you unacquainted +with the secrets of your sister’s life. My desire is to restore Lucille +to her father, if he still lives; or, in the event of his death, to win +for her at least a father’s name.’ + +‘And a father’s fortune!’ exclaimed Mademoiselle Julie hastily; ‘my +niece ought not to be deprived of her just rights. This Mr. Glenlyne +was likely to inherit a large fortune. I gathered that from his letters +to my sister.’ + +‘Yet in all these years you have made no attempt to seek out your +niece, or to assist her in establishing her rights,’ said Lucius, with +some reproach in his tone. + +‘In the first place, I had no clue that would assist such a search,’ +answered Julie Dumarques, ‘and in the second place, I had no money +to spend on lawyers. I had still another reason—namely, my horror of +crossing the sea. But with you the case is different—as my niece’s +affianced husband, you would profit by any good fortune that may befall +her.’ + +‘Believe me, that contingency is very far from my thoughts. I want to +do my duty to Lucille; but a life of poverty has no terror for me if it +be but shared with her.’ + +‘The young are apt to take that romantic view of life,’ said +Mademoiselle Dumarques, with a philosophic air; ‘but their ideas are +generally modified in after years. A decent competence is the only +solace of age;’ and here she sighed, as if that decent competence were +not yet achieved. + +‘Will you let me see those letters, mademoiselle?’ asked Lucius, coming +straight to the point. ‘I have shown you my credentials; those letters +in your sister’s hand must prove to you that I have some interest in +this case, even should you be inclined to doubt my own word.’ + +Mademoiselle shrugged her shoulders, in polite disavowal of any such +mistrust. + +‘I have no objection to your looking over the letters, in my presence,’ +she said; ‘and I hope, if by my assistance my niece obtains a fortune, +she will not forget her poor aunt Julie.’ + +‘I doubt not, mademoiselle, that the niece will show more consideration +for the aunt than the aunt has hitherto shown for the niece.’ + +Mademoiselle Dumarques sighed plaintively. ‘What was I to do, monsieur, +with narrow means, and an insurmountable terror of crossing the sea?’ + +‘The transit from Calais to Dover is no doubt appalling,’ said Lucius. + +Mademoiselle Dumarques took him into her den; or the laboratory in +which she concocted those costumes which were to ravish the Parc +Monceau or the Champs Elysées on a Sunday afternoon. It was a small and +stifling apartment behind the saloon in which mademoiselle received +her customers—a box of a room ten feet by nine, smelling of coffee, +garlic, and a suspicion of cognac, and crowded with breadths of stuff +and silk, lining, pincushions, yard measures, paper patterns, and +all the appliances of the mantuamaker’s art. Here the shrill-voiced +young apprentice stitched steadily with a little clicking noise, +while Mademoiselle Dumarques opened a brass-inlaid desk, and produced +therefrom a small packet of papers. + +Lucius seated himself at a little table by the single window, and +opened this packet. + +There were about a dozen letters, some of them love-letters, written +to a person of humbler station than the writer. Vague at first, and +expressing only a young man’s passion for a lovely and attractive girl; +then plainly and distinctly proposing marriage ‘since my Félicie is +inexorable on this point,’ said the writer, ‘but our marriage must +be kept a secret for years to come. You must tell my aunt that you +are summoned home by your father, and leave abruptly, not giving her +or my uncle time for any inquiries. You can let a servant accompany +you to the station, taking your luggage with you, and you can leave +by the eight-o’clock train for Newhaven before that servant’s eyes. +At Croydon I will meet you, get your luggage out of the van, and +bring you back to London in time for our marriage to take place at +the church in Piccadilly by half-past eleven that morning. We are +both residents in the parish, so there will be no difficulty about +the license, only to avoid all questioning I shall have to describe +you as an Englishwoman, and of age. I have heard of a cottage near +Sidmouth, in Devonshire, which I think will suit us delightfully for +our home; an out-of-the-way quiet nook, from which I can run up to +London when absolutely necessary. My uncle is anxious that I should +take my degree, as you know. So I may have to spend some months of the +next two years at Oxford; but even that necessity needn’t part us, as +I can get a place somewhere on the river, at Nuneham, for instance, +for you. Reading for honours will be a good excuse for continued and +close retirement, and will, I think, completely satisfy the dear old +uncle—whom, even apart from all considerations about the future, I +would not for worlds offend. Would that he could see things with my +eyes, dearest; but you know I did once sound him as to a marriage with +one in all things my superior except in worldly position, and he met +me with a severity that appalled me. Good as he is in many ways, he +is full of prejudice, and believes the Glenlynes are a little more +exalted than the Guelphs or the Ghibelines. So we must fain wait, not +impatiently but resignedly, till inevitable death cuts the knot of our +difficulties. Heaven is my witness that if evil wishes could injure, no +wicked desire of mine should hasten my uncle’s end by an hour; but he +is past sixty, and has aged a good deal lately, so it is not in nature +that his life can long stand between us and the avowal of our union.’ + +This was the last of the lover’s letters; the next Lucius found in the +little packet was from the husband, written some years later—written +when Félicie had returned to Rouen. + +This letter was despondent, nay, almost despairing, or rather, +expressive of that impatience which men call despair. + +The writer, who in all these letters signed himself in full, Henry +Glenlyne, had failed to get his degree; had been, in his own words, +ignominiously plucked; but that was an event of two years ago, to which +he referred, retrospectively, as a cause of discontent in his uncle. + +‘The fact is, I’ve disappointed him, Félicie, and a very little more +would induce him to throw me over altogether, and leave his estate +to the Worcestershire Glenlyne Spaldings—my natural enemies, who +have courted him assiduously for the last thirty years. The sons are +Cambridge men, models of propriety; senior wranglers, prizemen, and +heaven knows what else, and of course have done their best to undermine +me. Yet I know the dear old man loves me better than the whole lot of +them—to be at once vulgar and emphatic—and that unless I did something +to outrage his pet prejudice, he would never dream of altering his +will, charm they never so wisely. But to declare our marriage at such +a time as this would be simple madness, and is not to be thought of. +You must keep up your spirits, my dearest girl. If I can bring the +little one over to Rouen, I’ll do it; but I have a shrewd notion that +my uncle has spies about him, and that my movements are rather closely +watched, no doubt in the interests of the Glenlyne Spaldings; your +expectant legatees have generally their paid creature in the testator’s +household; so it would be difficult for me to bring her myself, and +it is just the last favour I could ask of Sivewright, as he profits +by the charge of her. It would be like asking him to surrender the +goose that lays golden eggs; and remember, whatever the man may be, +he has done us good service; for had he not passed himself off as +your husband when my uncle swooped down upon us that dreadful day at +Sidmouth, the whole secret would have been out, and I beggared for +life. I had a peep at the little pet the other day; she is growing +fast, and growing prettier every day, and seems happy. Strange to say, +she is passionately fond of Ferdinand, who, I suppose, spoils her, and +she looked at me with the most entire indifference. I felt the sting +of this strangeness. But in the days to come I will win her love back +again, or it shall go hard with me.’ + +Then came a still later letter. + + ‘My Darling,—I am inexpressibly grieved to hear of your weak health. + I shall come over again directly I can get away from my uncle, and + will, at any risk, bring Lucille with me. At this present writing it + is absolutely impossible for me to get away. My uncle is breaking + fast, and I much fear the G. Spaldings are gaining ground. The senior + wrangler is going to make a great marriage; in fact, the very match + which my uncle tried to force upon me. This is a blow—for the old man + is warmly attached to the young lady in question, and even thinks, + entirely without reason, that I have treated her badly. However, I + must trust to his long-standing affection for me to vanquish the + artifices of my rivals. I hardly think that he could bring himself to + disinherit me after so long allowing me to consider myself his heir. + Keep up your spirits, my dear Félicie; the end cannot be far off, and + rich or poor, believe in the continued devotion of your faithfully + attached husband, + + ‘HENRY GLENLYNE. + + ‘_The Albany._’ + +This was the letter of a man of the world, but hardly the letter of a +bad man. The writer of that letter would scarcely repudiate the claim +of an only daughter, did he still live to acknowledge her. + +The journal, written in a russia-leather covered diary, consisted of +only disjointed snatches, all dated at Rouen, in the last year of the +writer’s life, and all full of a sadness bordering on despair—not the +man’s impatience of vexation and trouble, but the deep and settled +sorrow of a patient unselfish woman. Many of the lines were merely +the ejaculations of a troubled spirit, brief snatches of prayer, +supplications to the Mother of Christ to protect the motherless child; +utterances of a broken heart, penitential acknowledgments of an act of +deceit, prayers for forgiveness of a wrong done to a kind mistress. + +One entry was evidently written after the receipt of the last letter. +It was at the end of the journal, and the hand that inscribed the lines +had been weak and tremulous. + +‘He cannot come to me, yet there is no unkindness in his refusal. He +promises to come soon, to bring the darling whose tender form these +arms yearn to embrace, whose fair young head may never more recline +on this bosom. O, happy days at Sidmouth, how they come back to me in +sweet delusive dreams! I see the garden above the blue smiling sea. I +hold my little girl in my arms, or lead her by her soft little hand +as she toddles in and out among the old crooked apple-trees in the +orchard. Henry has promised to come in a little while; but Death comes +faster, Death knows no delays. I did not wish to alarm my husband. I +would not let Hortense write, for she would have told him the bitter +truth. Yet, I sometimes ask myself sadly, would that truth seem bitter +to him? Might not my death bring him a welcome release? I know that +he has loved me. I can but remember that we spent four happy years +together in beautiful England; but when I think of the difficulties +that surround him, the ruin which threatens him, can I doubt that my +death will be a relief to him? It will grieve that kind heart, but it +will put an end to his troubles. God grant that when I am gone he may +have courage to acknowledge his child! The fear that he may shrink +from that sacred duty racks my heart. Blessed Mother, intercede for my +orphan child!’ + +Then came disjointed passages—passages that were little more than +prayer. Here and there, mingled with pious hopes, with spiritual +aspirations, came the cry of human despair. + +‘Death comes faster than my husband. My Henry, I shall see thee no +more. Ah, if thou lovest me, my beloved, why dost thou not hasten? +It is hard to die without one pitying look from those dear eyes, one +tender word from that loved voice. Hast thou forgotten thy Félicie, +whom thou didst pursue so ardently five years ago? I wait for thee now, +dear one; but the end is near. The hope of seeing thee once again fades +fast. Wilt thou have quite forgotten me ere we meet in heaven? A long +life lies before thee; thou wilt form new ties, and give to another +the love that was once Félicie’s. In that far land where we may meet +hereafter thou wilt look on me with unrecognising eyes. O, to see thee +once more on earth—to feel thy hand clasping mine as life ebbs away!’ + +Lucius closed the little book with a sigh. Alas, how many a woman’s +life ends thus, with a broken heart! Happy those finer natures whose +fragile clay survives not the shattered lamp of the soul! There are +some fashioned of a duller stuff, in whom the mere habit of life +survives all that gave life its charm. + +This was all that letters or journal could tell the investigator. But +Lucius told himself that the rest would be easy to discover. He had +name, date, locality. The name, too, was not a common name; Burke’s +_Landed Gentry_ or _County Families_ would doubtless help him to +identify that Henry Glenlyne who married Félicie Dumarques at the +church in Piccadilly. These letters had done much; for they had assured +him of Lucille’s legitimacy. This made all clear before him; he need no +longer fear to pluck the curtain from the mystery of the past, lest he +should reveal a story of dishonour. + +He took some brief notes from Mr. Glenlyne’s letter, and thanked +Mademoiselle Dumarques for her politeness, promising that if the niece +should profit by the use of these documents, the aunt should be amply +requited for any assistance they afforded; and then he took a courteous +leave of the dressmaker and her apprentice, the monotonous click of +whose needle had not ceased during his visit. + +It was four o’clock in the afternoon when Lucius left Mademoiselle +Dumarques. He had thought of getting back to Dieppe in time for that +evening’s boat, so as to arrive in London by the following morning—he +had taken a return ticket by this longer but cheaper route. He found, +however, that the strain upon his attention during the last forty-eight +hours, the night journey by Newhaven and Dieppe, combined with many an +anxious day and night in the past, had completely worn him out. + +‘I must have another night’s rest before I travel, or I shall go off my +head,’ he said to himself. ‘I am beginning to feel that confused sense +of time and place which is the forerunner of mental disturbance. No; it +would be of some importance to me to save a day, but I won’t run the +risk of knocking myself up. I’ll go back to Dieppe by the next train, +and sleep there to-night.’ + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +COMING TO MEET HIS DOOM. + + +The passage from Dieppe to Newhaven was of the roughest. Lucius beheld +his fellow voyagers in the last stage of prostration, and prescribed +for more than one forlorn female on whom the sea malady had fastened +with alarming grip. The steamer was one scene of suffering, and +Lucius, being happily exempt from the common affliction, did his best +to be useful, so far as the limited means of treatment on board the +vessel enabled him. The wind was high, and the passengers on board +the Newhaven boat, who had never seen the waves that beat against the +rock-bound coast of Newfoundland, thought that shipwreck was within +the possibilities of the voyage, and asked the captain with doleful +countenances if he thought they should ever reach Newhaven. + +It was late in the evening when the train from Newhaven deposited +Lucius at London-bridge. But late as it was, he took a cab, left his +bag at his own door, and then went on to Cedar House. His first duty, +he told himself, was to Homer Sivewright, the old man who had so fully +trusted him, and so reluctantly parted with him. + +As he drove towards the house, he had that natural feeling of anxiety +which is apt to arise after absence from any scene in which the +traveller is deeply interested—a vague dread, a lurking fear that +although, according to human foresight, all should have gone well, yet +some unforeseen calamity, some misfortune unprovided against, may have +arisen in the interval. + +The night was cloudy and starless, cold too. The wind, which had been +rising all day, now blew a gale, and all the dust of the day’s traffic +was blown into the traveller’s face as he drove along the broad and +busy highway. That north-east wind shrieked shrilly over the housetops +of the Shadrack district, and one might prophesy the fall of many a +loose slate and the destruction of many a flowerpot, hurled untimely +from narrow window-sills, ere the hurricane exhausted its fury. The +leaden cowls that surmounted refractory chimneys spun wildly round +before the breeze, and in some spots, where tall shafts clustered +thickly and cowls were numerous, seemed in their vehement gyrations to +be holding a witch’s Sabbath in honour of the storm. + +That north-easter had a biting breath, and chilled the blood of the +Shadrackites till they were moved to dismal prophecies of a hard +winter. ‘We allus gets a hard winter when the heckwinockshalls begins +hearly,’ says one gentleman in the coal-and-potato line to another. And +the north-easter howls its dreary dirge, as if it said, ‘Cry aloud and +lament for the summer that is for ever gone, for southern breezes and +sunny days that return no more.’ + +Cedar House looked more than usually darksome after the brighter skies +and gayer colours of a French city. Those dust and smoke laden old +trees, lank poplars, which swayed and rocked in the gale, that gloomy +wall, those blank-looking windows above it, inspired no cheering +thoughts. There was no outward sign to denote that any one lay dead in +the house; but it seemed no fitting abode for the living. + +As the hansom came aground against the curbstone in front of the tall +iron gate, Lucius was surprised to see a stout female with a bundle +ring the bell. She clutched her bundle with one hand, and carried a +market-basket on the other arm, and that process of ringing the bell +was not performed without some slight difficulty. Lucius jumped out of +the cab and confronted the stout female. + +‘Mrs. Milderson!’ he exclaimed, surprised, as the woman grasped her +burdens and struggled against the wind, which blew her scanty gown +round her stout legs, and tore her shawl from her shoulders, and +mercilessly buffeted her bonnet. + +‘Yes, sir, begging your parding, which I just stepped round to my place +to get a change of linen, and a little bit of tea and an odd and end of +groshery at Mr. Binks’s in Stevedor-street; for there isn’t a spoonful +of decent tea to be got at the grosher’s round about here, which I +tell Mrs. Magsby when she offers uncommon kind to fetch any errands I +may want. The wind has been that strong that it’s as much as I could +do to keep my feet, particklar at the corners. It’s blowin’ a reglar +gale. Hard lines for them poor souls at sea, I’m afeard, sir, and no +less than three hundred and seventy-two immigrins went out of the +Shadrack-basin this very day to Brisbian, which my daughter Mary Ann +saw the wessle start—a most moving sight, she says.’ + +Mrs. Milderson talked rather with the air of a person who wishes +to ward off a possible reproof by the interesting nature of her +conversation. But Lucius was not to be diverted by Brisbane emigrants. + +‘I don’t think it was in our agreement that you were to leave your +patient, Mrs. Milderson,’ said he; ‘above all, during my absence.’ + +‘Lor bless you, Dr. Davoren, I haven’t been away an hour and a half, +or from that to two hours at most. I only just stepped round to my own +place, and took the grosher’s coming back. I’d scarcely stop to say +three words to Mary Ann, which she thought it unkind and unmotherly, +poor child, being as she has one leg a little shorter than the other, +and was always a mother’s girl, and ‘prenticed to the dressmaking at +fourteen year old. Of course if I’d a’ knowed you’d be home to-night, +I’d have put off going; but as to the dear old gentleman, I left him as +comfortable as could be. He took his bit of dinner down-stairs in the +parlour, and eat the best part of as prime a mutton-chop as you could +wish to set eyes on; but he felt a little dull-like in that room, he +said, without his granddaughter, “though I’m very glad she’s enjoying +the fresh country air, poor child,” he says; so he went up to his +bedroom again before seven o’clock, and had his cup of tea, and then +began amusing of his self, turning over his papers and suchlike. And +says I, “Have I your leaf to step round to my place for a hour or so, +to get a change of clothes, Mr. Sivewright?” says I; and he says yes +most agreeable; and that’s the longs and the shorts of it, Dr. Davoren.’ + +Lucius said nothing. He was displeased, disquieted even, by the +woman’s desertion of her post, were it only for a couple of hours. + +Mrs. Magsby had opened the gate before this, and half Mrs. Milderson’s +explanation had taken place in the forecourt. It had been too dark +outside the house for Lucius to see Mrs. Magsby’s face; but by the dim +lamplight in the hall he saw that she was unusually pale, and that her +somewhat vacant countenance had a scared look. + +‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ she began at once hurriedly, ‘I hope I +haven’t done wrong. I haven’t forgot what you told me and my husband +about not admitting nobody in your absence; but—’ + +‘If you _have_ admitted anybody, you have done very wrong,’ said Lucius +decisively. ‘What does it all mean? I find Mrs. Milderson returning +from a two-hours’ absence, and you in a state of alarm. What is the +matter?’ + +A straight answer was beyond Mrs. Magsby’s power to give; she always +talked in circles, and began at the outermost edge of the centre she +wanted to reach. + +‘I’m sure, Dr. Davoren, I shouldn’t have dreamt of doing it if it +hadn’t been for the order.’ + +‘Shouldn’t have dreamed of doing what? What order?’ demanded Lucius +impatiently. + +‘When first he came to the gate—which he rang three times, for my good +man was taking a stretch after his tea, and baby was that fractious +with the spasms I couldn’t lie him down—I told him it was against my +orders, and as much as my place was worth, being put in charge by a +gentleman.’ + +‘Who came to the gate?’ demanded Lucius; but Mrs. Magsby rambled on, +and was not to be diverted from her circuitous path by any direct +question. + +‘If the order hadn’t been reglar, I shouldn’t have give way; but it +was perfeckly correck, from Mr. Agar, the house-agent, which has put +me into many a house hisself, and his handwriting is well beknown to +me. The gentleman wanted to buy the house of the owners, with a view to +turnin’ it into a factory, or works of some kind, which he explained +hisself quite affable.’ + +‘_That_ man!’ cried Lucius aghast. ‘You admitted that man—the very man +of all others who ought to have been kept out of this house—to prevent +whose admittance here I have taken so much trouble? You and your +husband were put into this house to defend it from that very man.’ + +‘Lor, sir, you must be dreaming surely,’ exclaimed Mrs. Magsby. ‘He +was quite the gentleman, and comin’ like that with the intention to +buy the house, which I have heard Mr. Agar say as how the owners +wanted to get rid of it, and with the border to view in Mr. Agar’s own +handwriting, how was I to—’ + +‘This house belongs to Mr. Sivewright, so long as he occupies it and +pays the rent,’ said Lucius indignantly. ‘You had no right to admit any +one without his permission.’ + +‘Which I should have ast his leaf, sir, if the dear old gentleman +hadn’t been asleep. Mrs. Milderson had took up his cup of tea not a +quarter of a hour before, and she says to me as she goes out of this +very hall-door, she says, which Mrs. Milderson herself will bear +witness, being too much of a lady to go from her word, she says, “Don’t +go for to disturb the old gentleman, as I’ve left him sleepin’ as quiet +as an infant.” And as for care of the property, sir, it wasn’t possible +to be more careful, for before I showed the gentleman over the place, +outbuildins, and suchlike, which he was most anxious to see, bein’ as +it was them he wanted for his factory, I calls my husband and whispers +to him, “Look sharp after the property, Jim, while I go round the place +with this gentleman;” and with that my husband kep in the room where +the chaney and things is the whole time I was away.’ + +‘How long did the man stay?’ asked Lucius briefly. + +‘Well, sir, that’s the puzzling part of it all, and what’s been +worritin’ me ever since. I never see him go away. But I make no doubt +he went out the back way—down by them barges, as is easy enough, you +know, and him as active a gentleman as I ever see.’ + +‘You did not see him leave? Why, then, he is in the house at this +moment,’ cried Lucius. ‘Why should he leave? His object was to remain +here in hiding.’ + +‘I’ve been over every nookt and corner in the house, sir, since he +gave me the slip, as you may say, for want of better words to express +it, though too much a gentleman, I’m sure, to do anything underhanded, +and so has my husband, up-stairs and down-stairs till our legs ached +again. The gentleman asks me to show him the back premises first—his +object bein’ space for his works, as he says—and so I took him through +the kitchen and round by the washhouse and brewhouse, and I opens the +door into the back garden and shows him that, and I opens the outside +shutters of the half-glass door leadin’ into the back parlour, meanin’ +to take him through the house that way, when I looks round, after +openin’ the shutters for him to foller me, and he was gone. There +wasn’t a vestige of him—whether he’d gone back to the hall and let +hisself out quietly, havin’ seen all as he wanted to see, and p’raps +found as the place didn’t meet his views, or whether he’d gone down the +garden and got over the wall to the barges, is more than I can tell; +but gone he was and gone he is, for me and my husband has exploded +every hinch of the ’ouse from garret to cellar.’ + +‘Did you look at that little back staircase I told you of?’ + +‘Lor, no, sir; as if any one callin’ hisself a gentleman and dressed +beautiful would go in that hole of a place, among cobwebs and rotten +plaster, and dangerous too I should think on such a night as this, with +the wind roaring like thunder.’ + +‘Give me a candle,’ said Lucius; ‘no, I’ll go up-stairs without one.’ + +He pulled off his boots and ran rapidly and lightly up the old +staircase and along the corridor. He opened the door of the little +dressing-room where Lucille had slept, with a noiseless hand, and crept +in. The door of communication between this room and Mr. Sivewright’s +bedchamber stood ajar, and Lucius heard a familiar voice speaking +in the next room—speaking quietly enough, in tones so calm that he +stopped by the door to listen. + +It was a voice which he could not hear without a shudder—a voice which +he had last heard in the hut in the American pine-forest, that silent +wood where never came the note of song-bird. + +‘Father!’ said the voice, with a quiet bitterness keener than the +loudest passion. ‘Father! in what have you ever been a father to me? +Who taught me to rob you when I was a child? My mother, you say! I say +it was you who taught me that lesson—you who denied us a fair share of +your wealth—who hid your gains from us—who hoarded and scraped, and +refused us every pleasure!’ + +‘Falsehood—injustice,’ cried the tremulous tones of the old man; +‘falsehood and injustice from first to last. Because I was laborious, +you would have it that I must needs be rich. Because I was careful, +you put me down as a miser. I tried to build up a fortune for the +future—Heaven knows how much more for your sake than for my own. You +plotted against me, joined with your mother to deceive and cheat me, +squandered in foolish dissipations the money which my care would have +quadrupled: and for you, mind—all for you. I never acquired the art +of spending money. I could make it, but I couldn’t spend it. The man +who does the first rarely can do the second. You would have inherited +everything. I told you that. Not once but many times. I tried to awaken +your mind to the expectation of the future. I tried to teach you that +by economy and some little self-denial in the present you could help me +to lay the foundation of a fortune which should not be contemptible. +You, with your consummate artifice, pretended to agree with me, and +went on robbing me. This was before you were twelve years old.’ + +‘The bent of my genius declared itself early,’ said the younger man, +with a cynical monosyllabic laugh. The very note Lucius remembered in +the log-hut. + +‘You lied to me and you robbed me, but I still loved you,’ continued +Homer Sivewright, suppressed passion audible in those faltering tones +of age. ‘I still loved you—you were the only child that had been born +to gladden my lonely heart. I was estranged from your mother, and knew +too well that she had never loved me. What had I in the world but you? +I made excuses for your wrongdoing. It is his mother’s influence, I +said. What child will refuse to do what a mother bids him? She confuses +his sense of right and wrong. To serve her he betrays me. I must +get him away from his mother. On the heels of this came a hideous +revelation from you. You had quarrelled with your mother—you had taken +up a knife to use against her. It was time that I should part this +tigress and her cub. I lost no time—spared no expense—gave you the +best education that money could buy—I who wore a threadbare coat and +grudged the price of a pair of boots, even when my bare feet had made +acquaintance with the pavement. Education, and that of the highest +kind, made no change in you. It gave you some varnish of manner, but +it left you a thief and a liar. I need not pursue the story of your +career.’ + +‘The survey is somewhat tiresome, I admit, sir,’ said the prodigal, +carelessly. ‘Suppose we come to the point without farther recrimination +on either side. You have your catalogue of wrongs, your bill of +indictment; I mine. Let us put one against the other, and consider the +account balanced. I am ready to give you a full acquittance. You can +hardly refuse the same favour to an only son, whom you once loved, who +has passed through the purifying furnace of penury, who comes to you +remorseful and yearning for forgiveness—nay, even for some token of +affection.’ + +‘Don’t waste your breath, Ferdinand Sivewright. I know you!’ said the +old man, with brief bitterness. + +‘Nay, I cannot conceive it possible that you should repulse me,’ +replied the son in a tone of infinite persuasion. That power of music +and expression which was the man’s chief gift lent a strange magic +to his tones; only a deep conviction of his falsehood could arm a +father’s heart against him. ‘I have made my way to you with extremest +difficulty—indeed only by subterfuge—so closely was your door shut +against me—against me, your only son, returned, as if from the grave +itself, to plead for pardon.’ + +‘And to rob me,’ said Homer Sivewright, with a harsh laugh. + +‘What opportunity have I had for that? I only arrived at Liverpool from +America three days ago. Why should I rob you of what, in the natural +course of events, must be my own by and by? Grant that I wronged you +in the past, all that I took was at least in some part my own, my own, +by your direct admission, in the future, if not mine in the present; +and could a boy perceive the nice distinction between actual and +prospective possession?’ + +‘You were not a boy when you drugged me in order to steal the key of +my iron safe,’ said the father in a tone that betrayed no wavering of +intention. ‘I might have forgiven the robbery. I swore at the time that +I would never forgive the opiate. And I mean to keep my oath. I said +then, and I believe now, that a man who would do that would, with as +little compunction, poison me.’ + +Ferdinand Sivewright was standing only a few paces from the half-open +door, so near that Lucius heard his quickened breathing at this point, +heard even the fierce beating of that wicked heart. + +‘From that hour I formed my life on a new plan,’ continued the old man, +with a subdued energy that approached the terrible, a concentration +of purpose that seemed fierce as the glow of metal at a white heat. +‘From that hour I lived but in the expectation of such a meeting as +this. You left me poor. I swore to become rich, only for the sake of +such a meeting as this. I toiled and schemed; lent money at usury, and +was pitiless to the victims who borrowed; denied myself the common +necessities of life, ay, shortened my days; all for such an hour as +this. You would come back to me, I told myself, if I grew rich, as you +have come; you would crawl, as you have crawled; you would sue for +pardon, with hate and scorn in your heart, as you have sued; and I +should answer you as I do to-night. Not a sixpence that I have scraped +together shall ever be yours; not a penny that I have toiled for shall +buy a crust to ward off your hour of starvation. I have found another +son. I have made a will, safe and sure; not a will that your ingenuity +can upset when I am mouldering in my grave—a will leaving all I possess +away from you, and imposing on those that come after me the condition +that no sixpence of mine shall ever reach you. After death, as in life, +I will punish you for the iniquity that turned a father’s love to hate.’ + +‘Madman,’ cried Ferdinand Sivewright, ‘do you think your will shall +ever see the light of day, or you survive this night? I did not win +my way to this room to be laughed at or defied. You have disinherited +me, have you? I’m glad you told me that. You have adopted another man +for your son, and made a will in his favour. I’m very glad you told me +that. I wish him joy of his inheritance. You have chosen your fate. It +might have been life: I came here to give you a fair chance. You choose +death.’ + +There was a hurried movement, the swift flash of a narrow pointed +knife, that kind of knife by which Sheffield makes murder easy. But +ere that deadly point could reach its mark a door was flung open, +there came a hurried tread of feet, and two men were grappling with +each other by the bedside, with that shining blade held high above the +head of both. Rapid as Ferdinand’s movement had been towards the bed, +Lucius had been quick enough to intercept him. By the bedside of the +intended victim the two men struggled, one armed with that keen knife, +the other defenceless. The struggle was for mastery of the weapon. +Lucius seized the murderer’s right wrist with his left hand, and held +it aloft. Not long could he have retained that fierce grip, but here +his professional skill assisted him. His right hand was happily free. +While they were struggling, he took a lancet from his waistcoat-pocket, +and with one rapid movement cut a vein in that uplifted wrist. + +The knife dropped like a stone from Ferdinand Sivewright’s relaxing +grasp, and a shower of blood came down upon the surgeon and his +adversary. + +‘I think I have the best of you now,’ said Lucius. + +The old man had been pulling a bell-rope with all his might during this +brief struggle, and the shrill clang of the bell sounded through the +empty house, sounded even above the shrill shriek of the wind in the +chimney. + +Ferdinand Sivewright looked about him, dazed for an instant by that +sudden loss of blood, and with the wild fierce gaze of a trapped +animal. So had Lucius seen a wolverine stare at his captors from the +imprisonment of a timber trap. He looked round him, listened to the +bell, caught the sound of footsteps in the corridor, then with a +sudden rush across the room, threw himself with all the force of his +full weight against the oaken panel. The feeble old wood cracked and +splintered as that muscular form was flung against it, and that side of +the room rocked as the panel fell inwards. Another moment and Ferdinand +Sivewright had disappeared—he was on the secret staircase—he had +escaped them. + +Lucius made for the door. He might still be in time to catch this +baffled assassin at the bottom of the staircase; but on the threshold +he stopped, arrested by a sound of unspeakable horror. That end of +the room by the broken panel still seemed to tremble; the wooden wall +swayed inwards. Then came a sound like the roar of cannon; it was the +fall of a huge beam that had sustained the wide old chimney shaft. That +mighty crash was succeeded by a rushing noise from a shower of loose +bricks and plaster; then one deep long groan from below, and all was +silent. The room was full of dust, which almost blinded its occupants. +There was a yawning gap in the splintered wainscot, where the sliding +panel had been. Pharaoh had tumbled from his corner, and sprawled +ignominiously on the floor. The huge square chimney, that ponderous +relic of mediæval masonry, which had been the oldest portion of Cedar +House, was down; and Ferdinand Sivewright lay at the bottom of the +house, buried under the ruins of the secret staircase and the chimney +of which it had been a part. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +‘’TIS WITH US PERPETUAL NIGHT.’ + + +They dug Ferdinand Sivewright out from under that pile of shattered +brickwork and fallen timber, after labours that lasted late into +the night. Help had not been far to seek amongst the good-natured +Shadrackites. Stout navigators and stalwart stevedores had arisen as if +by magic, spade and pickaxe had been brought, and the work of rescue +had begun, as it seemed, almost before the echo of that thunderous +sound of falling beam and brickwork had died out of the air. + +When Lucius rushed down-stairs he found the forecourt full of +wind-driven lime-dust and crumbled plaster and worm-eaten wood that +drifted into his face like powder, and a clamorous crowd at the iron +gate eager to know if any one was under the ruins. + +‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there’s a man yonder. Who’ll help me to dig him out?’ + +A chorus of eager voices rent the air. + +‘Come, half a dozen of the strongest of you,’ said Lucius, unlocking +the gate, ‘and bring picks and spades.’ + +The men filed in from among the miscellaneous crowd, women and babies +in the foreground. Stray boys, frantic to do something, were sent right +and left to fetch spades and picks. The miscellaneous crowd was forced +back from the gate, unwilling to the last; the gate opened and the men +entered, at once calm and eager, men who had seen peril and faced death +in their time. + +‘I knowed that end of the house would come down some day,’ said one +brawny navvy, looking up at the dilapidated wing. ‘I told the old gent +as much when he employed me to fasten some loose slates on one of the +outhouses, but he didn’t thank me for my warning. “It’ll last my time,” +says he. Is it the old gent that’s under the rubbidge, sir?’ + +‘Thank God, no. But there is a man there. Lose no time. There’s little +hope of getting him out alive, but you can try your best.’ + +‘That we will,’ cried several voices unanimously. + +The stray boys reappeared breathless, and handed in spades and picks +through the half-open gate, which Lucius guarded. He didn’t want a +useless crowd in the forecourt. + +‘Now, lads, heave ahead!’ cried a stentorian voice, and the work began; +a tedious labour, for the wreck of the old chimney made a mighty pile +of ruin. + +The labour thus fairly started, Lucius went back to the old man’s room. +He found Homer Sivewright sitting half-dressed upon his bed, staring at +that gap in the opposite wall, shaken terribly, but calmer than he had +hoped to find him. + +‘Save him, Lucius,’ cried the old man, clasping Lucius’s hand. ‘He has +been an ingrate—a villain. There was bad blood in him, a taint that +poisoned his nature—hereditary falsehood. But save him from such a +hideous fate. Is there any hope?’ + +Lucius shook his head. + +‘None, I fear. The fall alone was enough to kill any man, and that +crossbeam may have fallen upon him. There are half a dozen men clearing +away the rubbish, but all we can hope to find is the dead body of your +son. Better that he should perish thus than by the gallows.’ + +‘Which must have been his inevitable doom, had he been permitted to +finish his course,’ said the old man bitterly. + +Lucius helped to remove his patient to Lucille’s vacant chamber, and +tried to calm his agitation—a vain effort; for though quiet enough +outwardly, Mr. Sivewright suffered intensely during this interval of +uncertainty. + +‘Go down and see how they are getting on,’ he said eagerly. ‘They must +have cleared all away by this time surely.’ + +‘I’m going to look for a lantern or two,’ replied Lucius; ‘the night is +as black as Erebus, and that strong wind makes the work slower.’ + +Mr. Sivewright told him where to find a couple of lanterns. + +‘Go,’ he cried; ‘don’t waste time here with me. Rescue my son, if you +can.’ + +His son still—by the mere force of habit, perhaps, although ten minutes +ago his baffled murderer. + +Lucius went out to the end of the house with a couple of lighted +lanterns, and remained there moving about among the men as the work +slowly progressed—remained giving them such help as he could—sustaining +them with counsel—supplying them with beer, which one of the stray +boys, retained for the purpose, fetched from a neighbouring publichouse +by special license of the policeman, who acknowledged the necessity of +the case—remained faithful to his post, until, in the dullest coldest +hour of the dark windy night, Ferdinand Sivewright was discovered under +a heap of rafters, which had fallen crosswise and made a kind of +penthouse above him. + +This accident had just saved him from being smothered by the fallen +rubbish. The massive crossbeam of the chimney had fallen under him, and +not above him—the long-loosened supports perhaps finally destroyed by +that fierce shock which his own mad rush at the sliding panel had given +to the fabric, weakened long ago by the injudicious cutting of the +timbers when the old banquet-hall was pulled down. + +They lifted him out of the wreck, and, to the marvel of all of them, +alive, although unconscious. Lucius examined him carefully as he lay +upon a heap of the men’s coats and jackets, pallid, and bloodstained. +Two of the men held the lanterns as Lucius knelt down beside that awful +figure to make his investigation. Both legs were broken, the ribs +crushed inwards; in short, the case was fatal, though the man still +lived. + +‘Come indoors with me,’ cried Lucius, ‘two of you good fellows, and +we’ll pull down a door and put a mattress upon it; we must take him to +the London Hospital.’ + +Two men followed him to the house; they selected one of the doors in +the back premises, an old washhouse door that hung loosely enough on +its rusty hinges, and proceeded to unscrew this, while Lucius went +up-stairs for a mattress. A few minutes afterwards they had laid +Ferdinand Sivewright on this extemporary litter, and were carrying him, +loosely covered with a couple of coats, to the London Hospital. + +There was a surgical examination by two of the best men in London early +next morning; but as nothing that surgery could do could have prolonged +that wicked life, the consultation ended only in the simple sentence, +‘A fatal case.’ + +‘Do what you can to make the poor fellow comfortable,’ said the chief +surgeon; ‘it would be useless to put him to any pain by trying to +set the broken bones; amputation might have answered, but for those +injuries to the ribs and chest—those alone would be fatal. I give him +about twenty-four hours. The brain is uninjured, and there may be a +return of consciousness before the end.’ + +For this Lucius waited, never leaving his post by the narrow hospital +bed. It was important that he should be at hand, to hear whatever this +man might have to say—most important that he should receive from these +lips the secret of Lucille’s parentage. All that care or skill could do +to alleviate Ferdinand Sivewright’s sufferings Lucius did, patiently, +kindly, and waited for the end, strong in his trust in Providence. + +‘Better that he should perish thus by the visitation of God than by my +hand,’ he said to himself, with deepest thankfulness. + +He telegraphed to his sister, asking her to come to London immediately, +and to bring Lucille with her. They were to travel by a particular +train, and to go straight to his house, where he would meet them. + +Painful as the scene would be to both, he deemed it best that both +should hear this man’s last words; that Lucille should be told by his +own lips that he was not her father; that Janet should hear the truth +about her unhappy marriage, from him who alone had power to enlighten +her. It was to give to both a bitter memory; but it was to relieve the +minds of both from doubt and misconception. + +A little before the hour at which Lucius expected the arrival of Janet +and Lucille, the dying man awoke to consciousness. Lucius at once +resolved not to leave him. He wrote a few lines to Janet, begging her +to come on with Lucille to the hospital, and dispatched the note by a +messenger. + +Ferdinand Sivewright looked about him for a little while with a dull +half-conscious wonder. Then with that bitter smile which Lucius +remembered years ago in the log-hut, he said slowly. + +‘Another hospital! I thought I’d had enough of them. I’ve been laid +by the heels often enough. Once in Mexico; another time in British +Columbia, when those Canadian trappers picked me up, half dead with +frost-bites and with a bullet through my shoulder, a mile or so from +that villanous log-hut, and carried me on to the nearest settlement. +Yes, I thought I’d had enough of sick beds and strange faces.’ + +Presently his eyes turned slowly towards Lucius. He looked at him for +a little while with a lazy stare; then with a sudden fierceness in the +dark fever-bright eyes. + +‘_You!_’ he cried; ‘you, that sent that bullet into my shoulder! It +must be a bad dream that brings you to my bedside.’ + +‘I am here to help and not to hurt you,’ answered Lucius quietly. ‘The +end of your life is so near that there is no time for enmity. I saved +you last night from becoming a parricide; and afterwards helped to +rescue you from a horrible death under the ruins of the house you had +invaded. If it is possible for such a nature as yours to feel remorse +for the past or apprehension for the future, give the few remaining +hours of your life to penitence and prayer.’ + +‘What, am I doomed?’ + +‘Yes, your hours are numbered. Medical skill can do nothing, except to +make your end a little easier.’ + +‘That’s bitter,’ muttered Ferdinand. ‘Just as I saw my grip upon the +old man’s hoard. I had schemes enough in this busy brain to occupy +twenty years more. Dying! How did I come here? What happened to me? I +remember nothing, except that I got into my father’s house last night +to have a little peaceable conversation with him. Did I see him? I +can’t remember.’ + +‘Don’t rack your brain to remember. There is no time to think of +your life in detail. Repent, even at this last hour, and pray to an +all-merciful God to pardon a life that has been all sin.’ + +‘Let Him answer for the work of His hands,’ cried the sinner. ‘He gave +me the passions that ruled my life—the brain that plotted, the heart +that knew not compunction. If He has His chosen vessels for good and +evil, I suppose I have fulfilled the purpose of my creation.’ + +‘May God forgive your blasphemous thought! To all His creatures He +gives the right of choice between two roads. You, of your own election, +chose the evil path. It is not too late even now to cry to Him, “Lord, +have mercy upon me a sinner!”’ + +The dying man closed his eyes, and made no answer. + +‘I don’t suppose I should have been a bad fellow,’ he said by and by, +‘if destiny had provided me with a handsome income, say ten thousand a +year. The tiger is a decent beast enough till he is hungry. I’ve had a +strange life—a chequered fabric—some sunshine; a good deal of shadow. +You never heard of me in the United States, I suppose, where I was best +known as Señor Ferdinando, the violin improvisatore? I was the rage +yonder in my time, I can tell you, and saw the dollars roll in like the +golden waters of Pactolus, and had pretty women going mad about me by +scores. Ferdinando—yes, I was a great man as Señor Ferdinando.’ + +He paused with a sigh, half regret, half satisfaction. + +‘I had a run of luck at the tables at San Francisco, when I got the +better of that accursed bulletwound—your bullet, remember—and I didn’t +do badly at the diggings, though I gained more by a lucky partnership +with some hard-working fools than by actual work. Then came a turn in +the tide, and I landed in this used-up old country without a five-pound +note, and nothing to hope for but the chance of getting on the blind +side of my old father. But that was difficult.’ + +‘You contrived to rob him, however,’ said Lucius. + +The dying eyes looked at him with the old keen gaze, as if taking the +measure of his knowledge. But Ferdinand Sivewright did not trouble +himself either to deny or admit the justice of this accusation. + +‘In England things went badly with me always; though I have played the +gentleman here in my time,’ he muttered, and closed his eyes wearily. + +Lucius moistened the dry lips with brandy from a bottle that stood by +the bedside. + +The messenger returned to say that two ladies were below in the +waiting-room. + +Lucius went down-stairs, leaving a nurse in charge of Ferdinand. He +found Janet and Lucille alike pale and anxious. Lucille was the first +to speak. + +‘Has anything happened to my grandfather?’ she exclaimed. ‘Is he here? +O, Lucius, tell me quickly.’ + +‘No, my darling. Mr. Sivewright is safe, at Cedar House. I have sent +for you to see one who has not very long to remain in this world—the +man whom you once loved as a father.’ + +‘My father here?’ + +‘No, Lucille, not your father. Ferdinand Sivewright stole that name, +and won your love by a falsehood.’ + +‘He was kind to me when I was a child,’ said Lucille. ‘But why is he +here? What has happened?’ + +Lucius told her briefly that there had been an accident by which +Ferdinand Sivewright had been fatally injured. Of the exact nature of +that accident, and the events that immediately preceded it, he told her +nothing. + +To Janet he spoke more fully, when he had taken her to the other end of +the room, out of Lucille’s hearing. + +‘Your husband is found, Janet,’ he said. + +‘What?’ she cried; ‘he is living then; and your friend Mr. Hossack +assured me of his death.’ + +Her first thought was one of regret that Geoffrey should have pledged +himself to a falsehood. + +‘Geoffrey was deceived by a train of circumstances that also deceived +me.’ + +‘He is living, and in this place!’ said Janet, with a sigh for the man +she had once loved. + +‘He is dying, Janet. If you want him to acknowledge any wrong done to +you, it is a fitting time to obtain such a confession.’ + +‘I will not torture him with questions. I am too sorry for his mistaken +life. Take me to him, Lucius.’ + +‘And Lucille, she must come with you.’ + +‘What need has Lucille to be there?’ + +‘Greater need than you could suppose. Lucille’s pretended father and +your husband are one and the same person. Come, both of you. There is +no time to lose.’ + +He led the way to the accident ward, and to the quiet corner where +Ferdinand’s bed stood, shaded, and in a manner divided, from the rest +of the room by a canvas screen. His was the worst case in that abode of +pain. + +Lucille drew near the bed, and at a sign from Lucius seated herself +quietly in the chair by the dying man’s pillow. Lucius stopped Janet +with a warning gesture, as she was advancing towards the screen. + +‘Not yet,’ he whispered; ‘hear all, but don’t let him see you.’ + +Janet obeyed, and remained hidden by the screen. Ferdinand Sivewright’s +eyes wandered to the gentle face bent tearfully over his pillow. + +‘Lucille,’ he gasped, ‘I thought you had abandoned me.’ + +‘Not in the hour of your remorse, father,’ she said; ‘my heart tells me +you are sorry for your sins; for that last worst sin of all I know you +must be sorry. It is not in nature that you should be remorseless.’ + +‘There are anomalies in nature,’ answered Sivewright. ‘I believe I +was born without a conscience, or wore it out before I was ten years +old. After all I have only sinned against my fellow man when I was +desperate; it has been my ultimate expedient. I have not injured +anybody upon fanciful grounds, for revenge or jealousy, or any of those +incendiary passions which have urged some men to destroy their kind. I +have obeyed the stern law of necessity.’ + +‘Father, repent; life is ebbing. Have you no words but those of +mockery?’ + +She took his death-cold hands, trying to fold them in prayer. He looked +at her, and the cynic’s smile faded. There was even some touch of +tenderness in his look. + +‘Do you think the God against whom I have shut my mind is very likely +to take pity upon me now, at my last gasp, when further sin is +impossible?’ + +‘There is no state too desperate for the hope of His mercy. Christ died +for sinners. The penitent thief had briefest time for repentance, none +for atonement.’ + +‘I wonder whether he had been doing evil all his life; had never done +a good action, never truly served a friend,’ murmured Sivewright in a +musing tone. + +‘We only know that he had sinned, and was forgiven.’ + +‘Ah, that’s a slight ground for belief in illimitable mercy. Can you +forgive me, Lucille—you whom I wronged and deluded, whom I cheated of a +birthright?’ + +‘I do not know what wrong you have done me; but whatever that wrong may +be, Heaven knows how freely I forgive it. I loved you dearly once.’ + +‘Ay, once. Poor parasite, why should you love me, except that it was in +your nature to twine your tendrils about something? And I loved you, +little one, as much as it was in _my_ nature to love anything. Whatever +love I had, I divided between you and the fiddle I used to play to you +in that dusky old parlour, when we two sat alone by the fire.’ + +‘Father, by the memory of that time, when I knew not what sin was—when +I thought you good and true, as you were kind—tell me that you repent +your sins, that you are sorry for having tried to injure that poor old +man.’ + +‘Repent my sins—sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Well, I’ll say this much, that if +I could begin life afresh, with a clean conscience and a fair start, +I’d try to be an honest man. Outlaws have their pleasures; but I think +respectability has the best of it in the longrun.’ + +‘The strongest proof of repentance is the endeavour to atone,’ said +Lucius, who dreaded lest the end should come ere he had learned all +he wanted to know about Henry Glenlyne. ‘The wrong you did Lucille +Glenlyne was a bitter one, for you robbed her of a father.’ + +‘Lucille Glenlyne!’ cried Ferdinand. ‘How came you by the name of +Glenlyne?’ + +‘Never mind how I learned the name. Your time is short. Remember that, +and if you can be the means of restoring Lucille to her father, lose +not a moment ere you do that one good act.’ + +‘An affectionate father,’ said Ferdinand, with the old mocking tone. +‘He was very glad to be comfortably rid of his pretty little daughter. +He came to Bond-street a week after his wife’s death, with the merest +apology for a hatband, lest people should ask him why he was in +mourning, and took the little one on his knee and kissed her, and +smoothed her dark curls, but never told her to call him father; and +then, finding that she was so fond of me, proposed that I should adopt +her altogether, and bring her up as my own.’ + +‘For a consideration, I suppose?’ said Lucius. + +‘Yes, he paid me something of course—a sum of money down—very +little—but he was always whining about his difficulties, and pretended +that he could do no more. After that I lost sight of him altogether. I +had left England before he came into his uncle’s fortune, and when I +wrote to him from South America, asking him to remember old promises, +he did not answer my letters. When I came back to England, with some +idea of hunting him up and making him pay me for my discretion, I heard +that he was dead. He was a mean cur at the best of times, and was never +worthy of his wife.’ + +‘Tell me at least where I can get most information about him?’ asked +Lucius earnestly. + +‘From the family lawyers—Pullman and Everill, Lincoln’s-inn.’ + +This was something. Lucius had set his heart upon restoring Lucille’s +rightful name before she changed it for his own. A somewhat useless +labour, it might seem in the abstract; but to an Englishman that +question of name is a strong point. + +‘Is that all you can tell me—the only help you can give me towards +reinstating Lucille in any rights she may have been deprived of through +her father’s desertion of her?’ asked Lucius. + +‘Ay, that’s a question that might be worth looking into. You’d better +look at old Glenlyne’s will. Henry married a second time, I know, but +I don’t know whether he had children by that second marriage. I don’t +see how I can help you. Henry Glenlyne married Félicie Dumarques at +the church in Piccadilly—St. James’s—just twenty years ago. I never +had the certificate of the marriage. Hal Glenlyne kept that himself. +But you’ll find the register. Lucille’s rights—if she has any under +Reginald Glenlyne’s will—may be made out clearly enough; provided you +can identify the child I brought home to Bond-street as the daughter of +Henry and Félicie Glenlyne. There’s your greatest difficulty.’ + +The man’s keen intellect, even clouded by pain, dulled by the dark +shadow of death, grasped every detail, and saw the weak point in the +case. + +‘I am no fortune-hunter,’ said Lucius, ‘and were Lucille mistress of a +million she could be no dearer to me than she is now; nor her future +life happier than, with God’s help, I hope to make it. I desire nothing +but that she should have justice—justice to her dead mother—justice to +herself.’ + +‘You cannot get it out of Henry Glenlyne,’ answered Ferdinand +Sivewright. ‘He has slipped comfortably into his grave and escaped all +reckoning. He was always a sneak.’ + +‘Enough. We must look for justice to God, if man withhold it. There is +some one here who wishes to see you—some one you have wronged as deeply +as you wronged Lucille. Can you bear to see your wife—my sister Janet?’ + +‘What, is she here too? You come like the ghosts that circled +crook-back Richard’s bed at Bosworth.’ + +‘Will you see your wife?’ asked Lucius quietly. + +‘Yes. She’ll not reproach me now. Let her come.’ + +‘Janet.’ + +Janet came softly to the bed, and knelt beside the man whose influence +had once been all-powerful to lead her. + +‘Can _you_ forgive me?’ he asked, looking at her with those awful eyes, +whose intensity was slowly lessening as the dull shade of death dimmed +them. ‘Can _you_ forgive? I wronged you worst of all, for I told you +a lie on purpose to break your heart. You are my lawful wife—I had no +other—never loved any other woman. I stole you secretly from your home +because I knew my character couldn’t stand investigation, and if I had +wooed you openly there’d have been all manner of inquiries. I knew the +keen prying ways of your petty provincial gentry. It was easier to make +the business a secret, and thus escape all danger.’ + +‘You gave me a bitter burden to bear in all these years,’ Janet +answered gently; ‘but I am grateful even for this tardy justice. May +God forgive you as I do!’ + +She covered her face with her hands, and her head sank on the coverlet +of the bed, as she knelt in silent prayer. There could be little to be +said between these two. Janet’s wrongs were too deep for many words. + +Ferdinand stretched out his hand with a feeble wandering movement, and +the tremulous fingers rested on his wife’s bent head—rested there with +a light and tender touch, it might be in blessing. + +‘Father, will you not say one prayer?’ asked Lucille piteously. + +‘I will say anything to please you,’ he answered. + +‘No, no, not for me, but for your own sake! God is all goodness; +even to those who turn to Him at the eleventh hour. His mercies are +infinite.’ + +‘They had need be if I am to have any part in them.’ + +Lucille repeated the Lord’s Prayer slowly, the dying man repeating it +after her, in Latin—the words he had learned in his boyhood when he +went to mass with his mother at the chapel in Spanish-place. + +They stayed with him all that day, Lucille reading, at intervals, words +of hope and comfort from the Gospel—words which may have pierced even +those dull ears with some faint promise, may have kindled some vague +yearning for divine forgiveness even in that hardened heart. The sinner +seemed at intervals to listen; there was a grateful look now and then +in the tired eyes. + +They did not fatigue him, even with these pious ministrations. The +soothing words were read to him after pauses of silence, and only when +he seemed free from pain. Lucille’s gentle hand bathed the burning +forehead. Janet held the reviving cordial to the pale parched lips. Had +he lived nobly, and perished in the discharge of some sacred duty, his +dying hours could not have been more gently tended. And thus the slow +sad day wore on, and at dusk he started up out of a brief slumber, with +a sharp cry of pain, and repeated, in a strange husky voice, the words +Lucille had read to him a little while before: + +‘Lord—be merciful—to me—a—’ + +He lacked strength to finish that brief sentence; but, conscious to the +last, looked round upon them all, and then, stretching out his arms to +Lucille, fell upon her neck, and died there. + +He had loved the little girl who sat on his knee in the gloaming, while +he played by his father’s fireside, better than the wife he wronged. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +LUCIUS IN QUEST OF JUSTICE. + + +Lucius went to Messrs. Pullman and Everill’s office the day after +Ferdinand Sivewright’s death. Mr. Pullman, an active-looking elderly +man, received him with that stock-in-trade kind of politeness which +thriving solicitors keep for unknown clients, heard his story, smiled +somewhat incredulously at some of its details, but reserved his opinion +until he should have mastered the case. + +‘Isn’t it rather strange that we should never have heard of this +youthful marriage of Mr. Henry Glenlyne’s,’ he said, with his sceptical +smile, when the story was finished, ‘if there had been such a marriage?’ + +‘Not more strange than that other clandestine marriages should be kept +secret,’ said Lucius. + +‘Ah, but they so seldom are kept secret for more than a year or two; +they always transpire somehow. Facts are like water, Mr. Davoren, and +have an odd way of leaking out. This supposed marriage, according to +your showing, is an event of twenty years ago.’ + +‘There is really no room for speculation upon the subject,’ said +Lucius coolly. ‘You can easily verify my statement by a reference to +the registries of St. James’s, Piccadilly, where Félicie Dumarques’ +marriage is no doubt recorded.’ + +This was unanswerable. Mr. Pullman looked meditative, but said nothing. + +‘And what is your motive for coming to me?’ he asked at last. + +‘I came here presuming that you, as Mr. Henry Glenlyne’s solicitor, +would be naturally desirous to see his daughter righted.’ + +‘But suppose I should be disinclined to believe in the parentage of +this young lady, your protegée?’ + +‘My future wife, Mr. Pullman.’ + +‘Ah, I understand,’ returned the lawyer quickly, as much as to say, ‘We +are getting to the motive of your conduct, my young gentleman.’ + +‘I have been engaged to Miss Glenlyne for nearly a year,’ said Lucius, +as if answering Mr. Pullman’s degrading supposition, ‘but it is +only within the last week that I have discovered the secret of her +parentage.’ + +‘Indeed; then whatever hope you may entertain of future profit from +this discovery is a recent hope, and has had no influence in the matter +of your regard for this young lady?’ + +‘None whatever. I do not pretend to be superior to human nature in +general, but I think I may safely say that there are few men who set +less value on money, in the abstract, than I do. But whatever portion +my wife may be entitled to receive I am ready to fight for, and to +fight still more resolutely for the name which she is entitled to bear.’ + +‘But granted that the marriage which I hear of for the first time +to-day did actually take place, what is to prove to any legal mind that +this young lady whom you put forward is the issue of that marriage?’ + +Yes, as Ferdinand Sivewright had said, here was the weakness of the +case. Lucius now for the first time perceived that he ought to have +secured the dying man’s deposition of the facts concerning Lucille. +But, standing by that bed of pain, he had hardly been in a condition to +consider the case from the lawyer’s standpoint. He had forgotten that +Sivewright’s statement was but fleeting breath, and that this single +witness of the truth was swiftly passing beyond the jurisdiction of +earthly tribunals. + +‘For that we must rely on circumstantial evidence,’ he said after a +longish pause. ‘The woman who nursed Lucille Glenlyne may be still +alive.’ + +‘How old was the child when this nurse left her?’ + +‘About four, I believe.’ + +‘You believe!’ echoed Mr. Pullman contemptuously. ‘Before you +approached me upon such a subject as this, Mr. Davoren, you might +at least have taken the trouble to be certain about your facts. You +believe that the child was about four years old when her nurse left +her, and you rely upon this nurse, who may or may not be living, to +identify the four-year-old child she nursed in the young lady of +nineteen whom you put forward.’ + +‘You are somewhat hard upon me, Mr. Pullman.’ + +‘Sir,’ said the lawyer, with a Johnsonian air, ‘I abhor chimeras.’ + +‘I do not, however, despair of making Miss Glenlyne’s identity clear +even to your legal mind. As I have told you, Mr. and Mrs. Glenlyne +occupied a cottage near Sidmouth for the few years of their wedded +life. The little girl was born there, nursed there, and conveyed +straight from that cottage to the house in Bond-street, where she +was brought up in the care of old Mr. Sivewright. Now the date of +her removal from Sidmouth will fit into the date of her arrival in +Bond-street, to which Mr. Sivewright can testify; and it will go hard +if we cannot find people in Sidmouth—servants, tradesmen, the landlord +of the cottage—who will remember the child’s abrupt removal and be able +to swear to the date.’ + +‘Able to swear,’ exclaimed Mr. Pullman, again contemptuous. ‘What fact +is there so incredible that legions of unimpeachable witnesses will not +sustain it by their testimony? You mentioned the name of Sivewright +just now. Is the person you spoke of one Ferdinand Sivewright?’ + +‘No; the person in question is Ferdinand Sivewright’s father.’ + +‘A pretty disreputable set, those Sivewrights, I should think,’ said +Mr. Pullman, ‘so far as I can judge from the transactions between +Ferdinand Sivewright and my late client, Mr. Henry Glenlyne, which were +chiefly of the bill-discounting order.’ + +‘I have nothing to say in favour of Ferdinand Sivewright, who died +yesterday at the London Hospital,’ answered Lucius; ‘but his father is +an honest man, and it was his father who brought up Lucille, knowing +nothing more of her parentage than the vague idea which he gathered +from certain letters written by Mr. Glenlyne.’ + +‘O, Ferdinand Sivewright is dead, is he?’ retorted Mr. Pullman, with +a suspicious look; ‘and it is only after his death that this claim +arises.’ + +There was such an insolent doubt implied by the lawyer’s words and +manner that Lucius rose with an offended look, and was about to leave +Mr. Pullman’s office. + +‘You have chosen to discredit my statements,’ he said; ‘I can go to +some other lawyer who will be more civil and less suspicious.’ + +‘Stop, sir,’ cried Mr. Pullman, wheeling round in his revolving chair +as Lucius approached the door. ‘I don’t say I won’t help you; I don’t +say your case is not a sound one; nor do I doubt your good faith. Sit +down again, and let us discuss the matter quietly.’ + +‘I have endeavoured to do that, Mr. Pullman, but you have chosen to +adopt an offensive tone, and the discussion is ended.’ + +‘Come, Mr. Davoren, why be so thin-skinned? You come to me with a story +which at the first glance seems altogether incredible, and before I +have had time to weigh the facts or to recover my breath after the +surprise occasioned by your startling disclosure, you take offence and +wish me good-morning. Go to another lawyer if you please; but if your +case is a sound one, there is no one who can help you so well as I.’ + +‘You are perhaps solicitor to some other branch of the family—to people +whose interests would be injuriously affected by the assertion of +Lucille Glenlyne’s claims.’ + +‘No, Mr. Davoren. When Mr. Spalding Glenlyne came into his cousin’s +property, he chose to employ another solicitor. My connection with the +Glenlyne family then terminated, except as concerns Miss Glenlyne.’ + +‘Miss Glenlyne—who is that?’ + +‘Henry Glenlyne’s aunt. The sister of Mr. Reginald Glenlyne, who left +him his fortune.’ + +‘Is it possible that Miss Glenlyne is still living?’ exclaimed Lucius, +remembering Monsieur Dolfe’s description of the little elderly lady, +thin, pale, and an invalid. And this description had applied to +her twenty-two years ago. Miss Glenlyne must surely belong to the +Rosicrucians, or to the house of Methuselah. + +‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Pullman, ‘Miss Glenlyne is a very old lady; between +seventy and eighty, I daresay.’ + +‘But Miss Glenlyne was an invalid two-and-twenty years ago.’ + +‘She was; and she has gone on being an invalid ever since; no more +healthy mode of life. She lives on mutton cutlets and sago puddings, +dry toast and weak tea, and if she indulges in a second glass of dry +sherry thinks it a debauch. She believes in the homœopathists, and +experimentalises upon her system with minute doses, which, if they do +her no good, can hardly do her much harm. She spends her winters at +Nice or Dawlish, knows not the meaning of emotion, and at the rate she +lives—expenditure of vital force reduced to the lowest figure—she may +go on living twenty-two years longer.’ + +‘If you have no relations with Mr. Spalding Glenlyne, there is no +reason why you should not undertake to protect the interests of your +late client’s daughter,’ said Lucius. ‘I am quite ready to believe that +your knowledge of the family may render your services better worth +having than anybody else’s. I came to you in perfect good faith, and in +ignorance of everything except the fact of Mr. Glenlyne’s marriage, and +the melancholy fate of his wife, who died away from her husband and her +child, as I have already told you.’ + +‘A sad case for the lady,’ said the lawyer. ‘I should like to see those +letters, by the way, of which you spoke a little while ago.’ + +‘I have brought them with me,’ answered Lucius, producing the precious +packet and the miniature. + +‘What, a picture?’ cried Mr. Pullman. ‘Yes; that is my client’s +portrait, undoubtedly, and a good likeness. A very handsome young man, +Henry Glenlyne, but a weak one. Humph! These are the letters, are they?’ + +The lawyer read them carefully, and from time to time shook his head +over them, with a slow and meditative shake, as who should say, ‘These +are poor stuff.’ + +‘There is very little to help your case here,’ he said, when he had +finished this deliberate perusal. ‘The child is spoken of as _your +little girl_, or _the little girl_, throughout. The most rational +conclusion would be that the child was Sivewright’s child.’ + +‘Yet in that case why should Mr. Glenlyne, a young man about town, +be interested in the child? Why should he give money? Why should he +supplicate for secrecy?’ + +‘Matter for philosophical speculation, but hardly a question to submit +to a jury, or put in an affidavit,’ replied Mr. Pullman coolly. + +‘If there is nothing in those letters to help me, I will find the +evidence I want elsewhere,’ said Lucius, inwardly fuming at this +graybeard’s impenetrability. ‘I will go down myself to Sidmouth—hunt +out the landlord of that cottage.’ + +‘Of whose very name you are ignorant,’ interposed the man of business. + +‘Find the servant; advertise for the nurse; discover the doctor who +attended Mrs. Glenlyne when that child was born; and link by link forge +the chain of evidence which shall reinstate Lucille Glenlyne in the +name her cowardly father stole from her.’ + +‘_De mortuis_,’ said the lawyer. ‘I admit that if your idea—mind, I +fully believe in your own good faith, but you may be mistaken for +all that—if your idea is correct, I repeat this girl has been badly +treated. But my client is in his grave; let us make what excuses we can +for conduct that at first sight appears unmanly.’ + +‘I can make no excuse for a man who repudiated his child; who suffered +his wife to die broken-hearted, lest by a manly avowal of his marriage +he should hazard the loss of fortune.’ + +‘Recollect that Henry Glenlyne was brought up and educated in the +expectation of his uncle’s fortune, that he was deeply in debt for some +years before his uncle died, and that the forfeiture of that fortune +would have been absolute ruin.’ + +‘It was a large fortune, I suppose?’ + +‘It was a fortune that would have been counted large when I was a +youngster, but which now might be called mediocre. It was under +rather than over a hundred thousand pounds, and chiefly invested in +land. Reginald Glenlyne had been in the Indian Civil Service when +the pagoda-tree was better worth shaking than it is nowadays, and in +a lengthened career had contrived to do pretty well for himself. He +belonged to an old family, and a rich one, and had started in life with +a competence.’ + +‘Henry Glenlyne did inherit this fortune, I conclude?’ + +‘Yes, though the Spalding Glenlynes ran him hard for it.’ + +‘How long did he survive his uncle?’ + +‘Nearly ten years. He married a year after the old man’s death—married +a fashionable woman, handsome, extravagant, and it was whispered a +bit of a tartar. She brought him two sons and a daughter, who all +died—a taint of consumption in the blood, people said; and the lady +herself died of rapid consumption two years before her husband. The +loss of wife and children broke him up altogether; and Joseph Spalding +Glenlyne, who had watched the estate like a harpy ever since he left +Cambridge, had the satisfaction of coming into possession of it after +all.’ + +‘Did Henry Glenlyne make a will?’ + +‘No; he died suddenly, though his constitution had been broken for some +time before the end. Joseph Glenlyne inherited under the uncle’s will.’ + +‘And that left the estate—’ + +‘To Henry Glenlyne, and his children after him. Failing such issue, +to Joseph Spalding Glenlyne, and his children after him. Mr. Spalding +Glenlyne has plenty of children—raw-boned boys, who prowl about +Westminster between school-hours with their luncheons in blue bags. +A saving man, Mr. Glenlyne. I have seen his boys in the abbey itself +munching surreptitious sandwiches.’ + +‘Then this estate now held by Mr. Spalding Glenlyne actually belongs of +right to Lucille.’ + +‘If you can prove her to be the legitimate daughter of Henry Glenlyne, +she is most decidedly entitled to claim it.’ + +‘If I cannot prove that, I must be unworthy of success in any walk of +life,’ said Lucius. + +‘Leave the case in my hands, Mr. Davoren, and leave me those letters. +My clerk shall make copies of them if you like, and return you the +original documents. I’ll think the matter over, and, if I find it ripe +enough, take counsel’s opinion.’ + +‘I should like to see Miss Glenlyne—the lady in whose service +Lucille’s mother came to England,’ said Lucius. ‘Would there be any +harm in my endeavouring to obtain an interview with her?’ + +‘I think not. Old Miss Glenlyne hates the Spalding Glenlynes worse than +she hates allopathy. They contrived to offend her in some unpardonable +manner while they were courting her brother. She is at Brighton just +now. If you would really like to call upon her, I shouldn’t mind giving +you a letter of introduction. She and I were always good friends.’ + +‘I’ll go down to Brighton to-morrow, and take Lucille with me. She is +wonderfully like that portrait of Félicie Dumarques, and it will be +strange if Miss Glenlyne fails to see the likeness, unless age has +darkened “those that look out of the windows.”’ + +‘Miss Glenlyne is as sharp as a needle—a wonderful old lady.’ + +Mr. Pullman, who had now, as it were, taken Lucius under his wing, +wrote a letter of introduction, stating Mr. Davoren’s motive +for seeking an interview, addressed his note to Miss Glenlyne, +Selbrook-place, and handed it to his new client. And thus they parted, +on excellent terms with each other, the lawyer promising to send a +clerk to inspect the St. James’s registries that afternoon, in quest of +that particular entry which was in a manner the keystone of Lucille’s +case. + +‘Upon my word, I don’t know why I should be fool enough to take +up such a chimerical business,’ Mr. Pullman said to himself, half +reproachfully, as he stood upon his hearthrug, and enjoyed the genial +warmth of his seacoal fire, after Lucius had left him. + +But in his heart of hearts Mr. Pullman was pretty well aware that he +took up Lucius and Lucille’s case because he detested Joseph Spalding +Glenlyne. + +Lord Lytton has written an admirable chapter upon the value of Hate as +a motive power, and it was assuredly Hate that prompted Mr. Pullman +to undertake the championship of Lucille. Mr. Spalding Glenlyne had +removed the Glenlyne estate from Mr. Pullman’s office. The poetry of +retribution would be achieved by the return of the estate to the office +without the encumbrance of Spalding Glenlyne. + +Mr. Pullman polished his spectacles with his oriental handkerchief, and +sighed gently to himself as he thought what a nice thing that would be. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE END OF ALL DELUSIONS. + + +Mr. Sivewright received the news of his son’s death like a Roman; +yet Lucius felt that beneath this semblance of stoicism there lurked +keenest pain. With weak human nature’s inconsistency the old man’s +memory now slid back to days long gone, before his son had become a +scorpion—when the clever bright-faced child had seemed the one star of +hope upon a joyless horizon. + +‘He was such a promising child,’ Homer Sivewright said to himself, +as he sat by the hearth in the panelled parlour, absorbed in gloomy +meditation, ‘and I hoped so much from him. How was it that he went +astray? Was it innate wickedness, or his mother’s evil teaching?’ + +One pang was spared him. He did not know that the son he had once so +fondly loved had tried to sap the last dregs of his failing life by +slow poison. He knew that Ferdinand was a baffled murderer, for he +had seen the knife pointed at his own breast by that relentless hand. +But he might extenuate even this deadly assault by supposing it to be +unpremeditated—a sudden access of ungovernable rage. So he sat by his +hearth, and brooded upon days so long vanished that it seemed almost +as if they belonged to another life; as if the chief figure in those +departed scenes—himself—had been a different person, and had died +long ago, so utterly had he outgrown and passed away from the Homer +Sivewright of that time. He thought with a new and keen regret of a +period that had been sorely troubled, yet not without hope. His busy +brain had been full of schemes of self-aggrandisement—the dulness +of the present brightened by one perpetual day-dream, the vision of +accumulated wealth, which he and his only son were to share. The +boy’s good looks and talent had promised success. He seemed born to +conquer—to trample on the necks of less-gifted mankind. Delusive +dreams—baseless calculations! Between that time and this lay the dark +world of memory, peopled with the phantoms of dead hopes. + +The old man sighed at the thought that he had outlived the possibility +of hope. He was too old to look forward, except beyond the grave; and +his eyes, so keen for the business of this world, were yet too dull +to pierce the mists that veil Death’s fatal river, and reach the shore +that lies upon the other side. What hold had he now upon the things of +this earth—toil and profit, and the strong wine of success? He, who +had once been whole owner of the good ship Life, was now reduced to a +sixty-fourth share in that gallant vessel. What recked it to him where +she drifted or against what rock she perished, now his interest in her +was so small? To think of the future—that earthly future which alone +presented itself to his too mundane mind—was to think of a time in +which he must cease to be. He could not easily transfer his hopes to +those who were to succeed him; those who might perchance reap the fruit +of his unwearying toil. He thought of all the miles—the stony London +miles—that he had walked in pursuit of his trade—often with tired +feet. He thought of that stern system of deprivation he had imposed on +himself, till he had schooled his appetite to habitual self-denial, +brought the demon sense into subjection so complete that it was as if +he had been created without the longings of other men. How many a time +had he passed through the savoury steam of some popular dining-place, +while hunger gnawed his entrails! On how many a bitter day he had +refused himself the modest portion of strong drink which might have +comforted him after his weary wanderings! He had denied himself all +the things that other men deem necessities—had denied himself with +money in his pockets—and had amassed his collection. To-day he was +unusually disposed to gloomy thought, and began even to doubt whether +the collection was worth the life of deprivation it had cost him. He +had been gradually recovering health and strength for some time, but +with convalescence came a curiously depressed state of mind. He was not +strong enough to go about his business—to potter about as of old amidst +the chaos of his various treasures, to resume the compilation of an +elaborate descriptive catalogue, at which he had been slowly working +since his removal to Cedar House. Nor could he think of reinspecting +his miscellaneous possessions without a pang, lest, in doing so, he +should find even greater loss than he was now aware of. So, powerless +to seek consolation from a return to business and activity, he sat by +his fireside in the gloomy October weather, and brooded over the past. + +Lucille tended him as of old, with the same unvarying patience and +affection. + +‘It is such a happiness to see you looking so much better, dear +grandfather,’ she said, as she stood beside him while he ate his +noontide mutton-chop, a simple fare which seemed particularly savoury +after that diet of broths and jellies to which he had been kept so long. + +‘Looking better am I?’ muttered Mr. Sivewright testily. ‘Then I +wonder what kind of a spectre I looked when I was worse—Ugolino in +a black-velvet skull-cap, I suppose. I tried to shave myself this +morning, and the face I saw in the glass was ghostly enough in all +conscience. However, Lucius says I’m better, and you say I’m better; so +I suppose I am better.’ + +‘Lucius thinks we might all go to the country for a little while for +change of air,’ said Lucille, ‘that is to say, you and I, and Lucius +would be with us part of the time—just for a day or two—it’s so +difficult for him to leave his patients. He says change of air would do +you so much good.’ + +‘Does he indeed!’ exclaimed Mr. Sivewright, with an ironical air; ‘and +pray who is to take care of my collection if I leave it? It has been +robbed enough as it is.’ + +‘But, dear grandfather,’ remonstrated Lucille, ‘is not your health of +more consequence than those things, however valuable they may be?’ + +‘No, child; for to gather those things together I sacrificed all that +other men call ease. Am I to lose the fruit of a lifetime? It is hard +enough to be robbed of any portion of it. Let me keep what remains. I +shall have no more rest till I am able to go through my catalogue, and +see how much I have lost.’ + +‘Could not I do that?’ + +‘No, Lucille; no one knows the things properly except myself. Wincher +knew a good deal, for I was weak enough to trust him fully. He knew +what I paid for everything, and the value I set upon it. He was the +only man I ever trusted after my son deceived me; and you see my +reward. He took advantage of my helplessness to betray me.’ + +Lucille gave a little choking sigh. She felt that the time had come +for her to speak. That poor faithful old servant must no longer appear +despicable in the eyes of the master he had served so well. She must +make her confession to her grandfather as she had made it to Lucius. + +‘I wish Lucius were here to speak for me,’ she thought; and then, +ashamed of this moral cowardice, she knelt down beside Homer +Sivewright’s chair, and took his hand in hers timidly, hardly knowing +how to begin. + +‘I’m not angry with you, child,’ he said gently, interpreting +that timid clinging touch as a remonstrance. ‘You have been true +and faithful. But women are like dogs in the fidelity of their +attachments. One hardly counts them when one considers the baseness of +mankind.’ + +‘O grandfather, I have not been quite faithful. I meant to do what was +right—only—only I obeyed my heart, and wavered from the strict line of +duty. It was my fault that you were robbed.’ + +‘Your fault? Nonsense, child! That poor little head of yours isn’t +right yet, or you would not talk so.’ + +‘It is the truth, grandpapa,’ said Lucille, and then told her +story—told how the wanderer had pleaded, and how, touched by his +houselessness and seeming destitution, she had admitted him in secret +to the shelter of his father’s roof. + +The old man listened with sublime patience. Another evidence of how +vile a thing was this dead son, whom he had mourned with that strange +unreasoning tenderness which death will awaken in the coldest hearts. + +‘Say no more, child,’ he said gently, when Lucille had pleaded for +pardon almost as if the wrong done by Ferdinand Sivewright had been +wholly hers. ‘You were foolish and loving, and pitied him and trusted +him, although I had often warned you that he was of all men most +unworthy of pity or trust. Don’t cry, Lucille; I’m not angry with you. +Perhaps I might have been persuaded to believe in him myself if he had +pleaded long enough. That tongue of his was subtle as the serpent’s. +And so it was my son who robbed me! He crept into my house in secret, +and used his first opportunity to plunder. He is dead; let us forget +him. The tenderest mercy God and man could show him would be oblivion.’ + +And from this hour Homer Sivewright spoke of his son no more. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +AUNT GLENLYNE. + + +Once assured that there was no blot upon Lucille’s parentage, Lucius +had no longer any motive for withholding the result of his researches +from her whom they most nearly concerned. He spent his evening at Cedar +House, as usual, on the day of his interview with Mr. Pullman; and +after tea, when Mr. Sivewright had retired, seized the opportunity to +show Lucille the little packet of letters, and to relate his adventures +at Rouen and in Paris. Lucille wept many tears as that story of the +past was slowly unfolded to her—wept for the sorrows of the mother she +vaguely remembered watching like a guardian angel beside her little bed. + +‘Dear mother! and to think that in your brief life there was so much +sorrow!’ she said mournfully. + +Her father—as revealed to her by those letters, and by all that Lucius +told her—seemed worldly and even cruel. He had suffered his young +wife to fade and die in severance from all she loved. For the sake of +what?—his uncle’s fortune. He had acted a lie rather than forego that +worldly gain. O foolish dream of a father’s love! From first to last it +had been only a delusion for Lucille. She uttered no word of reproach +against the dead. But she separated her mother’s letters from the +others in the little packet, and asked if she might keep them. + +‘These and the miniature are the only memorials of the mother I lost so +soon,’ she said. ‘They are very precious to me.’ + +‘Keep them, dearest, but do not cultivate sad memories. Your life has +been too long clouded; but, please God, there shall be less shadow than +sunshine henceforward.’ + +He told Lucille of his idea of taking her to Brighton in a day or two, +to see Miss Glenlyne. + +‘The lady with whom my mother came to England,’ she said. ‘Yes, I +should very much like to see any one who knew my mother.’ + +‘We will go the day after to-morrow, then, dear, if grandpapa will give +us permission. We can come back to town the same evening, and Janet can +go with us to play propriety, if you like.’ + +‘I should like that very much,’ said Lucille. + +Mr. Sivewright was consulted when Lucius paid his visit next morning; +and, on being told the circumstances of the case fully, was tolerably +complaisant. He was still ‘grandpapa’—nobody had any idea of deposing +him from the sway and masterdom that went along with that title. + +‘I suppose you must take her,’ he said reluctantly, ‘though the house +seems miserable without her. Such a quiet little thing as she is too! I +couldn’t have believed her absence would make so much difference. But +if you’re going to establish her claim to a fine fortune, I suppose +I shall soon lose her. Miss Glenlyne will be ashamed of the old +bric-à-brac dealer.’ + +‘Ashamed of you, grandpapa,’ cried Lucille, ‘when you’ve taken care of +me all these years, and educated me, and paid for everything I’ve ever +had!’ + +‘Taken care!’ repeated Mr. Sivewright with a sigh. ‘I believe the care +has been on the other side. You’ve brightened my home, little girl, and +crept into my heart unawares, though I tried my hardest to keep it shut +against you.’ + +Lucille rewarded this unusual burst of tenderness with a kiss, to which +the cynic submitted with assumed reluctance. + +They went to Brighton by an early train next day, accompanied by +Janet, who had consented to stay for a few days in her brother’s +unlovely abode, before going back to Flossie. That idolised damsel had +been left to the care of old nurse Sally, who guarded her as the apple +of her eye. + +It was pleasant weather for a hasty trip to Brighton. The rush and riot +of excursion-trains had ended with the ending of summer. Lucius and his +two companions left London-bridge terminus comfortably and quietly in +a quick train, with a carriage to themselves. The day was bright and +sunny; the deepening tints of autumn beautified the peaceful landscape; +the air blew fresh and strong across the downs as the train neared +Brighton. + +Janet sat in her corner of the carriage grave and somewhat silent, +while the others talked in low confidential tones of the past and +the future. Where love is firm hope is never absent, what shadow +soever may obscure life’s horizon. Lucius and Lucille, happy in each +other’s society, forgot all the troubles and perplexities of the last +few months. But Janet had not yet recovered from the shock of that +meeting in the hospital. She was still haunted by the last look of her +husband’s dying eyes. + +They arrived at Brighton before noon, at too early an hour for a first +visit to an elderly lady like Miss Glenlyne. So they walked up and +down the Parade for an hour or so, looking at the sea and talking +of all manner of things. Janet brightened a good deal during this +walk, and seemed pleased to discuss her brother’s future, though she +studiously avoided any allusion to her own. + +‘You must not go and bury yourself at Stillmington again, Janet; must +she, Lucille?’ Lucius said by and by. ‘The place is nice enough—much +nicer than London, I daresay; but we want you to be near us.’ + +‘Shall I come back to London?’ asked Janet. ‘I daresay I could get some +teaching in town. The publishers would recommend me. Yes, it would be +nice to be near you, Lucius, to play our old concertante duets again. +It would seem like the dear old days when—’ She could not finish +the sentence. The thought of the father and mother whose death had +perhaps been hastened by her folly was too bitter. Happily for her own +peace Janet never knew how deep the wounds she had inflicted on those +faithful hearts. She knew that they were lost to her—that she had not +been by to ask a blessing from those dying lips. But the full measure +of her guilt she knew not. + +‘Yes, Janet, you must settle in London. I shall move to the West-end +very soon. I feel myself strong enough to create a practice, if I +cannot afford to buy one. And then we can see each other constantly.’ + +‘I will come, then,’ answered Janet quietly. + +She seemed to have no thought of any other future than that which her +own industry was to provide for her. + +They left the sea soon after this, and took a light luncheon of tea +and cakes at a confectioner’s in the Western-road, prior to descending +upon Selbrook-place, to find the abode of Miss Glenlyne. Janet was to +sit upon the Parade, or walk about and amuse herself as she liked, +while Lucius and Lucille were with Miss Glenlyne, and they were to +meet afterwards at a certain seat by the lawn. It was just possible, +of course, that there might be some disappointment—that Miss Glenlyne, +elderly and invalided though she was, might be out, or that she might +refuse to see them in spite of Mr. Pullman’s letter. + +‘But I don’t feel as if we were going to be disappointed,’ said Lucius; +‘I have a notion that we shall succeed.’ + +They left Janet to her own devices, and went arm-in-arm to +Selbrook-place. It was an eminently quiet place, consisting of two rows +of modern houses, stuccoed, pseudo-classical, and commonplace, with an +ornamental garden between them. The garden was narrow, and the shady +side of Selbrook-place was very shady. No intrusive fly or vehemently +driven cart could violate the aristocratic seclusion of Selbrook-place. +The houses were accessible only in the rear. They turned their backs, +as it were, upon the vulgar commerce of life, and in a manner ignored +it. That garden, where few flowers flourished, was common to the +occupants of Selbrook-place, but shut against the outer world. The +inhabitants could descend from their French windows to that sacred +parterre, but to the outer world those French windows were impenetrable. + +Thus it came to pass that Selbrook-place was for the most part affected +by elderly ladies, maiden or widowed, without encumbrance, by spinster +sisters of doubtful age, by gouty old gentlemen who over-ate themselves +and over-drank themselves in the respectable seclusion of dining-rooms, +unexposed to the vulgar gaze. There was much talk about eating and +drinking, servants, and wills, in Selbrook-place. Every inhabitant +of those six-and-twenty respectable houses knew all about his or her +neighbours’ intentions as to the ultimate disposal of their property. +That property question was an inexhaustible subject of conversation. +Every one in Selbrook-place seemed amply provided with the goods of +this world, and those who lived in the profoundest solitude and spent +least money were reputed the richest. Miss Glenlyne was one of these. +She never gave a dinner or a cup of tea to neighbour or friend; she +wore shabby garments, and went out in a hired bath-chair, attended +by a confidential maid or companion, who was just a shade shabbier +than herself. The gradation was almost imperceptible, for the maid +wore out the mistress’s clothes—clothes that had not been new within +the memory of any one in Selbrook-place. Miss Glenlyne had brought a +voluminous wardrobe to Brighton twenty years ago, and appeared to have +been gradually wearing out that handsome supply of garments, so little +concession did she make to the mutations of taste. + +A maid-servant opened the door—a maid-servant attired with scrupulous +neatness in the lavender cotton gown and frilled muslin cap which have +become traditional. To this maid Lucius gave Mr. Pullman’s letter and +his own card, saying that he would wait to know if Miss Glenlyne would +be so good as to see him. + +The maid looked embarrassed, evidently thoughtful of the spoons, which +doubtless lurked somewhere in the dim religious light of a small +pantry, at the end of the passage. After a moment’s hesitation she +rang a call-bell, and kept her eye on Lucius and Lucille until the +summons was answered. + +It was answered quickly by an elderly person in a black silk gown, in +which time had developed a mellow green tinge and to which friction +had given a fine gloss. This person, who wore a bugled black lace cap, +rather on one side, was Miss Spilling, once Miss Glenlyne’s maid, now +elevated to a middle station, half servant, half companion—servant to +be ordered about, companion to sympathise. + +‘I have a letter of introduction to Miss Glenlyne, from Mr. Pullman of +Lincoln’s-inn,’ said Lucius. + +‘Dear me!’ exclaimed Miss Spilling; ‘Mr. Pullman ought to know that +Miss Glenlyne objects to receive any one, above all a stranger. She is +a great invalid. Mr. Pullman ought to know better than to give letters +of introduction without Miss Glenlyne’s permission.’ + +‘The matter is one of importance,’ said Lucius, ‘or I should not have +troubled Miss Glenlyne.’ + +Miss Spilling surveyed him doubtfully from head to foot. He wore good +clothes certainly, and looked like a gentleman. But then appearances +are deceptive. He might be a genteel beggar after all. There are so +many vicarious beggars, people who beg for other people, for new +churches, and missions, and schools; people who seem to beg for the +sake of begging. And Miss Glenlyne, though she subscribed handsomely +to a certain number of orthodox old-established charities, hated to +be pestered on behalf of novel schemes for the benefit of her fellow +creatures. + +‘If it’s anything connected with ritualism,’ said Miss Spilling, ‘it +isn’t the least use for me to take your letter up to Miss Glenlyne. Her +principles are strictly evangelical.’ + +‘My business has nothing to do with ritualism. Pray let Miss Glenlyne +read the letter.’ + +Miss Spilling sighed doubtfully, looked at the maid as much as to say, +‘Keep your eye on these people,’ and went up-stairs with the letter, +leaving Lucius and Lucille standing in the hall. + +She returned in about ten minutes with a surprised air, and requested +them to walk up to the drawing-room. + +They followed her to the first floor, where she ushered them into a +room crowded with much unnecessary furniture, darkened by voluminous +curtains, and heated like the palm-house in Kew Gardens. Lucius felt +a sense of oppression directly he entered the apartment. The windows +were all shut, a bright fire burned in a shining steel grate, which +reflected its glow, and a curious Indian perfume filled the room. +In a capacious chair by the fire reclined a little old lady, wrapped +in an Indian shawl of dingy hues, a little old lady whose elaborate +blonde cap was almost as big as all the rest of her person. Her slender +hands, on whose waxen skin the blue veins stood out prominently, were +embellished with valuable old diamond rings in silver setting, and an +ancient diamond brooch in the shape of a feather clasped the shawl +across her shrunken shoulders. + +This old lady was Miss Glenlyne. She raised her eye-glass with +tremulous fingers, and surveyed her visitors with a somewhat +parrot-like scrutiny. The contour of her aristocratic features was +altogether of the parrot order. + +‘Come here,’ she said, addressing Lucille, with kindly command,—‘come +here, and sit by my side; and you, sir, pray what is the meaning of +this curious story which Mr. Pullman tells me? Spilling, you can go, my +dear.’ + +Miss Spilling had lingered, anxious to know all about these strangers. +Every day made Miss Spilling more and more solicitous upon the +all-important question of Miss Glenlyne’s will. She had reason to +suppose that her interests were cared for in that document. But +advancing age did not increase Miss Glenlyne’s wisdom. Some base +intruder, arriving late upon the scene, might undo the slow work of +years, and thrust himself between Miss Glenlyne’s legitimate heirs and +their heritage. Just as a horse which has been kept well in hand in the +early part of a race comes in with a rush as winner at the finish. In +the presence of these unknown intruders Miss Spilling scented danger. + +She ignored her mistress’s behest, and came over to the easy-chair, +moved a little table near it, picked up a fallen newspaper, and hovered +over Miss Glenlyne with tenderest solicitude. + +‘It’s just upon the time for your chicken broth,’ she said. + +‘My chicken broth can wait until I require it,’ replied Miss Glenlyne +curtly. ‘You can go, my dear; I want a little private talk with this +lady and gentleman.’ + +Miss Spilling retired meekly, but troubled of heart. There is nothing +easier than to alter a will. Yet Miss Spilling felt it was wisest to +obey. Surely the patient service of years was not to be set at naught +for some new fancy. But age is apt to be capricious, fickle even; and +Miss Spilling was not blind to the fact that there were seasons when +Miss Glenlyne considered her a bore. + +‘You are not so amusing as you were fifteen years ago, Spilling,’ Miss +Glenlyne would sometimes remark candidly; and Miss Spilling could but +admit that fifteen years of a solitude scarcely less profound than the +loneliness of a Carthusian monastery had not tended to enliven her +spirits. She had come to Miss Glenlyne charged with all the gossip +picked up in a half a dozen previous situations, and little by little +she had exhausted her fund of frivolity and slander, and told her +servants’-hall stories till they were threadbare. + +Who could be sure that Miss Glenlyne would not be beguiled by some new +favourite, even at the very end of her career? Sedulously had Miss +Spilling striven to guard against this ever-present peril by keeping +poor relations, old friends, and strangers alike at bay. But to-day she +felt herself worsted, and retired to her own apartment depressed and +apprehensive. If the folding-doors had been closed she might have gone +into the back drawing-room and listened; but the folding-doors were +open. Miss Glenlyne liked a palm-house atmosphere, but she liked space +for an occasional constitutional promenade, so the back drawing-room +was never shut off. Miss Spilling lingered a little by the landing +door, but heard only indistinct murmurs, and feared to loiter long, +lest she should be caught in the act by the parlourmaid Susan, who was +fleet of foot. + +‘This is a very curious story,’ said Miss Glenlyne, when the door +had closed upon her companion; ‘I hardly know how to believe it. A +marriage between my nephew Henry and Félicie Dumarques! It seems hardly +credible.’ + +‘The record in the parish register proves it to be a fact +nevertheless,’ said Lucius quietly. + +‘So Mr. Pullman tells me. Félicie left me to go to Rouen, she said, +summoned home by illness in her family. And now it seems she stole away +to marry my nephew. She must have been an artful treacherous girl.’ + +Lucille rose hastily from her seat near Miss Glenlyne. ‘You forget, +Miss Glenlyne, that she was my mother,’ she said firmly; ‘I cannot stay +to hear her condemned.’ + +‘Nonsense, child,’ cried the old lady, not unkindly; ‘sit down. The +truth must be told even if she was your mother. She treated me very +badly. I was so fond of that girl. She was the only person I ever had +about me who suited me thoroughly. She would have been amply provided +for after my death if she had stayed and been faithful to me. I never +treated her as a servant, or thought of her as a servant; indeed it +would have been difficult for any one to do so, for she had the +manners and instincts of a lady. Yet she deceived me, and left me with +a lie.’ + +‘Love is a powerful influence,’ said Lucille softly; ‘she was persuaded +to that wrong act by one she fondly loved, one for whom she willingly +sacrificed her own happiness, and who rewarded her at the last by +desertion.’ + +‘My nephew was always selfish,’ said Miss Glenlyne; ‘he was brought +up by a foolish mother, who taught him to count upon inheriting his +uncle’s money, and never taught him any higher duty than to seek his +own pleasure, so far as he could gratify himself without offending his +uncle. She taught him to flatter and tell lies before he could speak +plain. He was not altogether bad, and might have been a much better +man if he had been differently trained. Well, well, I daresay he was +most to blame throughout the business. I’ll say no more against poor +Félicie; only it was not kind of her to leave an invalid mistress who +had shown her a good deal of affection.’ + +‘Whatever error she committed she suffered deeply for it,’ said +Lucille. ‘The sin was chiefly another’s, but the sorrow was all hers.’ + +‘Ah, my dear, that’s the usual distribution between a man and a +woman,’ replied Miss Glenlyne, considerably softened by this time. + +She turned and scrutinised Lucille’s candid countenance—took the pale +interesting face between her hands and held it near her. + +‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘you have Félicie’s eyes and Félicie’s mouth. +I can readily believe that you are her daughter. And pray, Mr. Davoren, +what is your interest in this young lady?’ + +‘We are engaged to be married,’ answered Lucius. + +‘Indeed! Not in an underhand way, I hope, like Félicie and my nephew, +who must have been making love by some secret code before my very face, +when I hadn’t a suspicion of any such thing.’ + +‘We are engaged with the full consent of Lucille’s adopted father—her +only friend,’ answered Lucius. + +‘I am glad of that. And what put it into your head to come to me?’ + +‘Because I thought you might be able to assist Lucille in establishing +her claim to any heritage to which she may be entitled.’ + +‘If she is the legitimate and only child of Henry Glenlyne, she is +entitled to a very fine estate, which is now enjoyed by a man my +brother never intended to benefit by it. He was doatingly fond of his +brother’s son Henry; and although the young man disappointed him in +many things, that love was never seriously diminished. He left Henry +the bulk of his fortune, with reversion to any child or children that +might be born to him. He knew that I had an income more than enough for +my wants, so he left almost all to his nephew. Spalding Glenlyne’s name +was put in at the suggestion of Mr. Pullman, but it was never supposed +that he would inherit the estate.’ + +Once set going, Miss Glenlyne was quite willing to relate all she could +remember about her brother Reginald, her nephew Henry, and Félicie +Dumarques. She spoke of the Spalding Glenlynes with rancour, and +declared her readiness to assist Lucille, so far as lay in her power, +in the assertion of her claim to the Glenlyne estate, which consisted +of various lands and tenements in Norfolk, and though yielding the +usual low rate of interest, produced between three and four thousand a +year. + +Before taking her chicken-broth, Miss Glenlyne ordered an impromptu +dinner of mutton-chops to be prepared for her visitors, and, when +Lucius mentioned his sister Janet as a reason for declining this +proffered hospitality, insisted that he should go instantly and +fetch that young lady. Lucius dutifully obeyed, and while he was gone +Miss Glenlyne opened her heart more and more to Lucille, moved by the +recollection of that gentle girl who had ministered to her frivolous +and innumerable wants with such unwearying solicitude. + +‘It makes me feel twenty years younger to have you with me,’ said the +old lady. ‘I like young faces and pretty looks and gentle manners. +Spilling, my maid, whom you saw just now, is good and devoted, but she +is elderly and uncultivated and not pleasant to look at. She knows I +like quiet, of course, at my age and with my weak health. I have had +bad health all my life, my dear; quiet is essential. But Spilling is +over-anxious on this point, and keeps every one away from me. I am +shut up in this drawing-room like a jewel that is kept in cotton-wool +and never taken out to be worn. Spilling is extremely attentive—never +lets my fire get low, or forgets the correct time for my beef-tea and +chicken-broth. But I feel the solitude depressing sometimes. A little +youthful society, a little music, would be quite cheering. You play and +sing now, I daresay?’ + +‘Very little, though I am fond of music,’ answered Lucille; ‘but Janet, +Mr. Davoren’s sister, sings beautifully.’ + +‘I should like to hear her. Félicie used to sing to me of an evening, +while I sat in the dusk to save my poor eyes, such pretty simple French +_chansons_. How I wish you could come here and stay, with me!’ + +‘You are very kind to think of it, Miss Glenlyne,’ answered Lucille, +thinking what a curious life it would be with this old lady, who seemed +half a century older than the energetic unconquerable Homer Sivewright, +‘but I’m afraid I couldn’t leave my grandfather.’ + +‘Your grandfather?’ + +‘He is not really my grandfather, though I believed that he was till +very lately; but he has been good to me and brought me up. I owe him +everything.’ + +Miss Glenlyne questioned Lucille a good deal about her past life, its +early years and so on, and seemed warmly interested. She was not an old +lady who poured out her spare affections upon more or less deserving +members of the animal kingdom, and she had been of late years almost +cut off from communion with humanity. Her heart opened unawares to +receive Lucille. + +‘If you are my nephew’s daughter, it stands to reason that I am your +great-aunt,’ she said; ‘and I shall expect you to pay me some duty. You +must come to stay with me as soon as this adopted grandfather is well +enough to do without you.’ + +‘Dear Miss Glenlyne, I shall be most happy to come. I am more glad than +I can tell you to find some one who is really related to me.’ + +‘Don’t call me Miss Glenlyne, then, but Aunt Glenlyne,’ said the old +lady authoritatively. + +Miss Spilling felt as if she could have fallen to the ground in a swoon +when she came into the drawing-room five minutes afterwards and heard +the strange young person call her mistress ‘Aunt Glenlyne.’ + +‘How you stare, Spilling!’ cried the old lady. ‘This young lady is my +grandniece, Miss Lucille Glenlyne.’ + +After this Spilling stared with almost apoplectic intensity of gaze. + +‘Lor, Miss Glenlyne, that must be one of your jokes,’ she exclaimed. +‘You wouldn’t call one of the Spalding Glenlynes your niece, and I know +you’ve no other.’ + +‘I never make jokes,’ answered her mistress with dignity; ‘and I beg +that you will show Miss Lucille Glenlyne all possible respect, now, and +on every other occasion. I have ordered a hurried dinner to be prepared +for Miss Lucille and her friends, who, I am sorry to say, have to +return to London this evening. They will dine in the back drawing-room, +so that I may take my own simple meal with them.’ + +Miss Spilling felt as if the universe had suddenly begun to crumble +around her. Her hold upon that sense of identity which sustains mankind +amidst the mysteries of an unexplainable world seemed to waver. Dinner +ordered and without prior consultation with her—a new era of waste and +rioting set in while her back was turned! She fumbled in an ancient +beaded reticule, produced a green glass bottle of weak salts, and +sniffed vehemently. + +‘Sit down, and be quiet, Spilling,’ said Miss Glenlyne. ‘I daresay you +and my niece will get on very well together. And her arrival won’t make +any difference in what I intended to do for you.’ + +‘What I intended to do,’ sounded vague. Miss Spilling had hoped the +intention was long ago set down in black and white—made as much a +fact as it could be before Miss Glenlyne’s decease. She gave another +sniff at her salts-bottle, and sat down, meek but not hopeful. This +liking for youthful faces was one of her employer’s weaknesses, against +which she had brought to bear all the art she knew. For fifteen years +she had contrived to keep pleasant people and youthful faces for the +most part outside any house occupied by Miss Glenlyne. That lady +had descended the vale of years in company with pilgrims almost as +travel-worn and as near the end of the journey as herself: no reflected +light from the countenances of younger travellers had been permitted +to shine upon her. Kensal-green and Doctors’-commons—all images that +symbolise approaching death—had been kept rigorously before her. Youth +had been represented to her as the period of deceit and ingratitude. +If any young person, by some fortuitous means, did ever penetrate her +seclusion, Miss Spilling immediately discovered that young person +to be a viper in disguise—a reptile which would warm itself at Miss +Glenlyne’s hearth, only to sting its benefactress. And Miss Glenlyne, +always uncomfortably conscious that she had money to bequeath, and that +humanity is sometimes mercenary, had discarded one acquaintance after +another, at the counsel of Miss Spilling, until she found herself in +extreme old age with no companionship save the somewhat doleful society +of her counsellor. + +It was wonderful how brisk and light the old lady became in her niece’s +company. She made Lucille sit next her, and patted the girl’s hand with +her withered fingers, on which the rings rattled loosely, and asked her +all manner of questions about her childhood and her schooldays, her +accomplishments, her vague memory of mother and father. + +‘I’ve a portrait of your father in the dining-room,’ she said; ‘you +shall go down and look at it by and by.’ + +Lucius returned with Janet, whom Miss Glenlyne welcomed with much +cordiality, evidently struck by the beauty of that noble face which +had beguiled Geoffrey Hossack into that not-uncommon folly called love +at first sight. The little dinner in the back drawing-room was a most +cheerful banquet, in spite of Miss Spilling, who presided grimly over +the dish of chops, and looked the daggers which she dared not use. Miss +Glenlyne even called for a bottle of champagne, whereupon Miss Spilling +reluctantly withdrew to fetch that wine from the cellaret in the +dining-room. Unwelcome as was the task, she was glad of the opportunity +to retire, that she might vent her grief and indignation in a series of +sniffs, groans, and snorts, which seemed to afford her burdened spirit +some relief. + +After dinner Miss Glenlyne asked Janet to sing, and they all sat in the +firelight listening to those old Italian airs which seem so full of the +memory of youth; and warmed by these familiar melodies—rich and strong +as old wine—Miss Glenlyne discoursed of her girlhood and the singers +she had heard at His Majesty’s Theatre. + +‘I have heard Pasta, my dear, and Catalani, and I remember Malibran’s +_début_. Ah, those were grand days for opera! You have no such singers +nowadays,’ said Miss Glenlyne, with the placid conviction which is +sustained by ignorance. + +‘You ought to hear some of our modern singers, Miss Glenlyne,’ replied +Lucius; ‘all the great people come to Brighton to sing nowadays.’ + +‘I never go out except for an hour in my bath-chair, and I am sure you +have no one like Pasta. Your sister has a lovely voice, Mr. Davoren, +and a charming style, quite the old school. She reminds me of Kitty +Stephens. But as to your having any opera-singer like those I heard in +my youth, I can’t believe it.’ + +When the time drew near for her guests to depart, Miss Glenlyne grew +quite melancholy. + +‘You have cheered me up so, my dear,’ she said to Lucille. ‘I can’t +bear to lose you so quickly. I never took such a fancy to any one—since +I lost your mother,’ she added in a whisper. + +‘Lor, Miss Glenlyne,’ exclaimed Miss Spilling, unable to command her +indignation, ‘you’re always taking fancies to people.’ + +‘And you’re always trying to set me against them,’ answered her +mistress; ‘but this young lady is my own flesh and blood—I’m not going +to be turned against her.’ + +‘I’m sure I’ve always spoken from a sense of duty, Miss Glenlyne.’ + +‘I suppose you have. But it is your duty to respect my niece. I am an +old woman, Mr. Davoren, and I don’t often ask favours,’ continued Miss +Glenlyne, appealing to Lucius. ‘I think you ought to indulge my fancy, +if you can possibly do so without injury to any one else.’ + +‘What is your fancy, Miss Glenlyne?’ + +‘I want Lucille to stay with me a little while—till we have learnt to +know each other quite well. I am the only near relation she has, and my +time cannot be very long now. If she doesn’t gratify her old aunt on +this occasion, she may never have the opportunity again. Who can tell +how soon I may be called away?’ + +This from one who was between seventy and eighty was a forcible appeal. +Lucius looked at Lucille with an interrogative glance. + +‘I should like very much to stay,’ said Lucille, answering the +mute question, ‘if you think grandpapa would not be offended or +inconvenienced.’ + +‘I think I could explain everything to Mr. Sivewright, and that he +could hardly object to your stopping here for a few days,’ replied +Lucius. + +‘Then she shall stay!’ exclaimed Miss Glenlyne, delighted. ‘Spilling, +tell Mary to get a room ready for Miss Lucille—the room opening out of +mine.’ + +Spilling, with a visage gloomy as Cassandra’s, retired to obey. It +was nearly the time for Janet and Lucius to depart, in order to catch +a convenient train for their return. Lucille wrote a little note to +Mrs. Milderson, asking for a small portmanteau of necessaries to be +sent to her; and then with a tender hand-pressure, and a kiss on the +landing outside the drawing-room, the lovers parted for a little while, +and Lucille was left alone with her great-aunt. It was a strangely +sudden business, yet there was something in the old lady’s clinging +affectionateness that attached the girl to her already. She seemed like +some one who had long pined for some creature to love, and who had +found her desire in Lucille. + +Miss Spilling retired to the housekeeper’s room—a snug little apartment +in the basement—and sat with her feet on the fender, consuming buttered +toast and strong tea, and talking over this new state of affairs with +the cook, while Lucille and Miss Glenlyne had the drawing-room all to +themselves. + +‘Do you really believe as how she is missus’s niece?’ asked the cook, +when she had heard Miss Spilling’s recital. + +‘No more than you are, Martha,’ answered the indignant Spilling. ‘Only +she’s more artful than the common run of impostors, and she’s backed up +by that letter of Mr. Pullman’s. We all know what lawyers are, and that +_they’ll_ swear to anything.’ + +‘But what would Mr. Pullman gain by it, miss?’ + +‘Who knows? That’s his secret. There’s some plot hatching between ’em +all, and Mr. Pullman lends himself to it, and wants Miss Glenlyne to +leave her money to this young woman—and he’s to get half of it, I +daresay.’ + +‘Ah,’ said cook sententiously, ‘it’s a wicked world!’ + +And then Miss Spilling and the cook began to talk of Miss Glenlyne’s +will—a subject which they had worn threadbare long ago, but to which +they always returned with equal avidity. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +GEOFFREY HAS THOUGHTS OF SHANGHAI. + + +Cheered and sustained by the hope of another happy afternoon with +Janet in the little cottage parlour, Geoffrey Hossack made himself +wonderfully agreeable to his cousins Belle and Jessie, and shot +the game on his uncle’s estate, and on the estates of his uncle’s +neighbours, with a good will. He was always popular, and in this part +of Hampshire he was accepted as a product of the soil, and cherished +accordingly. His father had been liked before him, and people expressed +their regret that an alien trader should occupy the house where that +gentleman had once dispensed what our ancestors were wont to call an +elegant hospitality. + +‘O, I mean to marry, and turn out the sugar-broker some day,’ Geoffrey +would reply in answer to these friendly speeches. Whereat Belle and +Jessie would both blush, and look at each other, and then at the +carpet. So bright a spot had that rustic tea-drinking made in the +life of this infatuated gentleman, that the sunshine lingered after +the event, and the mere memory of that one happy hour with Janet made +life pleasant to him for a long time. Belle and Jessie noticed his +high spirits, and each flattered herself with the idea that it was +her society which gladdened him. And when they ‘talked him over,’ as +they called it, at hair-brushing time, they in a manner congratulated +each other upon his ‘niceness,’ just as if he were a kind of common +property, and could marry both of them. He had still one tiresome +trick, and that was a habit of rambling off for long solitary walks, in +what the sisters considered a most unsociable spirit. + +‘It’s about the only thing I can do on my own hook,’ this unpolite +young man answered upon being remonstrated with. ‘If I go out shooting, +you go too; if I go on the water, you pull a better stroke than I do; +if I play bowls, you play bowls. You don’t smoke, but you are kind +enough to come and sit with me in the smoking-room. So my only chance +of doing a little thinking is a solitary walk. I suppose you don’t +pedestrianise? Twenty miles a day might be too much for you.’ + +‘O no, it wouldn’t,’ replied these thoroughbred damsels. ‘We’re going +for a walking tour in the Isle of Wight next spring, if papa will take +us. It seems absurd that two girls can’t walk alone, but I suppose it +might be thought odd if we went by ourselves.’ + +Geoffrey uttered a faint groan, but spoke no word. He was counting the +days that must elapse before he could pay a second visit to Foxley, +without stretching the license Mrs. Bertram had accorded him. His +lonely walks had taken him through Foxley more than once, and he had +lingered a little on the village-green, and looked at the windows of +old Sally’s cottage, and had longed in vain for but a glimpse of the +face he loved. Fortune did not favour these surreptitious pilgrimages. +Just as he began to think that the time had come when he might pay his +second visit, and demand that promised cup of orange pekoe, Lucius +Davoren’s letter reached him, and he learned that Janet’s husband was +alive and in England. The news was a death-blow to his hopes. The man +alive whose death he had vouched for! Alive, and with as good a life as +his own perhaps! + +What would Janet think of him should she come to know this? What could +she think, save that he had deliberately attempted to deceive her? His +honest heart sank at the thought that she might deem him guilty of such +baseness. + +What should he do? Go straightway to her, and tell her that he had been +deceived; that if her marriage was indeed legal, his love was hopeless. +Yes, he would do that. Anything would be better than to hazard being +scorned by her. He would go to her, and tell her the bitter truth, so +far as the one fact that her husband was alive. The details of the +story—all that concerned the villain’s supposed death in the American +forest—must remain untold till he had Lucius’s permission to reveal it. + +He set off upon his lonely walk to Foxley with a heavy heart—a soul +which the varied beauty of autumnal woods, the shifting lights and +shadows upon the undulating stubble, could not gladden. His case had +seemed hopeless enough a little while ago, so steadfast was Janet’s +determination to hear no word of a second marriage till she had +convincing proof that Death had cancelled the first; but it seemed +ever so much more hopeless now, after this assurance from Lucius that +the man was alive. And as a mere basis for speculation, where ages are +equal, one man’s life is as good as another. + +‘I daresay that beggar’s ten years my senior,’ pondered Geoffrey as +he strode along the rustic lanes, where ripening blackberries hung +between him and the sharp clear air; ‘but for all that I’ll be bound +he’ll outlive me. If he hadn’t more lives than a cat, he’d hardly have +escaped Davoren’s bullet, and the sharp tooth of Jack Frost into the +bargain. I suppose he keeps Death at a distance by the awe-inspiring +sounds of that fiddle, like Orpheus with his lyre.’ + +Geoffrey had made up his mind to a desperate step. He would do that +which must needs be as bitter as self-inflicted martyrdom. He would +tell what he had to tell, and then take a lifelong leave of the woman +he loved. Vain, worse than vain, the poor pretence of friendship where +his heart was so deeply engaged. Platonism here would be the hollowest +falsehood. With heart, soul, and mind he loved her, and for such love +as his there was no second name. Better the swift and sudden death +of all his joys than that his agonies should be protracted by such +occasional meetings as Janet might be disposed to permit—meetings +in which he must school his lips to the formal language of polite +conversation, while his heart burned to pour out its wealth of +passionate love. + +Foxley wore its accustomed aspect of utter peacefulness. The same +donkey, hampered as to the hind legs, grazed on the village-green; the +happy geese who had escaped the sacrificial spit at fatal Michaelmas +hissed their unfriendly salutation to the stranger. Nothing seemed +changed, save that the late-lingering roses looked pale and pinched +by the frosty breath of autumnal mornings; and even the dahlias had a +weedy look, like fashionable beauties at the close of the London season. + +Flossie was skipping in the little garden-path, with much exhibition of +her scarlet stockings, which flashed gaily from the snow-white drapery +of daintily-embroidered petticoats. + +‘Well, my little red-legged partridge,’ cried Geoffrey, ‘and where is +mamma?’ + +‘Mamma has gone to London,’ answered Flossie, with the callousness of +childhood. + +Geoffrey turned pale. He had come on purpose to be miserable—to utter +words which must be sharp as Moorish javelins to pierce his own heart. +Yet, not finding Janet, he felt as deeply disappointed as if his +errand had been the happiest. And Flossie’s calm announcement kindled +a spark of jealousy in his breast. ‘To London, and why?’ was his first +question. ‘To London, and with whom?’ was his second. + +‘A boy brought a nasty wicked letter, in a yellow envelope, from the +railway-station,’ said Flossie, making a face expressive of supreme +disgust; ‘and mamma went away directly. Poor mamma was so pale, and +trembled as she put on her bonnet, and I cried when she went. But old +Sally is ever so kind to me, and I’m happy now.’ + +‘Shallow, fickle child!’ cried Geoffrey; ‘take me to old Sally.’ + +Flossie conducted him through the pretty little parlour he remembered +so well, across a tiny kitchen—neat as the kitchen of a doll’s house +and not much bigger—to the garden behind the cottage, where old Sally +stood boldly out on a bit of high ground, cutting winter cabbages, and +in a bonnet which she wore like a helmet. + +She was not a little surprised and confused by the apparition of a tall +young gentleman in her back garden; but on recovering her fluttered +spirits, told Geoffrey what he so ardently desired to know. + +‘The telegraft was from Mr. Lucius,’ she said, ‘and Miss Janet was to +go up to London by the first train that left Foxley-road station. I +asked her if Mr. Lucius was ill, and she says No. “But somebody is ill, +Sarah,” she says, “and I must go at once.” And she leaves all of a maze +like, poor dear young lady! So I ups and runs to Mr. Hind, at the farm, +and asks the loan of his wagonette and man; and the man drove Miss +Janet and the other young lady off in time to catch the twelve-o’clock +train.’ + +‘Some one ill,’ thought Geoffrey. ‘Who could that have been? I have +heard her say she had no one in the world to care for except Flossie +and her brother Lucius.’ + +‘Have you heard nothing since she left you?’ he asked. + +‘Lor bless her dear heart, o’ course I have!’ answered the old woman, +picking up her greenstuffs, which she had dropped in her embarrassment +at Geoffrey’s abrupt appearance. ‘I had a sweet letter telling me as +she was going to stop a few days up in London with her brother. A nice +change for her, poor dear!’ added Sally, whose rustic idea of London +was a scene of perpetual enchantment; ‘and telling me to take care of +little missy; and I do take care of her, don’t I, dear?’ she said, +looking benevolently down at Flossie, who was hanging affectionately +to her apron; ‘and little missy and me are going to have a nice bit of +biled bacon and greens and a apple dumpling for our dinner.’ + +This was quite enough for Geoffrey. He immediately determined to +follow Janet to London, see her under her brother’s roof, and there +hear from Lucius all that he could tell about Matchi or Vandeleur’s +reappearance. His friend’s letter had told him so little. It would be +some satisfaction to know what ground Lucius had for his belief that +Matchi still lived. + +‘There is an up-train from Foxley-road station at one o’clock, you +say?’ he said, looking at his watch. It was now a quarter to twelve. + +‘Yes, sir.’ + +‘And how far is the station from here?’ + +‘About three miles.’ + +‘Good, I can walk that easily. I’m going to London to see mamma, +Flossie. Have you any message for her?’ + +‘Only that she is to come back directly, and give her fifty kisses.’ + +‘You must give me the kisses first.’ + +Flossie obeyed, and counted out her fifty kisses methodically in the +region of Mr. Hossack’s left whisker. Thus furnished, he set out again, +directed by Sally, to walk to the Foxley-road station. + +It was hardly a polite manner in which to depart from Hillersdon, but +Geoffrey relied upon a telegram to set himself right with his uncle and +cousins ere they should have time to be inconvenienced or offended by +his departure. A telegram from London, stating that important business +had summoned him there, would be ample explanation, he considered. And +the leaving behind of his portmanteaus made little difference to him, +since he always had a collection of clothes, boots, brushes, and other +toilet implements, in his own particular room at the Cosmopolitan, +neatly stowed away in drawers inaccessible to less-privileged patrons +of that house. + +The train which called at Foxley-road was a farmers’ train, stopped at +every station, and performed the journey in a provokingly deliberate +style. Not till it had passed Guildford did the engine hasten, and when +Waterloo did at last loom upon his weary gaze, smoke-veiled and dingy, +Mr. Hossack thought the journey one of the longest he had ever endured. + +He only stopped long enough to write a plausible and explanatory +telegram for the pacification of his cousin Belle before plunging +into a hansom, whose charioteer he directed to the Shadrack-road. +That cab-ride through the busiest thoroughfares of the City was also +tedious; but as the streets and the atmosphere grew duller and smokier +hope brightened, and he knew that he was nearing his goal. He was only +going, as it were, in search of misery, yet he had a wild longing to +see the dear face, even though it was to shine upon him for the last +time. + +The charioteer was tolerably quick of comprehension, and did not make +above three false stoppages before he drew up opposite Lucius Davoren’s +gate, with the big brass plate which bore his name and titles. It +was growing dusk by this time, so long had been the journey, and the +comfortable gleam of firelight shone through the parlour-window. That +genial glow seemed to betoken occupation. She was there most likely. +Geoffrey’s heart beat strong and fast. + +An old woman with a clean white cap—Mrs. Wincher _vice_ Mrs. Babb +dismissed—opened the door. Was Mr. Davoren at home? Yes. Was anybody +with him? Yes, Mrs. Bertram, his sister. Geoffrey dashed back to the +cab, blindly thrust some loose silver into the cabman’s hand, and +dismissed him elated, with at least double his fare, and then, this +duty done, he walked into the parlour. + +The room looked curiously changed since he had seen it last. The +furniture was the same, no doubt; the same dull red-and-brown paper +lined the narrow walls; yet everything had a brighter look—a look +that was even homelike. A fire burned cheerily in the small grate, +a tea-tray stood ready on the table; Lucius sat on one side of the +hearth, Janet on the other. She wore a black dress, against whose +dense hue her complexion showed pure as marble. They both looked up, +somewhat startled by the opening of the door—still more startled when +they recognised the intruder. Lucius had a guilty feeling. In the +excitement of the last fortnight he had forgotten all about Geoffrey. + +‘Dear old Geoff!’ he exclaimed, speedily recovering from that sense of +guilt. ‘How good of you to turn up in such an unexpected way! Where +have you come from?’ + +‘Hillersdon—Foxley-road, that is to say. I called at Foxley this +morning, Mrs. Bertram, and not finding you, ventured to come on here.’ + +Janet blushed, but answered not a word. + +‘You’ve just come from Foxley?’ cried Lucius; ‘there never was such a +fellow for tearing up and down the earth, except that person who must +be nameless. You haven’t dined, of course? You shall have some chops. +Ring the bell, Janet; that one on your side of the fire does ring, if +you give the handle a good jerk. Dear old Geoff, it is so good of you +to come, and I’ve so much to tell you.’ + +‘Yes,’ answered Geoffrey with a gloomy look, ‘I got your letter. It was +that which brought me here.’ + +‘Wonderful things have happened since I wrote that letter, Geoff. But +let me see about your dinner, and we’ll talk seriously afterwards.’ + +Geoffrey made no objection. He sat in a shadowy corner, silent, +stealing a look at the face he loved every now and then, and very +despondent in spirit. He was with her once more, and now began to ask +himself how he could ever bid her that lifelong farewell he had thought +of. No, he could never so sacrifice his own fondest desires. If it +were but a crumb she could give him, he would take that crumb and be +passably content. He would be like Dives in the place of torment, and +if he could not have that nectar-draught for which his soul languished, +he would ask for but one drop of water. He would not be self-banished +from the light; better even that he should be consumed—annihilated—by +its too vivid glory. + +These were his thoughts while Lucius, provokingly practical, was giving +orders for chops and rashers and poached eggs to Mrs. Wincher, who had +made a complete transformation in her personal appearance to do honour +to her new situation, and now wore a white cap and a clean linen apron, +in place of the crumpled black bonnet and sage-green half-shawl which +had been her distinguishing marks in Cedar House. + +Jacob Wincher came in, while his good lady was cooking chops and +rashers, and laid the cloth neatly, placing the tea-tray on one side of +the table. He handled things as deftly as if he had been all his life +languishing to be a butler, and only now found his right position in +the world. To serve Lucius was a labour of love with both these people. +He had wronged them, and generously atoned for the wrong he had done, +and it seemed as if the wrong and the atonement had endeared him to +them. + +Jacob drew the curtains, lighted the candles, and made all snug just as +Mrs. Wincher bumped against the door with the dishes. The chops were +perfection, the eggs and bacon fit for a picture of still life, the +crusty loaf a model for all bakers to imitate who would achieve renown +in neighbourhoods where bread is verily the staff of life. + +Janet made the tea, and at sight of her seated by the tea-tray +Geoffrey’s spirits in some measure revived. He relegated that question +of lifelong adieu to the regions of abstract thought. His countenance +brightened. He gave Janet Flossie’s message about the fifty kisses; +at which the mother smiled and asked many eager questions about her +darling. + +‘I am going back to my pet to-morrow,’ she said. ‘It is the first time +we were ever parted, and it has been a hard trial for me.’ + +‘Should I be impertinent if I asked why you came so suddenly to +London?’ Geoffrey inquired. + +A pained look came into Janet’s face. + +‘I came upon a sorrowful errand,’ she answered; ‘Lucius can tell you +about it by and by.’ + +‘You are in mourning for some one who has died lately,’ hazarded +Geoffrey, with a glance at that black dress about which he had been +puzzling himself considerably. + +‘I am in mourning for my husband, who died only a week ago,’ Janet +answered quietly. + +The blow was almost too sudden. Great joys are overwhelming as great +sorrows. Geoffrey, the strong, manly, joyous-hearted Geoffrey, grew +pale to the lips. He got up from his chair, and gave a struggling gasp, +as if striving for breath. + +‘Janet, is it true?’ he asked, lest he should be the victim of some +cruel deception. + +‘It is quite true, Mr. Hossack,’ she answered; the coldness of her +tone rebuking the ardour of his. ‘My husband is dead. His death was as +unhappy as his life was guilty. It pains me to remember either.’ + +Geoffrey was silent. He scarcely dared open his lips lest his joy +should gush forth in ill-considered words. He could not look sorry, or +even sympathetic. As a last resource, in this conflict of emotions, he +devoured a mutton-chop, with no more sense of the operation of eating +than if he had been a brazen idol whose jaws were worked by machinery. + +That tea-party was curiously silent, though Lucius did now and then +attempt to promote conversation by a somewhat feeble remark. Directly +the meal was over, Geoffrey rose from the table, no longer able to +support the intensity of his own feelings, and bursting with impatience +to question his friend. + +‘Let’s go outside and have a smoke, Lucius,’ he said; ‘that is to say, +if Mrs. Bertram will excuse us,’ he added with a deprecating look at +Janet. + +‘Pray do not consider me,’ she answered. ‘I am going to my room to pack +my portmanteau for to-morrow. You can smoke here, if you like. I have +become accustomed to the smell of tobacco since I have been staying +with Lucius.’ + +‘Poor Janet. I’ve been rather too bad; but it’s such a treat to have +you sitting opposite me while I smoke.’ + +She smiled at her brother, the first smile Geoffrey had seen on that +pale serious face, and left them. Privileged by her permission, they +drew their chairs to the fender. Lucius filled his favourite pipe, and +Geoffrey drew a cigar from a well-supplied case. + +‘For heaven’s sake tell me all about it,’ said Geoffrey, directly +Jacob Wincher had retired, staggering a little under the burden of the +tea-tray. ‘Thank God she is free! She is free, and I may hope! I didn’t +like to be too grateful to Providence in her presence. A woman’s tender +heart will lament even a scoundrel when the grave closes upon him. Tell +me everything, Lucius; but first tell me why you did not write me word +of this man’s death. You wrote fast enough to tell me he was alive; why +not write to announce the blessed fact of his departure?’ + +‘For the simple reason that I forgot the necessity for such a letter. +Janet’s husband died only ten days ago, and his death involved me in +a good deal of business. There was the inquest, and then came the +funeral. Yesterday I had to go down to Brighton, to-day I had an +interview with a lawyer.’ + +‘An inquest!’ exclaimed Geoffrey. ‘Then that fellow came to a violent +end after all.’ + +‘A violent and a strange end,’ answered his friend, and then proceeded +to narrate the circumstances of Ferdinand Sivewright’s death, and to +acquaint Geoffrey with the link which had bound Lucille to his sister’s +husband. Geoffrey listened with patient attention. The main fact that +this man was dead, and Janet free to marry whomsoever she pleased, was +all-sufficient for his contentment. The serenity of disposition which +had made him so pleasant a companion in days of hardship and trial once +more asserted itself. Geoffrey Hossack was himself again. + +‘Do you think there’s any hope for me?’ he asked, when Lucius had told +all he had to tell. + +‘Hope of what?’ + +‘That Janet will reward my devotion?’ + +‘In due time, I daresay, such a thing may be possible,’ answered +Lucius, with provoking deliberation; ‘but you had better refrain from +any allusion to such hopes for some time to come.’ + +‘How long now? What’s the fashionable period of mourning for a young +widow whose husband was a scoundrel? Six weeks, is it? or three months? +And does society demand as long a period of mourning for its scoundrels +as for its most estimable men?’ + +‘If it were not so near winter, Geoffrey, I should recommend you to do +a few months in Norway; or, as you are so near the docks, why not take +a run to Shanghai in one of those splendid China steamers—three hundred +and fifty feet from stem to stern? You might by that means escape the +winter; or, if you don’t care about Shanghai, you can stop at Port +Said, and do a little of Egypt.’ + +‘I’ve done the Pyramids and Pompey’s Pillar, and all that kind of +thing,’ answered Geoffrey with a wry face. ‘Do the laws of society +demand my departure?’ + +‘I think it would be better for you to be away for six months or so, +dear old fellow,’ answered Lucius kindly. ‘You are such an impetuous +spoiled child of fortune, and I know you will be fretting and fuming, +and perhaps injuring your cause with Janet by too hasty a wooing. She +is a woman of deep feeling. Give her time to recover from the shock of +Sivewright’s death; and be sure that I will guard your interests in the +mean time. No other than Geoffrey Hossack shall ever call me brother.’ + +‘It’s very good of you to say that,’ replied Geoffrey gratefully. ‘But +you may be promising too much. Suppose some confoundedly agreeable +fellow were to make up to your sister while I was at Shanghai, and the +first thing I saw when I came back to England, in the _Times_, were the +announcement of her marriage?’ + +‘If that were possible, she would not be worthy of you, and you’d be +better off without her,’ replied Lucius. + +‘Perhaps. But I’d rather have her, even if she were capable of doing +that, so long as she hadn’t done it.’ + +‘There you get metaphysical, and I can barely follow you. But I’ll +stake my own chances of happiness upon Janet’s constancy, even though +no pledge has ever passed between you. I’ll go so far as to postpone my +own marriage for the next six months, so that you may be married on the +same day, if you like.’ + +‘There seems something like assurance in such an offer as that,’ +answered Geoffrey, ‘but I won’t fetter you. I shouldn’t like to be +a stumbling-block in the way of your happiness. I’ll go straight to +Shanghai. I think you’re right; I should fret and fume, and perhaps +annoy Janet with my obnoxious presence if I were to remain within reach +of her, walk up and down under her windows, and make myself otherwise +objectionable. I’d better go to Shanghai. Yet it is hard to leave her +without one word of hope from her own dear lips. You’ll let me say +good-bye, Lucius?’ + +‘Neither Janet nor I could very well refuse you so slight a boon.’ + +Janet reëntered just as this discussion finished. The pale calm face +had a tranquilising effect upon Geoffrey’s excited nerves. He had +been pacing the room in a distracted manner, hardly able to smoke; but +at sight of Janet he flung his cigar into the fender, and became a +reasonable being. + +They talked a little, quietly, of indifferent things, and a good deal +about Flossie, an ever-delightful subject to the fond mother; and then +Geoffrey, feeling that it was growing late and that duty demanded +self-sacrifice, rose and said something about going away. Happily +there came a reprieve in the shape of an offer of brandy-and-soda +from Lucius, who rang the bell for his ancient seneschal; so Geoffrey +lingered just a little longer and took heart of grace to tell Janet his +intention of a speedy voyage eastward. + +‘Lucius seems to think I oughtn’t to idle about London all the winter,’ +he said, ‘and suggests a trip to China—a mere bagatelle—fifty days +out and fifty days home, and a week or so to look about one while the +steamer coals, and so forth. Yet it makes a hole in a year, and it is +sad to leave one’s friends even for so short a time.’ + +‘Are you really going to China?’ asked Janet, opening those splendid +eyes of hers in calmest astonishment. + +Geoffrey wavered immediately. + +‘Well, Lucius advises me, you see,’ he replied irresolutely; ‘but I +don’t know that I care much about China. And as to going about in +steamers just because steamers can give you all the comforts you can +get at home, why not stay at home at once and enjoy the comforts +without the steamer? And as to China—it sounds interesting in the +abstract; but really, on second thoughts, I can’t perceive any +gratification in visiting a country in which men have pigtails and +women crumpled feet. One is brought up with a vague idea of the China +Wall and Crim Tartary, which, as one grows to manhood, gives place to +another vague idea of the Caucasus, and the river Amoor, and Russian +aggression, and some vast uncomfortable territory lying between Russia +and India, just as Bloomsbury lies between the West-end and the City, +and I daresay almost as impassable. No, I really don’t see why I +should go to Shang-kong—I beg your pardon—Honghai,’ faltered Geoffrey, +brightening at Janet’s kindly smile; ‘I think a little hunting at +Stillmington would do me more good.’ + +‘Stop at home, then, Geoff,’ said Lucius, laughing at his faithful +comrade, ‘and have your season in the shires. Janet shall stay and keep +house for me till I marry.’ + +‘What! is Mrs. Bertram going to stop with you?’ + +‘For a little while,’ answered Janet; ‘I don’t think this part of town +would do for Flossie very long; but I am going to fetch her to-morrow, +and she and I are to keep house for Lucius for a month or two.’ + +‘And then we are all going to migrate to the West-end together,’ said +Lucius. + +Geoffrey sighed and looked miserable. + +‘How pleasantly you lay your plans!’ he said; ‘and I stand quite alone +in the world and belong to nobody. I think I shall go down to the docks +to-morrow morning and pick my berth on board a China steamer.’ + +‘Don’t,’ said Janet gently. ‘Go to Stillmington and enjoy yourself +hunting those unhappy foxes; and then, since you are always restless, +you can come up to town sometimes and give us an account of your sport.’ + +This permission exalted Geoffrey to the seventh circle in the lover’s +paradise. It seemed to him like a promise. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +LUCIUS SURRENDERS A DOUBTFUL CHANCE. + + +Lucius saw Mr. Pullman next day, and told him of the impression Lucille +had made on her great-aunt. + +‘Upon my word, sir, she’s a very lucky young woman,’ said the lawyer; +‘for Miss Glenlyne has a snug little fortune to dispose of, and has not +a near relative to leave it to; for the Spalding Glenlynes are only +third or fourth cousins, and she detests them. Now, Mr. Davoren, do you +mean to put forward Miss Lucille Glenlyne’s claim to the estate now in +the possession of Mr. Spalding Glenlyne?’ + +‘That will depend on various circumstances, Mr. Pullman,’ answered +Lucius. ‘First and foremost, you think the case a weak one.’ + +‘Lamentably weak. You are able to prove the marriage;—granted. You may +be able to prove the birth of a child; but how are you to identify the +young lady you put forward with the child born at Sidmouth? How are you +to supply the link which will unite the two ends of the chain?’ + +‘Miss Glenlyne has acknowledged her niece.’ + +‘Yes; but let Miss Glenlyne come forward to bear witness to her niece’s +identity, and she will be laughed at as a weak old woman—almost an +idiot. The only person who could have sworn to the girl’s identity +was Ferdinand Sivewright. He is dead, and you did not even take his +deposition to the facts within his knowledge. Even had you done so, +such a document might have been useless; the man’s notoriously bad +character would have vitiated his testimony. Mr. Davoren, I regret +to say your case is as weak as it well can be. It is a case which a +speculative attorney might take up perhaps, hazarding his not too +valuable time and trouble against the remote contingency of success; +but no respectable firm would be troubled with such a business, unless +you could guarantee their costs at the outset.’ + +‘I am not greedy for money, Mr. Pullman,’ replied Lucius, in no +manner crestfallen at this disheartening opinion. ‘Were my case, or +rather Lucille’s case, the strongest, it would still be doubtful +with me how far I should do battle for her interests. She has been +acknowledged by her great-aunt as a Glenlyne—that is the chief point +in my mind. The name so long lost to her has been restored, and she +has found a relative whose kindness may in some measure atone for her +father’s cruelty. This Mr. Spalding Glenlyne acquired the estate by no +wrongdoing of his own. It would be rather hard to oust him from it.’ + +‘If you had a leg to stand on, sir, I should be the last to let any +consideration of Mr. Spalding Glenlyne’s feelings restrain us from +taking action in this matter.’ + +‘You don’t like Mr. Glenlyne?’ + +‘Frankly, I detest him.’ + +‘Is he a bad man?’ + +‘No, Mr. Davoren; therein lies his most objectionable quality. He is a +man who at once enforces respect and provokes detestation.’ + +‘Paradoxical, rather.’ + +‘I suppose so; but it is strictly true, nevertheless. Mr. Spalding +Glenlyne is a man whom everybody acknowledges to be a useful member of +society. He has improved the Glenlyne estate to an almost unprecedented +extent. His turnips swell like nobody else’s turnips; his mangolds +would have been big enough for the stables of Gargantua. One can only +comfort oneself with the reflection that those big turnips are often +watery. His cattle thrive as no one else’s cattle thrive. He is like +the wicked man in the Psalms, everything flourishes with him. And when +he dies there will be a splendid monument erected in his honour by +public subscription. Yes, sir, people who abhorred him living will come +down handsomely to pay him posthumous homage.’ + +‘But a man like that must do some good in his generation,’ said Lucius; +‘he distributes money—he employs labour.’ + +‘Yes, he is no doubt useful. He builds model cottages. His farm +labourers are as sleek as his other cattle. Churches and schools spring +up upon his estate. He brags and hectors intolerably, but I daresay he +does good.’ + +‘Let him retain his opportunities of usefulness then, Mr. Pullman. +Were my case so strong as to make success almost a certainty, I think +I would forego all chance of gaining it as willingly as I forego +an attempt which you assure me would be futile. Let Mr. Spalding +Glenlyne keep the estate which he is so well able to administer for +the advantage of himself and other people. I will not seek to banish +him and his children from the roof-tree that has sheltered them for +ten prosperous years. The Glenlyne property would be but a white +elephant for Lucille and me. My heart is in my profession, and I would +infinitely rather succeed in that—even though success fell far short +of hopes which may be somewhat too high—than grow the biggest turnips +that ever sprouted from the soil of Norfolk. My dear girl has been +acknowledged by her nearest surviving relation. That is enough for me.’ + +‘Upon my word, Mr. Davoren, you’re a noble fellow,’ exclaimed the +lawyer, melted by Lucius’s earnestness, by tones whose absolute +truthfulness even an attorney could not doubt; ‘and I only wish your +case were a trifle stronger, for it would give me pleasure to protect +your interests. However, the case is weak, and I think your decision is +as worldly wise as it is generous in spirit, and I can only say, stick +to Miss Glenlyne. She’s a very old lady. She began life with seven +hundred a year of her own, and has been saving money ever since she was +twenty-one.’ + +‘Neither Lucille nor I belong to the race of toadies,’ said +Lucius; ‘but I am grateful to Providence for Miss Glenlyne’s ready +acknowledgment of her niece.’ + +‘I have very little doubt the old lady will act handsomely towards you +both,’ replied the lawyer, solacing himself with a comfortable pinch of +snuff. He seemed to have taken a wonderful liking to Lucius, and even +asked him to dine, an invitation which Lucius was unable to accept. + +‘I shall not have a leisure hour this week,’ he said; ‘and on Sunday I +am going down to Brighton to spend the day with Miss Glenlyne.’ + +From Lincoln’s-inn Lucius went to Cedar House. He was especially +anxious that Mr. Sivewright should not think himself neglected during +Lucille’s absence. He found the old man friendly, but depressed. His +son’s sudden reappearance and awful death had shaken him severely, and, +despite his outward stoicism, and that asperity of manner which it was +his pride to maintain, the hidden heart of the man bled inwardly. + +The wise physician reads the hearts of his patients almost as easily as +he divines their physical ailments. Lucius saw that an unspoken grief +weighed heavily on the old man’s mind. His first thought was of the +simplest remedies—change of scene—occupation. That house was full of +bitter associations. + +‘You are an annual tenant here, I think,’ he said, when Mr. Sivewright +had told him, complainingly, how a jobbing builder was patching the +broken panelling of his bedroom, by order of the agent, Mr. Agar. + +‘Yes, I only took the place for a year certain, and then from quarter +to quarter. I might have had it for ten pounds a year less had I been +willing to take a lease. But I was too wise to saddle myself with the +repairs of such a dilapidated barrack.’ + +‘Then you can leave at any time by the sacrifice of a quarter’s rent, +or by giving a quarter’s notice.’ + +‘Of course I can, but I am not going to leave. The house suits my +collection, and it suits me.’ + +‘I fear that you subordinate yourself to your collection. This house +must keep alive painful memories.’ + +‘Do you think that fire needs any breath to fan it?’ asked Homer +Sivewright bitterly. ‘Keep alive! Memory never dies, nor grows weaker +in the mind of age. It strengthens with advancing years, until the +shadows of things gone by seem to the old more real than reality. The +old live in the past as the young live in the future. I have come to +the age of backward-going thoughts. And it matters nothing what scenes +are round me—what walls shut-in my declining days. Memory makes its own +habitation.’ + +Finding it vain to press the point just now, and trusting to the +great healer Time, Lucius began to talk cheerily about Lucille. Mr. +Sivewright seemed heartily glad to hear of Miss Glenlyne’s kindness, +and the probability of fortune following from that kindness by and by, +as the lawyer had suggested. There was no touch of jealousy in the old +man’s half regretful tone when he said: + +‘She will not quite forget me, I hope, now that she has this new and +wealthy friend. I think I cling more tenderly to the thought of her now +that I know there is no bond of kindred between us.’ + +‘Believe me she loves you, and has loved you always, although you have +often wounded her affectionate heart by your coldness.’ + +‘That heart shall be wounded no more. She has never been ungrateful. +She has never striven to trade upon my affection. She has never robbed +me, or lied to me. She is worthy of trust as well as of love, and she +shall have both, if she does not desert me now that fortune seems to +smile upon her.’ + +‘I will answer for her there. In a very few days she shall be with you +again—your nurse and comforter and companion.’ + +‘Yes, she has been all those, and I have tried to shut my heart against +her. I will do so no longer.’ + +When Lucius paid his next visit upon the following evening he found the +old man in a still softer mood. Tender thoughts had visited him in the +deep night silence—so long for the sleeplessness of age. + +‘I have been thinking a great deal about you both, you and my +granddaughter,’ he said to Lucius, and have come to a determination, +which is somewhat foreign to my most cherished ideas, yet which I +believe to be wise.’ + +‘What is that, my dear sir?’ + +‘I mean to sell the greater part of my collection.’ + +‘Indeed, that is quite a new idea!’ + +‘Yes, but it is a resolution deliberately arrived at. True that every +year will increase the value of those things, but in the mean time +you and Lucille are deprived of all use of the money they would now +realise. That money would procure you a West-end practice—would make a +fitting home for Lucille. It would open the turnpike-gates on the great +high-road to success; a road which is cruelly long for the traveller +who has to push his way across ploughed fields and through thorny +hedges, and over almost impassable dykes, for want of money to pay the +turnpikes. Yes, Lucius, I mean to send two-thirds of my collection to +Christie and Hanson’s as soon as I can revise and modify my catalogue. +You might give me an hour or so every evening to help me with the task.’ + +‘I will do anything you wish. But pray do not make this sacrifice on my +account.’ + +‘It is no sacrifice. I bought these things to sell again, only I have +clung to them with a weak and foolish affection. The result of that +folly has been that I have lost some of the gems of my collection, +I shall set to work upon a new catalogue this evening. The task will +amuse me. You need not shake your head so gravely. I promise not to +overwork myself. I will take my time, and have the catalogue finished +when the winter sales begin at Christie’s. I know the public humour +about these things, and the things which will sell best. The residue I +shall arrange in a kind of museum; and perhaps, some day, when I am in +a particularly good humour, I may be induced to present this remainder +to some Mechanics’ Institution at this end of London.’ + +‘You could not make a better use of it.’ + +‘I suppose not. After all, the masses, ignorant of art as they must +needs be, must still be capable of some interest in relics which are +associated with the past. There is an innate sentiment of beauty in the +mind of man—an innate passion for the romantic and the ancient which +not the most sordid surroundings can extinguish. I have seen dirty +bare-footed children—wanderers from the purlieus of Oxford-market or +Cleveland-road—flatten their noses against my window in Bond-street, +and gloat over the beauty of Sèvres and Dresden, as if they had the +appreciation of the connoisseur.’ + +Lucius encouraged this idea of the East-end museum. He saw that this +fancy, and the determination to dispose of the more saleable portion of +his collection, had already lightened the old man’s spirits. He agreed +in the wisdom of turning these hoarded and hidden treasures into the +sinews of life’s warfare. He declared himself quite willing to owe +advancement to Mr. Sivewright’s generosity. + +The catalogue was begun that very evening; for Homer Sivewright, once +having taken up this idea, pursued it with extraordinary eagerness. He +dictated a new list of his treasures from the old one, and Lucius did +all the penmanship; and at this employment they both worked sedulously +for two hours, at the end of which time Lucius ordered his patient +off to bed, and took leave for the night. This went on for three +nights, and on the third, which was Saturday, the catalogue had made +considerable progress. All those objects which addressed themselves to +the antiquarian rather than to the connoisseur, and all articles of +doubtful or secondary value, Mr. Sivewright kept back for his East-end +Museum. He knew that the public appreciation of his collection depended +upon its being scrupulously weeded of all inferior objects. He had +been known to amateurs as an infallible judge; and in this, his final +appearance before the public, he wished to maintain his reputation. + +Lucius left him on Saturday night wonderfully improved in spirits. That +occupation of catalogue-making had been the best possible distraction. +Early on Sunday morning Lucius started for Brighton, so early that the +hills and downs of Sussex were still wrapped in morning mists as he +approached that pleasant watering-place. He was in time to take Lucille +to the eleven-o’clock service at the famous St. Paul’s. It was the +first time they had ever gone to church together, and to kneel thus +side by side in the temple seemed as blissful as it was new to both. + +After church they took a stroll by the seaside, walking towards +Cliftonville, and avoiding as much as possible the Brightonian +throng of well-dressed church-goers, airing their finery on the +Parade. They had plenty to say to each other, that fond lover’s talk +which wells exhaustless from youthful hearts. Miss Glenlyne rarely +left her bedroom—where she muddled through the morning attended by +Spilling—until the day was half over, so Lucille felt herself at +liberty till two o’clock. As the clock struck two, the lovers reëntered +the shades of Selbrook-place. + +Miss Glenlyne was in her favourite chair by the drawing-room fire, +looking much smarter, and sooth to say even fresher and cleaner, than +when Lucius had last beheld her. This improvement was Lucille’s work. +She had found handsome garments in her aunt’s roomy wardrobe,—garments +left to the despoiling moth, or discolouring mildew, and had suggested +emendations of all kinds in Miss Glenlyne’s toilet. Dressed in a +pearl-gray watered silk, and draped with a white china-crape shawl, the +old lady looked far more agreeable than in her dingy black silk gown +and dirty olive-green cashmere. Spilling had contrived to keep these +things out of their owner’s sight and memory, in the pious hope of +possessing them herself by and by, very little the worse for wear. + +The old lady received Lucius with extreme graciousness. Spilling was +invisible, having been relegated to her original position of maid, +and banished to the housekeeper’s-room. A nice little luncheon was +served in the back drawing-room, at which Miss Glenlyne again produced +a bottle of champagne, an unaccustomed libation to the genius of +hospitality. The meal was cheerful almost to merriment, and the old +lady appeared thoroughly to enjoy the novel pleasure of youthful +society. She encouraged the lovers to talk of themselves, their plans +and prospects, cordially entered into the discussion of their future, +and Lucius perceived, by many a trifling indication, how firm a hold +Lucille had already won upon her aunt’s heart. After luncheon Miss +Glenlyne would have dismissed them to walk on the Parade, but Lucille +insisted on staying at home to read to her aunt. She read a good deal +of the _Observer_, through which medium Miss Glenlyne took the news of +the week, in a dry and compressed form, like Liebig’s Extract. After +the _Observer_ the conversation became literary, and Miss Glenlyne +gave them her opinion of the Lake poets, Sir Walter Scott, Monk Lewis, +Byron, Mrs. Radcliffe, and the minor lights who had illumined the world +of letters in her youth. She clung fondly to the belief that ‘Thalaba’ +was better than anything that had been done or ever could be done by +that young man called Tennyson, with whose name rumour had acquainted +her some years back, but whose works she had not yet looked into. And +finally, for the gratification of the young folks, she recited, in a +quavering voice, Southey’s famous verses upon ‘Lodore.’ + +Then came afternoon tea, and it was a pretty sight for Lucius to behold +his dear one officiating at Miss Glenlyne’s tea-table, whose massive +silver equipage glittered in the ruddy firelight; pretty to see her so +much at her ease in her kinswoman’s home, and to know that if he had +not been able to regain her birthright for her, he had at least given +her back her father’s name. Altogether that quiet Sunday afternoon in +Selbrook-place was as pleasant as it was curious. After the early tea +Lucius and Lucille went out, at Miss Glenlyne’s special request, for +half-an-hour’s walk in the autumn gloaming. Perhaps autumnal evenings +at Brighton are better than they are anywhere else. At any rate, this +one seemed so to these lovers. There was no sea fog, the newly lighted +lamps glimmered with a pale brightness in the clear gray atmosphere, +the crimson of the setting sun glowed redly yonder, where the dim +outlines of distant headlands showed like vague purple shadows against +the western sky. + +Never had these two been able to talk so hopefully of the future as +they could talk to-night. They arranged everything during that happy +half-hour, which, brief as it seemed, did in actual time, as computed +by vulgar clocks, stretch itself to nearly an hour-and-a-half. If Mr. +Sivewright carried out his plan of selling the bric-à-brac, and did +verily endow Lucius with some of the proceeds thereof, he Lucius would +assuredly establish himself in some pleasanter quarter of London, where +his patients would be more lucrative, yet where he might still be a +help and comfort to the poor, whom this hard-working young doctor loved +with something of that divine affection which made Francis of Assisi +one of the greatest among saints. He would set up afresh in a more airy +and cheerful quarter of the great city, and make a worthy home for his +fair young bride. + +The girl’s little hand stole gently into his. + +‘As if I cared what part of town I am to live in with you,’ she +said fondly. ‘I should be just as happy in the Shadrack-road as in +Cavendish-square, just as proud of my husband as a parish doctor as I +should be if he were a famous physician. Think of yourself only, dear +Lucius, and of your own power to do good—not of me.’ + +‘My darling, the more prominent a man’s position is the more good he +can do, provided it be in him to do good at all. But depend upon it, +Lucille, if I go to the West-end, I shall not turn my back upon the +sufferings of the East.’ + + + + +EPILOGUE. + + +It is the April of the following year. Mr. Sivewright’s collection +has been sold in February, and the sale, happening in a halcyon +period for the disposal of bric-à-brac, has justified the collector’s +proudest hopes. He has divided the proceeds into two equal portions, +one of which he has bestowed upon Lucius as Lucille’s dower; and with +a part of this money Lucius has bought a modest practice, with the +potentiality of unlimited improvement, in a narrow street, situated in +that remote, but not unaristocratic region, beyond Manchester-square. + +It is late in April, Lent is just over; there are wallflowers for sale +on the greengrocers’ stalls, a perfume of spring in the atmosphere, +even at the eastern end of London. The spar-forests yonder in the docks +rise gaily against a warm blue sky, whence the smoke clouds have been +swept by the brisk westerly breeze. + +Bells are ringing gaily from the crocketed finial of the little +Gothic church whose services Lucius Davoren has been wont faithfully +to attend on his lonely bachelor Sundays; and Lucius, nevermore a +bachelor, leads forth his fair young bride from the same Gothic +temple. Not alone doth he issue forth as bridegroom, for behind him +follow Geoffrey and Janet, who have also made glad surrender of their +individual liberty before the altar in the rose-coloured light of +yonder Munich window, a rose glow which these happy people accept as +typical of the atmosphere of all their lives to come. Trouble can +scarcely approach those whose love and faith are founded on so firm a +rock. + +Lucius has kept his promise, and waited for the same April sunlight to +shine upon Geoffrey’s nuptials and his own. Miss Glenlyne has been one +of the foremost figures in the little wedding group, and Mr. Sivewright +has stood up before the altar, strong and solid of aspect as one of the +various pillars of the church, to bestow his adopted granddaughter upon +the man of her choice. Lucille has but one bridesmaid, in the person of +Flossie, who looks like a small Titania, in her airy dress and wreath +of spring blossoms. Never was there a smaller wedding party at a double +marriage, never a simpler wedding. + +They go straight from the church to the old house in the Shadrack-road, +which no persuasion can induce Mr. Sivewright to abandon. Here, in the +old panelled parlour, endeared to Lucius by the memory of many a happy +hour with his betrothed, they find a modest banquet awaiting them, and +a serious individual of the waiter-tribe, in respectable black, who has +been sent from Birch’s with the banquet. Moselle corks fly merrily. Mr. +Sivewright does the honours of the feast as gracefully as if he had +been entertaining his friends habitually for the last twenty years. +Lucille and Lucius go round the old house for a kind of farewell, +but carefully avoid that one locked chamber which was the scene of +Ferdinand Sivewright’s dreadful fate, and which has never been occupied +since that night. + +It is quite late in the afternoon when two carriages bear the two +couples off to different railway stations: Lucius and Lucille on +their way to Stillmington, where they are to spend their brief +honeymoon of a week or ten days before beginning real and earnest +life in the neatly-furnished, newly papered and painted house near +Manchester-square, where Mr. and Mrs. Wincher and the inevitable +Mercury are to compose their modest establishment; Geoffrey and +Janet to Dover, whence they are to travel southwards, to climb Swiss +mountains and do Rhine and Danube ere they return to take possession of +a small but perfect abode in Mayfair, where Mrs. Hossack is to give +musical evenings to her heart’s content, and where Flossie’s nursery is +to be a very bower of bliss, full to overflowing of Siraudin’s bonbon +boxes and illuminated fairy-tale books. + +When Lucius and his bride take leave of Miss Glenlyne, the old lady, +who has ‘borne up,’ as she calls it, wonderfully hitherto, melts into +tears, and tells them that she means in future to spend the summer +months in London, whether Spilling likes it or not, that she will +take lodgings near Lucille’s new house, so that her darling may come +and make tea for her every day. And then she adds in a whisper, that +she has made a new will, and made Lucille her residuary legatee. ‘And +except forty pounds a year to Spilling, and a legacy of fifty to each +of the other servants, every sixpence I have is left to you, dear,’ she +adds confidentially. She squeezes a fifty-pound note into Lucille’s +hand just at the last, wrapped in a scrap of paper, on which is written +in the old lady’s tremulous hand, ‘For hotel expenses at Stillmington.’ + +So they depart, happy, to begin that new life whose untrodden path to +most of this world’s wayfarers seems somewhat rose-bestrewn. These +begin their journey with a fair promise of finding more roses than +thorns. + +Thus it happens that Mr. Glenlyne Spalding Glenlyne remains in +undisputed possession of his lands, tenements, and hereditaments, to +grow big turnips, and employ labour, and do good in his generation; +while Lucius, unburdened by superfluous wealth, yet amply provided +against the hazards of professional income, is left free to pursue that +calling which to him is at once exalted and congenial; and every one is +content. + +THE END. + + LONDON: + ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N. W. + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + pg 64 Changed: Where else out of Holland could he see such lantsgapes? + to: Where else out of Holland could he see such landscapes? + + pg 124 Changed: drop of rich cream for your breakfastes + to: drop of rich cream for your breakfasts + + pg 276 Changed: Miss Glenlyne would smetimes remark candidly + to: Miss Glenlyne would sometimes remark candidly + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75877 *** |