diff options
Diffstat (limited to '77631-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 77631-0.txt | 17584 |
1 files changed, 17584 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/77631-0.txt b/77631-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f2de14a --- /dev/null +++ b/77631-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17584 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77631 *** + + + + + RUPERT GODWIN + + A Novel + + + BY THE AUTHOR OF + + “LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET,” “AURORA FLOYD” + “VIXEN,” “ISHMAEL,” “WYLLARD’S WEIRD” + ETC. ETC. + + + Stereotyped Edition + + + LONDON: + SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., + LIMITED, + STATIONERS’ HALL COURT + 1890. + + [_All rights reserved._] + + + + + =MISS BRADDON’S NOVELS.= + + NOW READY AT ALL BOOKSELLERS’ AND BOOKSTALLS, + PRICE 2_s._ 6_d._ EACH, CLOTH GILT. + + THE AUTHOR’S AUTOGRAPH EDITION + OF MISS BRADDON’S NOVELS. + + + “No one can be dull who has a novel by Miss Braddon in hand. + The most tiresome journey is beguiled, and the most wearisome + illness is brightened, by any one of her books.” + + “Miss Braddon is the Queen of the circulating libraries.” + + _The World._ + + + LONDON: + SIMPKIN & CO., LIMITED, + STATIONERS’ HALL COURT. + + _And at all Railway Bookstalls, Booksellers’, and Libraries._ + + + + + PUBLISHERS’ ANNOUNCEMENT. + + +_Rupert Godwin_ was written for, and first appeared in, a cheap +Weekly Journal. From this source the Tale was translated into the +French language, and ran as the leading story in the _Journal pour +Tous_. It was there discovered by an American, who re-translated +the matter back into English, and who obtained an outlet for the +new translation in the columns of the _New-York Mercury_. These and +other versions have been made without the slightest advantage to +the Author; or, indeed, without the faintest approach to any direct +communication to her on the subject. Influenced by the facts as +here stated, the Author has revised the original, and now offers +the result for what it is, namely, a Tale of Incident written to +amuse the short intervals of leisure which the readers of popular +periodicals can snatch from their daily avocations. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + CHAP. PAGE + + I. A SAD FAREWELL 1 + + II. RUPERT GODWIN THE BANKER 7 + + III. AN IMPORTUNATE CREDITOR 16 + + IV. A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS 23 + + V. LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM 33 + + VI. THE STORY OF THE PAST 38 + + VII. THE STOLEN LETTER 47 + + VIII. THE DAY OF DESOLATION 54 + + IX. A PITILESS CLAIMANT 58 + + X. HIDDEN IN THE YEW-TREE 62 + + XI. HOMELESS AND FRIENDLESS 71 + + XII. MATERNAL MANŒUVRES 76 + + XIII. A DAUGHTER’S TRIAL 86 + + XIV. LOVE AT SIGHT 89 + + XV. VIOLET RESOLVES UPON ENTERING A NEW SPHERE 93 + + XVI. BEHIND THE SCENES 101 + + XVII. CRUEL KINDNESS 105 + + XVIII. WILMINGDON HALL 112 + + XIX. A RECOGNITION AND A DISAPPOINTMENT 119 + + XX. THE MARQUIS OF ROXLEYDALE 123 + + XXI. BENT BUT NOT BROKEN 131 + + XXII. JULIA’S PROTÉGÉ 134 + + XXIII. ON THE THRESHOLD 139 + + XXIV. MISS VANBERG IS MALICIOUS 143 + + XXV. FALCON AND DOVE 150 + + XXVI. IN THE LABYRINTH 160 + + XXVII. A DARK JOURNEY 164 + + XXVIII. THE HOUSEKEEPER’S STORY 170 + + XXIX. “SHE WEPT, DELIVERED FROM HER DANGER” 177 + + XXX. UNDERGROUND 185 + + XXXI. ON THE TRACK 191 + + XXXII. ESTHER VANBERG HAS HER WAY 202 + + XXXIII. THE EVIDENCE OF THE MINIATURE 208 + + XXXIV. FEVER-STRICKEN 214 + + XXXV. AN ALARMING DISCOVERY 222 + + XXXVI. DISCOMFITED 225 + + XXXVII. PUT TO THE TEST 237 + + XXXVIII. RIDING TO HER DOOM 238 + + XXXIX. THE SHADOW OF DEATH 247 + + XL. A FATAL LESSON 251 + + XLI. SILENCED 259 + + XLII. GIRT WITH FIRE 267 + + XLIII. THE CLERK’S STORY 272 + + XLIV. THE DUKE OF HARLINGFORD MAKES A DISCOVERY 278 + + XLV. THE FACE OF THE LOST 286 + + XLVI. SUSPENSE 291 + + XLVII. RESURGAM 298 + + XLVIII. “VENGEANCE IS MINE” 306 + + + + +RUPERT GODWIN. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A SAD FAREWELL. + + +In a charming residence, half cottage, half manor-house, embosomed +in the woodland scenery of Hampshire, lived a family who might +have formed the model for a poet’s ideal of domestic happiness. +The home-circle was not a large one. It consisted of only four +persons--Captain Harley Westford, of the merchant service, his wife, +son, and daughter. The Captain and his wife were both in the fairest +prime of middle age. Life for them seemed at its brightest and best. +Clara Westford’s girlish beauty might, indeed, have vanished with +the snows of departed winters, the blossoms of bygone spring-times; +but another kind of beauty had succeeded--the calm loveliness of the +matron whose life has been cloudless as one long summer’s day, pure +as the untrodden snows of some far Alpine region. + +Yes; she was very lovely still. Beauty has its Indian summer, and +the glory of that later splendour is scarcely less than the early +freshness of spring-time. Mrs. Westford possessed even a rarer charm +than mere perfection of face or figure. Every look, every movement, +was instinct with that indefinable grace for which we can find no +better name than good breeding. She had that winning manner the +French call graciousness. Those who were intimate with the Captain +and his wife whispered that Clara Westford came of a nobler race than +that of her husband. It was said that she had left the house of a +wealthy father, to begin the battle of life with the frank, genial, +handsome merchant sailor, and that she had thus made herself for ever +an outcast from the family to which she belonged. + +No one knew the real story of that runaway marriage. The Captain and +his wife kept the secrets of the past locked in their own breasts. +Mrs. Westford could very seldom be induced to speak of her marriage; +but when she did speak, it was always in words that expressed the +pride she felt in her husband. + +“I know that his family has no place amongst Burke’s landed gentry, +and that his grandfather was a trader on the high seas, like +himself,” she would say; “but I also know that his name is honoured +by the few to whom it is familiar, and that in his native town, +Westford and honesty are synonymous terms.” + +Only one shadow ever darkened that rustic dwelling among the verdant +woods and fair spreading pastures of Hampshire; and that shadow was a +very terrible one. + +It came when the husband and father was obliged to leave the dear +ones who made his home a kind of paradise for him. Partings were very +frequent in that simple household. The Captain’s professional duties +called him often away to scenes of peril and tempest, far from that +happy nook in peaceful England. + +To-day the June sunshine is bright on the lawn and flower-beds in +the Captain’s garden; but the shadow comes with the sunshine, and +the bright midsummer noontide is an hour of sadness for the seaman’s +household. + +The Captain and his wife are walking slowly, arm in arm, under the +shelter of a long alley of hazel and filbert trees. It is a lovely +day at the close of June; the roses are in their fullest splendour; +the deep blue sky is unshadowed by a cloud; the hum of bees and +carolling music of birds make all the air melodious with nature’s +simple harmonies; a thousand butterflies are fluttering above the +flower-beds on the smooth lawn before the windows of the old Grange. +Every quaint diamond-paned casement and broad mullioned window winks +and blinks in the warm sunlight, till the old house seems full of +eyes. The yellow stone-crop on the gabled roof, the deep crimson of +the brickwork, are sharply defined against an ultramarine sky, and +make a picture that would gladden the eyes of a pre-Raphaelite. The +sunshine steeps every leaf and every flower in its warm radiance--it +floods the trees with silvery light, it transforms and glorifies the +commonest objects, until the earth seems unfamiliar and beautiful as +fairyland. + +On such a day as this, it seems almost impossible to believe that +sorrow or heartache can have any existence upon this glorified earth; +we almost forgot that hearts can break amid beauty and sunshine. + +Clara Westford’s noble face is pale and wan this sunny morning. Dark +circles surround her eyes--earnest eyes, from whose clear depths +the very soul of truth looks out. All through the past night this +true-hearted wife has watched and wept on her knees before Him who +can alone protect the wanderer. + +“Oh, Harley,” she exclaimed, in a low, tremulous voice, while her +slender fingers tightened their grasp upon the Captain’s arm, “it is +so bitter--so bitter; almost too bitter to bear. We have parted often +before to-day; and yet to-day, for the first time, the anguish of +parting seems more than I can endure.” + +There was a look of agony in the wife’s pale face, as she turned it +towards her husband, that expressed even more than her passionate +words. There were no tears in the large violet-hued eyes; but there +was a quivering motion about the compressed lips that betrayed a +world of suffering. + +At sea, or in any hour of peril and contest, Harley Westford +possessed the courage of a lion; but the aspect of his wife’s grief +transformed him into the veriest coward. He strove manfully, however, +to conceal his emotion, and it was in a tone of affected gaiety that +he replied to Mrs. Westford. + +“My darling,” he exclaimed, “this is really foolish, and quite +unworthy of a seaman’s wife, who should have a soul above fear. This +parting ought not to be a hard one; for is not this to be my last +voyage? After this one trip to China, by which I hope to make a +sackful of golden guineas for you and the dear ones, I mean to settle +down for the rest of my life in this dear old Grange, a regular +landsman, a gentleman farmer, if you like; going in for pigs, and +prize cattle, and monster turnips, and all that kind of thing, like a +country squire to the manner born. Why, Clara, you ought not to shed +a tear, this time!” + +“There are no tears in my eyes, Harley,” his wife answered, in the +same low, faltering voice, so terribly expressive of mental anguish; +“there is something in my sorrow too deep for tears. I have shed +tears always on the day of our parting, and I know that my cowardly +weakness has often unmanned you, Harley; but I can shed no tears +to-day. There is an awful terror in my heart. My dreams for the last +week have been full of trouble and foreboding. My prayers last night +brought no consolation. It seemed to me as if Heaven was deaf to my +cries. I feel like some unhappy wretch who wanders blindfold upon +the brink of a precipice--every step may plunge me into an abyss of +darkness and horror. O, Harley, Harley, have pity upon me! I know +there is danger in this voyage--deadly, unseen peril. Do not go! Have +mercy upon my anguish, Harley, and do not go!” + +Again the slender hands tightened convulsively upon the sailor’s arm. +It seemed as if the agonized wife would have held her husband despite +himself in that passionate grasp. + +Captain Westford smiled sadly. + +“My darling,” he said, “foolish as I know your fears to be, I might +perhaps indulge them if my word were not pledged to this voyage; +but my word is pledged. And when did Harley Westford ever break his +promise? There is not a sailor amongst my crew who does not look +forward to this trip as a means of taking home comfort to his wife +and little ones. They all confide in me as if I were their brother +as well as their captain; and I know their plans, poor fellows, and +the disappointment they would feel if anything prevented the voyage. +No, darling, you must be bold and brave, like a true-hearted sailor’s +wife as you are. The _Lily Queen_--your ship, Clara; christened after +you, the queen of all earthly lilies--the _Lily Queen_ sails from +London Docks at daybreak to-morrow, and, if he lives, Harley Westford +sails with her!” + +The wife knew that all further remonstrance was useless. She knew +that her husband valued his word and honour more than his life--more +even than her happiness. She only breathed one long sigh, which +sounded like the last murmur of a despairing heart. + +“And now listen to me, my dearest one,” said Harley Westford, in +tones which he strove to render cheerful. “Listen to me, my own +brave, true-hearted wife; for I must talk to you of serious business +before the Winchester coach turns the sharp corner yonder by the +village pond.” + +He looked at his watch as he spoke. + +“Only one more half-hour, Clara, and then good-bye!” he exclaimed. +“Now, darling, listen. You know that, thanks to Providence, I have +been enabled to save a very decent little fortune for you and yours. +Close against my breast I carry a pocket-book containing bank-notes +to the amount of twenty thousand pounds, the entire bulk of my +fortune, withdrawn from different foreign investments, by the advice +of friends, who have given me warning of an approaching crisis in the +money-market. There seems to be always something or other wrong in +the money-market, by the way. Directly I return from China I shall +invest this money, with the earnings of my present enterprise, in the +best and safest manner I can. In the mean time, I shall place the +money in the hands of the present head of the banking firm in which +my father had the highest confidence and in whose house he kept an +account for thirty years of his life. In such hands the money will be +safe until my return And, to guard against any chance of accident, I +shall send you the banker’s receipt for the twenty thousand pounds, +and for the title-deeds of this house and land, which I shall also +lodge in his hands. You will receive these from me before I set +sail; and then, as my will is in the hands of my lawyer, you and the +children will be safe, come what may.” + +“O, Harley,” murmured Clara Westford, “every word you say makes me +more and more wretched. You talk as if you were going to certain +death.” + +“No, darling, I only talk like a prudent man, who knows the +uncertainty of life. But I will say no more, Clara. With twenty +thousand pounds, and the freehold of this old Grange, with fifty +acres of the best land in Hampshire spreading round it, you and the +dear ones cannot be ill provided for. And now, dearest, nearly half +my time has gone, and I must go and say good-bye to my children.” + +The Captain stepped from the shady alley to the broad sunshine of +the lawn. Opposite him were the windows of a pretty morning-room, +sheltered by a long verandah, half hidden under honeysuckle and +roses. The cages of the pet birds hung under this verandah, and a +Skye terrier was lying on the silky white mat stretched before one of +the long French windows, blinking his lazy eyelids in the meridian +sun. + +A girl of about seventeen appeared in this window. As the Captain +stepped out upon the lawn she came running towards him. + +Never, perhaps, had the June sunlight shone upon a lovelier creature +than this white-robed girl who came to meet the Captain. Her beauty +had a sunny freshness which seemed in harmony with the summer +morning. Her features were small and delicately-formed; the nose, +forehead, and chin of the purest Grecian type. Her eyes, like her +mother’s, were of the deepest violet hue, large, lustrous, and +earnest, fringed by long auburn lashes. Her hair was of that golden +tint, so rare in nature, and which art has been wont to simulate, +from the age of Roman Lydias and Julius down to our own enlightened +era. + +This was Violet Westford. They had called her Violet because of those +deep-blue eyes, which were only to be matched by the hue of the +modest hedgerow flower that hides its beauty under sheltering leaves. +They had called her Violet; and well did the sweet romantic name +harmonize with the nature of Clara Westford’s daughter, for the girl +was almost as unconscious of her exquisite loveliness as the timid +blossom after which she had been christened. + +“Dearest father,” she exclaimed, passing her little hand through the +Captain’s arm, while Mrs. Westford sank faint and exhausted upon a +garden-seat on the lawn, “mamma has been very cruel to detain you so +long, while your poor Violet has been longing for a chance of saying +good-bye. I have been counting the minutes, papa, and the coach will +be at the gate almost immediately. O, papa, papa, it seems so hard to +lose you!” + +The beautiful blue eyes filled with tears as the girl clung to her +father; but in Violet Westford’s face there was no trace of that +awful shadow which blanched the cheeks and lips of her mother to +a death-like whiteness. Violet only felt a natural grief at this +parting with a father whom she idolized. There was no presentiment of +impending peril weighing down her heart. + +“Lionel has gone to get Warrior saddled,” she said; “he is going to +ride by the cross-road to Winchester. He will be there to meet you +when the coach arrives, and will only part from you when the train +leaves the station. How I envy him that half-hour at the station! +Men are always better off than women,” murmured the petted beauty of +seventeen, with the most bewitching _moue_. + +“My darling, hark! There is the coach.” + +The guard’s horn playing a joyous polka made itself heard among +the trees as the Captain spoke. At the same moment Lionel Westford +rode out of an old-fashioned ivy-covered archway, which formed +the entrance to the stables. The coach stopped at the low wide +gate opening into the Grange gardens, and the guard’s horn had an +impatient sound in the ears of Violet Westford. + +Mrs. Westford rose from the rustic bench, calm and tearless, but +deadly pale. She advanced to her husband, and put her icy hands in +his. + +“My beloved,” she murmured, “my all in all, I can only pray for you. +I must ask you one question, Harley. You spoke just now of a banker; +tell me his name, dearest. I have a particular reason for making this +inquiry.” + +“My father’s bankers were Godwin and Selby,” answered the Captain; +“the present head of the firm is Rupert Godwin. My own darling, +good-bye.” + +The horn playing that cheerful dance-music sounded louder and more +clamorous than ever, as Harley Westford pressed one kiss upon his +wife’s white lips and tore himself away. So hurried, so agitated, +had the Captain been in that sad parting, that he had been utterly +unconscious of the one low agonized cry which broke from his wife’s +lips at the sound of Rupert Godwin’s name. + +But as the coach drove away, bearing with it the husband and father, +Clara Westford tottered forward a few paces, and then fell back +swooning on the grass. + +Violet returned from the garden-gate to see her mother lying upon the +ground, white and motionless as a corpse. The girl’s terror-stricken +shriek brought a couple of women servants running from the house. +Mrs. Westford was no puling sentimentalist; and deeply as she had +always felt the pain of parting from the husband she so fondly loved, +she had never before been known to lose consciousness. She had, +indeed, been distinguished for the heroic calmness with which she +had always endured her sorrow setting a noble example to her son and +daughter. + +The servants, assisted by Violet, carried the unconscious wife into +the house, and laid her on a sofa in the cool drawing-room, carefully +darkened by the Venetian shutters. + +One of the women then ran to fetch the village doctor, while Violet +knelt by her mother’s side, bathing the pale forehead with toilet +vinegar. + +Presently the dark-blue eyes were slowly opened and turned towards +Violet with a fixed and almost awful stare. + +“Rupert Godwin! Rupert Godwin!” cried Clara Westford in tones of +anguish. “O, not to him, Harley! O, no, no, no! Not to him! Rupert +Godwin! I knew that there was peril, deadly peril, in store for you; +but I never dreamt of that danger.” + +Again the eyes closed; the head fell back upon the sofa-pillows. + +The doctor came; but neither he nor any other doctor upon this earth +could have ministered to her, whose disease was of the mind rather +than of the body. + +Mrs. Westford fell from one fainting-fit into another. She was +conveyed to her own room, where she was tenderly watched by her +daughter, and by her son Lionel, who returned from Winchester after +having seen his father start by the London train. + +The young man adored his mother, and was both grieved and alarmed by +her sudden illness. He insisted upon taking up his post in a pretty +little boudoir adjoining Mrs. Westford’s bedroom, and he sat there +hour after hour, listening to every sound in the sick chamber. + +The old Grange, so gay with happy voices only a few days before, was +now silent as the house of death. The doctor ordered his patient to +be kept in unbroken quiet, and his orders were implicitly obeyed. + +But though Mr. Sanderson, the village surgeon, was a man of +considerable experience, he found his patient’s illness of a nature +to baffle his best care, his highest skill. + +“The mind is ailing, Miss Westford,” he said, in answer to Violet’s +anxious questions; “the parting of to-day has affected your mother +very keenly, and hers is an illness that time alone can heal. In +the meanwhile I can only recommend perfect repose. The mind has +been over-excited by painful emotions, and we must allow time for +recovery. A night’s rest may restore the brain to its normal state. +To-morrow all may be well.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +RUPERT GODWIN THE BANKER. + + +The express-train from Winchester bore Harley Westford quickly +across the fair expanse of country between the old cathedral city +and the smoky roof-tops of the metropolis. Past swelling hillside +and sunlit meadow, past winding river and secluded village, rushed +the mighty monster. London, black, grimy, but with a certain rugged +grandeur of its own, like some dusty Cyclops, mighty in his gigantic +stature,--London, the commercial centre of the world,--loomed in +sight of the merchant Captain, whose heart was divided between the +dear ones he had left in the rustic Grange at Eastburgh, and the +scenes of adventure, and perhaps peril, that lay before him on the +high seas. + +Harley Westford was in heart and soul a sailor. He had the spirit of +a Columbus, and would gladly have gone forth in search of new worlds +wherewith to enrich his Queen and country, if fate had permitted him +so noble an adventure. His heart warmed at the thought of his Chinese +expedition--an expedition which promised to make a noble addition to +his fortune. For himself, no man could have been more indifferent +about money. He had the true sailor’s recklessness of spirit, and +would have flung his gold right and left, had he been alone in the +world, as carelessly as the untutored salt, who, from sheer bravado, +puts a bank-note between his bread-and-butter and eats it, in order +to demonstrate his contempt for the sordid pelf. But for his children +he was eager to earn the means of comfort and independence, so that +no hard battle of life might await those pampered children, that +idolized wife, who as yet had known only the sunshine of existence. + +He reached London at about half-past one o’clock, and drove straight +to Lombard-street, in which noble commercial thoroughfare the +banking-house of Messrs. Godwin and Selby was situated. + +The name of Selby had long ceased to be anything more than a name. +The last Selby had expired placidly in a comfortable mansion at Tulse +Hill, some little time after the battle of Waterloo. The firm was now +solely represented by Rupert Godwin, the only son of the late head of +the firm, Anthony Godwin, and of a noble Spanish lady, who had given +supreme offence to her family by marrying a wealthy British trader, +rather than one of the penniless hidalgos who were eager to unite +their unimpeachable pedigrees and quarter their knightly arms with +hers. + +The lady was proud, passionate, and self-willed. She preferred the +British trader to the descendants of the Cid, and left the shadowy +glories of her native land for the comfort and splendour of her +husband’s noble old mansion, where she ruled him with despotic power +till the day of her death. + +Two sons and three daughters were born to the proud Castilian beauty; +but those children of the South languished under the cold English +sky. The youngest son, Rupert, was the only one of the family who +lived to attain manhood. He inherited his mother’s Spanish beauty, +together with her wilful and passionate nature. + +This Rupert Godwin was a man of five-and-forty years of age, who +had inherited a noble fortune from his father, and who had obtained +another fortune with the hand of his wife, the only daughter of +a city millionnaire, an amiable but not over-wise damsel, who had +worshipped her husband as a kind of demigod, and who had faded +quietly out of existence soon after the birth of her second child, +not by any means passionately lamented by Rupert Godwin. + +He was a man who had begun the world very early, and had exhausted +the common round of life’s pleasures and dissipations at an age when +other men are still enjoying the freshness of youth’s morning. He had +been his own master from the age of sixteen, for the simple reason +that neither his father nor his tutors had ever been able to conquer +his indomitable spirit, or restrain his determined will. + +His father had been much shaken by the early deaths of his children +and the loss of his wife, who died when Rupert was fifteen. He +allowed this last surviving son to do as he pleased, and dawdled +through his lonely existence at his country-house, in the company of +his medical attendant and a valet who had grown grey in his service. + +While the father’s placid days glided by at the country seat in +Hertfordshire, the son travelled from one place to another, sometimes +abroad, sometimes at home, spending money lavishly, and seeing a +great deal of life, more or less to his own satisfaction, but not +very much to his moral improvement. + +At three-and-twenty he married; but those who knew him best augured +little happiness from this marriage. He accepted his wife’s +devotion as a matter of course, allowed her to live her own life +at the noble old house in Hertfordshire, while he followed the +bent of his inclinations elsewhere, honouring his household by his +presence during all seasons of gaiety and festivity, but studiously +avoiding the delights of domestic retirement. The business of the +bank always afforded Mr. Godwin an excellent excuse for absence. +There were branch-houses in Spain and in Spanish America, and these +branch-houses were under the personal supervision of the banker. + +For many years the name of Rupert Godwin had been in the minds of +City men a tower of strength. But within the last few weeks there +had come a crisis in the fortunes of great commercial firms, and all +at once there were strange whispers passing from lip to lip amongst +the wise men of the Stock Exchange. It was well known that for some +years Rupert Godwin had been a great speculator. It was now whispered +abroad that he had not been always a fortunate speculator. He had +been bitten with the mania of speculation, men said, and had plunged +wildly into all manner of schemes, many of which had ended in ruin. + +Such whispers as these are fatal in their influence upon the credit +of a commercial man. But as yet these dark rumours had not gone +beyond the narrow circle of wiseacres; as yet no hint of Rupert +Godwin’s losses had reached those whose money was lodged in his +keeping; as yet, therefore, there had been no run upon the bank. + +The banker sat in his private room, with his books spread open +before him, while with a white face and a heavily-beating heart he +examined the state of his affairs. Daily, almost hourly, he expected +a desperate crisis, and he tried in vain to devise some means of +meeting it. + +There was only one human being who was admitted to Rupert Godwin’s +confidence, and that was his head clerk, Jacob Danielson. + +Ever since Rupert’s earliest manhood this Danielson had been in his +employment, and little by little there had grown up a strange bond of +union between the two men. + +It could not be called friendship, for the banker was of too reserved +a nature to form a close friendship with any one--least of all with +an inferior; and whatever the confidences between him and his clerk, +he was always haughty and commanding in his tone and manner towards +his dependent. + +But Jacob Danielson was the depository of many of his employer’s +secrets, and seemed to possess an almost superhuman power of reading +every thought that entered the brain of Rupert Godwin. + +It may be that the banker knew this, and that there were times when +he felt a kind of terror of his shabby, queer-looking dependent. + +Nothing could be wider than the contrast between the outward +appearance of the two men. + +Rupert Godwin had one of those darkly splendid faces which we rarely +see out of an old Italian picture--such a face as Leonardo or Guido +might have chosen for a Herod or a Saul. + +He was tall and broad-chested, his head nobly poised upon his +shoulders. His dark flashing eyes had something of the falcon in +their proud and eager glance; but beneath the calm steady gaze of +more honest eyes those falcon glances grew shifting and restless. + +Jacob Danielson was strangely deficient in those physical perfections +which had so furthered his master’s fortunes. + +The clerk was a wizen little man, with high shoulders, and a queer, +limping walk. His small but piercing gray eyes looked out from under +the shelter of a protruding forehead, fringed by two shaggy eyebrows. +His thin lips were apt to be disturbed by a twitching motion, which +at times was almost painful to witness. + +Jacob Danielson was one of those walking mysteries whose thoughts, +deeds, and words are alike beyond the comprehension of other men. No +one understood him; no one was able to fathom the secrets hidden in +his breast. + +He lived in a dingy little lodging on the Surrey side of the Thames, +a lodging which he had occupied for years, and where he had never +been known to receive the visit of any human being. + +It was known that he drank deeply, but he had never been seen in a +state of intoxication. There were those amongst his fellow-clerks +who had tried to make him drunk, and who declared that there was no +spirit potent enough to master the senses of Jacob Danielson. + +To his employer he was a most indefatigable servant. He _seemed_ also +a faithful servant; yet there were times in which the banker trembled +when he remembered the dangerous secrets lodged in the keeping of +this unsympathetic, inscrutable being. + +While Rupert Godwin sat in his private apartment meditating over the +books of the house, and dreading the bursting of that storm-cloud +which had so long brooded above his head, Harley Westford was +hurrying towards him, eager to deposit in his hand the savings of +twenty years of peril and hardship. + +A hansom cab carried the Captain to the door of the banking-house. He +alighted, and made his way into the outer office of the firm, where +he addressed himself to the first person whom he found disengaged. +That person happened to be no other than Jacob Danielson, the chief +clerk. + +“I want to see Mr. Godwin,” said the Captain. + +“Impossible,” Jacob answered coolly. “Mr. Godwin is particularly +engaged. If you will be good enough to state your business, I shall +be very happy to--” + +“Thank you. No; I won’t trouble you. My time is very precious just +now; but as my business is important, I’ll wait till Mr. Godwin is +disengaged. When a man comes to place the savings of a lifetime +with a banking firm in which he has confidence, he feels a sort of +satisfaction in depositing his money in the hands of the principal.” + +Jacob Danielson’s thin lips twitched nervously. The savings of a +lifetime! A stranger eager to place his money in Rupert Godwin’s +hands at a time when the banker expected only the frantic demands of +panic-stricken depositors, eager to snatch their treasures from a +falling house! + +Jacob looked with keen scrutinizing eyes at the honest sailor, half +suspecting that there might be some trap hidden beneath his apparent +simplicity; but no one looking at Harley Westford could possibly +suspect him of cunning or treachery. + +“The poor fool has walked straight into the lion’s den,” thought the +clerk; “and he’ll be tolerably close-shaved before he walks out of +it.” + +He sat at his desk for some minutes, scratching his head in a +reflective manner, and looking furtively at handsome hazel-eyed +Harley Westford, who was swinging his cane, and rocking himself +backwards and forwards on his chair in a manner expressive of +considerable impatience. + +Presently the clerk dismounted from his high stool. “Come, I see +you’re in a hurry, sir,” he said, “so I’ll go into the parlour and +ascertain what Mr. Godwin’s engagements are. Shall I take your card?” + +“Yes; you may as well do so. My father was a customer of the firm, +and Mr. Godwin may have heard my name before to-day.” + +He _may_ have heard your name, Harley Westford! That name is written +in letters of fire on the heart of Rupert Godwin, never to be erased +on this side of the grave. + +Jacob Danielson carried the card into the banker’s sitting-room, and +threw it on the table before his master, without once deigning to +look at the name inscribed upon it. + +“Some unfortunate fool has come to deposit a lump of money in your +hands, sir,” he said coolly; “he’s very particular about placing it +in _your_ hands, so that he may be sure it’s safe. I suppose you’ll +see him?” + +“Yes,” answered the banker haughtily; “you can show him in.” + +The cool insolence of his clerk’s manner galled him cruelly. He +had borne the same insolence without wincing in the hour of his +prosperity; but now that he felt himself upon the verge of ruin, +Jacob Danielson’s familiarity stung him to the quick. A deposed +sovereign is quick to feel insolence from his lackeys. + +It was only when the clerk had left the room that Rupert Godwin +looked at the card lying on the table before him. + +His glance was careless at first; but in the very moment when he +recognized the name inscribed upon the slip of pasteboard, his face +changed as few faces have power to change. + +The sallow skin darkened to a dull leaden tint; a kind of electric +flame seemed to kindle in the dark eyes. + +“Harley Westford!” he muttered. “And it is to me, his bitterest +enemy, that he brings his wealth; and at such a time as this! There +is a Nemesis who plans these things.” + +The banker crushed the card in his sinewy hand, and after that one +passionate gesture controlled his emotion by a strength of will +which was like iron in its unyielding nature. His face, so suddenly +distorted, became as suddenly calm and placid, and he looked up with +a friendly smile as Harley entered the room. + +No warning presentiment restrained the sailor at this last moment. He +handed the pocket-book to the banker, and said quietly, “That, Mr. +Godwin, contains the hard-won earnings of twenty years. Be so good +as to count the notes. You’ll find a thousand for every year--not so +bad, take it all in all. I had the money invested in foreign loans, +and it brought me very handsome interest, I can assure you. But some +wise friends of mine have taken fright. There’s to be war here, and +war there--two or three thrones expected to topple over during the +next six months, and three or four glorious republics on the point +of intestine war. ‘Sell out,’ say my friends. ‘What! and give up ten +per cent.?’ say I. And then they remind me of the cautious old Duke’s +axiom: ‘The better your interest, the worse your security.’ So I +‘cave in’ at once, as the Yankees say; and here I am, safe out of the +lion’s claws, and ready to accept the current rate of interest for my +capital.” + +“I congratulate you on your escape,” answered the banker. “There’s +more than one storm brewing on the Continent, and foreign stock is +dropping every day.” + +“Well, I’m glad I’ve done right. You see, I’m going to risk my life +upon one more journey before I settle down in the pleasant harbour +of home. I don’t know anything about this house, myself, but I know +my father trusted your father to his dying day. I shall feel quite +comfortable when my money is safely lodged in your hands. You find +the amount correct, I suppose?” + +Rupert Godwin was counting the little packet of notes which he held +in his hand as the Captain spoke. Harley Westford did not see that +the banker’s hand trembled slightly as it grasped the fluttering +pieces of tissue paper. + +Twenty thousand pounds! Such a sum trusted in his keeping at such a +moment might be the salvation of his credit. + +“I have one charge more to confide in your hands,” said the Captain, +“and then I can leave England in peace. This sealed packet contains +the title-deeds of a small estate in Hampshire, on which my wife and +children reside; with your permission, I will lodge the packet in +your hands.” + +As he spoke, Harley Westford laid a sealed packet on the table. + +“I shall be happy to accept any charge you may confide in me,” the +banker answered with a courteous smile. + +“And you’ll allow me decent interest on my money?” + +“On deposits placed with us for a year certain we allow five per +cent.” + +“I think that settles everything,” said the sailor; “and now I can +face danger, or death, without fear. Come what may, my wife and +children are provided for. Let my fate be what it will, they are +beyond the power of evil fortune.” + +Rupert Godwin, bending over the papers before him, smiled to himself +as Harley Westford uttered these words--a strange, almost satanic +smile. + +“Stay!” exclaimed the Captain, “you ought to give me some kind of +receipt for that money, and those deeds, ought you not? I don’t +pretend to be a man of business; but you see in these affairs a +family man is bound to be precise--even if he happens to be a sailor.” + +“Most decidedly; I was waiting the opportunity of giving you your +receipt,” replied the banker coolly. + +He touched a little hand-bell on the table before him, and the next +minute Jacob Danielson appeared in answer to the summons. + +“Bring me some blank forms of receipt, Danielson.” + +The clerk obeyed; and Rupert Godwin filled-in the receipt for twenty +thousand pounds. + +To this he affixed his own signature, and then handed the paper to +Jacob Danielson, who signed his name below that of his master, as +witness. The banker also filled-in and duly signed an acknowledgment +of the sealed packet containing the title-deeds of the Grange. + +With these two documents in the breast-pocket of his light +outer-coat, Harley Westford departed, delighted with the idea that he +had rendered the fortunes of his wife and children thoroughly secure. + +The same hansom cab that had driven him from the railway station to +the bank in Lombard-street drove him to the Docks, where he alighted, +and made his way on board his own vessel, the _Lily Queen_. + +Her freight had been taken on board some days before, and all was +ready for departure. A bright-faced, good-looking man of about five +and twenty was pacing up and down the deck as the Captain came +alongside the vessel. + +This young man was Gilbert Thornleigh; first mate of the _Lily +Queen_, and a great favourite of Harley Westford’s. He had been down +to the Grange with his Captain, and had fallen desperately in love +with Violet in the course of a three days’ visit to that rustic +paradise: but it is needless to say that the sailor kept the secret +of his inflammable heart. The Captain’s beautiful daughter seemed as +high above him as some duchess crowned with a diadem and robed in +ermine might appear to some young captain of household troops. + +Captain Westford greeted Gilbert with a hearty grasp of the hand. + +“True to my time, you see, my lad,” he said. + +“Yes, Captain; always true.” + +“And this time I can leave England with a light heart,” said +Harley; “for I have made all secure for my wife and children. No +more foreign loans and Otaheite railway debentures and Fiji Island +first-preference bonds, my lad, which bewilder a plain man’s brains +when he tries to understand them. I have placed the whole lump of +money in the hands of an old-established English banker, and in my +pocket here I have Rupert Godwin’s receipt for the cash.” + +Gilbert Thornleigh stared aghast at his Captain. + +“Rupert Godwin!” he exclaimed. “You can’t mean that, Captain? You +can’t mean that you have placed your money with the firm of Godwin +and Selby?” + +“Why not, lad? Why shouldn’t I place it with them?” + +“Because it is whispered that they are on the verge of ruin. I had a +few hundreds in their hands myself until yesterday; but my uncle, an +old City man, gave me a word of warning, and I drew every farthing +of my money before the bank closed last night. But don’t be uneasy, +Captain, the rumour may be a false one. Besides, it’s not too late; +you can withdraw your money.” + +Harley Westford’s face grew suddenly white. He reeled like a drunken +man, and clung to the bulwark for support. + +“The villain!” he exclaimed; “the infernal scoundrel! He knew that +the money belonged to my wife and children, and he smiled in my face +while he took it from me!” + +“But there is time enough yet, Captain,” said Gilbert Thornleigh, +looking at his watch; “the bank will not close before four o’clock, +and it’s now only three. You can go ashore and get your money back.” + +“Yes,” cried Harley Westford, with a terrible oath, “I will have +my money--or the life of that villain! My children! My wife! The +scoundrel could look me in the face and know that he was robbing two +helpless women! No, no, my darlings, you shall not be cheated!” + +“Captain, there is not a moment to lose.” + +“I know, lad; I know,” answered Harley, passing his hand across his +brow as if to collect his scattered senses. “This news upset me a +bit at first, but I shall be all right presently. See here, my lad; +you know how I have always trusted you, and now I must place a still +greater trust in your hands. Come what may, the _Lily Queen_ sails at +daybreak to-morrow. If I am on board her by that time, well and good. +If not, she must sail without me, and you, Gilbert Thornleigh, go as +her Captain. Remember that. I will have no delays; the men are all on +board her, her cargo is expected and waited for out yonder. There has +been too much delay as it is, and it’s a point of honour with me not +to lose another hour. I trust you, Gilbert, as if you were my son. +Heaven only knows when I may see blue water again. If this man Rupert +Godwin is indeed on the verge of ruin, he will scarcely relinquish +twenty thousand pounds without a struggle. But, come what may, I will +have the money from him, by fair means or foul. In the mean time +Gilbert, I trust the command of the vessel to you in case of the +worst. Remember, she sails to-morrow morning.” + +“Without fail, Captain, and you with her, please Providence!” + +“That,” answered Harley Westford solemnly, “is in the hands of +Heaven.” + +He placed all the necessary papers in the young man’s custody, and +after a few instructions, hurriedly but not carelessly given, he +wrung Gilbert’s extended hand, and then sprang into the boat which +was to take him ashore. + +He called the first cab that was to be found outside the Docks, and +told the man to drive at a gallop to Lombard-street. + +The bank was closing as the Captain alighted from the vehicle. Mr. +Godwin had just left for his country-house, the clerk told Harley, +and no further business could be transacted that day. + +“Then I must follow him to his country-house,” answered the Captain. +“Where is it?” + +“Wilmingdon Hall, on the North road, beyond Hertford.” + +“How can I get there?” + +“You can go by rail to Hertford, and then get a fly across to the +Hall. It’s only a mile and a half from the station.” + +“Good,” answered Harley Westford. Then, after directing the cabman +to drive his fastest to the Great Northern Terminus, he stepped once +more into the vehicle. + +“Neither Rupert Godwin nor I shall know peace or rest until that +money has been restored to its rightful owner!” cried the Captain, +raising his clenched hand, as if he would have invoked the powers of +Heaven to witness his oath. + +He little knew how terribly that oath was to be fulfilled. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +AN IMPORTUNATE CREDITOR. + + +While Harley Westford was making his way to Hertford by +express-train, Mr. Godwin sat over his wine in one of the splendid +apartments of Wilmingdon Hall. + +Wilmingdon Hall was no modern villa erected by a wealthy speculator, +one of the merchant princes of the commercial age. It was a noble +relic of the past; one of those stately habitations which we find +here and there embosomed in woods whose growth is of a thousand +years. For centuries the Hall had been the residence of a grand old +race; but reckless extravagance had driven the lords of the mansion +away from its ponderous gates, to give place to the rich commoner +whose wealth made him master of the old domain. + +The Hall was built in the form of a quadrangle, and was large +enough to have accommodated a regiment of soldiers. One side of the +quadrangle had been built in the early Tudor period, and had been +disused for many years. The stone mullions of the windows darkened +the rooms, and the tapestry hung rotting on the walls of the gloomy +bedchambers and the low-roofed saloons of a bygone age. + +There were few of the banker’s household who would have been bold +enough to enter this northern wing of the mansion, which was, of +course, reported to be haunted; but Mr. Godwin himself had been often +known to visit the silent chambers, where the dust lay thick upon the +mouldering oaken floors. The banker had indeed caused an iron safe to +be placed in one of the lower rooms; and it was said that he kept a +great deal of old-fashioned plate and jewellery, intrusted to him by +his customers, in the cellarage below this northern wing. + +Very few persons living in this present day had ever descended to +these cellars; but it was reported that they extended the whole +length and breadth of the northern side of the quadrangle, and even +penetrated into the adjoining wings. It was also said that in the +time of the civil wars these cellars had been used as prisons for the +enemy, and as hiding-places for the faithful adherents of the good +cause. + +The servants of Mr. Godwin’s numerous household often talked of +those gloomy underground chambers, but not one among them would have +been courageous enough to descend into the dark and unknown vaults. +Nor were the cellars ever left open to any hazardous intruder, as +the ponderous old keys belonging to them, and to all the rooms in +the deserted northern wing, were lodged in the safe keeping of Mr. +Godwin himself, and no doubt stowed away in one of the numerous iron +safes which lined the walls of his study. There was some legend of +a subterranean passage leading from some part of the grounds to the +cellarage; but no one now in the household had ever ventured to test +the truth of this legend. Was there not also the legend of a White +Lady, whose shadowy form might be met at any hour in those darksome +chambers,--a harmless lady enough while in the flesh, a poor gentle +creature, who had broken her heart and gone distraught for love of +an inconstant gentleman in the military line; but a very troublesome +lady in the spirit, since she appeared to devote her leisure to +sighing and wailing in passages and cupboards, and to the performance +of every variety of scratching, and knocking, and scraping, and +tapping known to the most ingenious of ghosts. + +In the neighbourhood of Wilmingdon Hall Mr. Godwin was looked upon as +the possessor of almost fabulous wealth. He was regarded as a kind of +modern magician, who could have coined gold out of the dead leaves +which strewed Wilmingdon woods in the autumn, if he had chosen to do +so. + +The June evening was as beautiful as the June morning had been. The +western sky was one grand blaze of crimson and orange, as Rupert +Godwin sat over his wine in his spacious oak-panelled dining-room. He +was not alone. On the opposite side of the table appeared the wizen +face of the clerk, Jacob Danielson. + +Crystal decanters, diamond cut, and sparkling as if studded with +jewels, glittered in the crimson sunset, and fragrant hot-house +fruits were piled amongst their dewy leaves in dishes of rare old +Sèvres china. Luxury and elegance surrounded the banker on every +side; but he had by no means the air of a man who enjoys the delights +of the Sybarite’s _dolce far niente_. A dark frown of discontent +obscured his handsome face, and the violet-perfumed Burgundy, which +his clerk was sniffing with the true epicurean gusto, had no charm +for the master. + +Rupert Godwin had felt himself compelled to conciliate his clerk. Did +not Jacob know of the twenty thousand pounds--that twenty thousand +pounds respecting which dark plots were now being woven in the +banker’s mind? + +That sum might have restored Mr. Godwin’s shaken credit for a time; +but what would he be able to do when the Captain returned from his +Chinese voyage, and demanded the restoration of his money? + +Rupert Godwin hated Harley Westford with a deeply-rooted hatred, +though he had never looked upon the sailor’s face until that day. The +hatred which had long smouldered in the banker’s breast arose out of +a dark mystery of the past--a mystery in which Clara, the Captain’s +wife, had been concerned. + +Under these circumstances, Rupert Godwin, ever selfish, false, and +unscrupulous, resolved on appropriating the sailor’s fortune. Ruin +stared him in the face. He had speculated wildly, and had lost +heavily. He resolved on leaving Europe for ever, and carrying with +him the twenty thousand pounds intrusted to him by Harley Westford. + +He had spent some of the pleasantest years of his youth in South +America, where a member of his family occupied a position of some +importance as a merchant. + +“Under a feigned name, and in that distant land, no one will be able +to discover the whereabouts of Rupert Godwin, the runaway banker,” +he thought; “and with twenty thousand pounds for my starting-point, +I may make a second fortune, larger than my first. Julia shall +accompany me. My son may remain in England and shift for himself; +there has never been much love between us, and I do not want to be +hindered at every turn by some Quixotic scruple of his. Chivalry and +commerce won’t go in harness together. Bayard would have made a bad +thing of it on the Stock Exchange.” + +Thus ran the banker’s thoughts as he sat brooding over his wine; but +every now and then his restless eyes glanced furtively towards the +face of his clerk. + +He feared Jacob Danielson. The fear as yet was shadowy and +unreasoning; but he felt that the clerk knew too many of his secrets, +and might become a hindrance to his schemes. He felt this, and in +the meantime he was anxious to conciliate, and if possible hoodwink, +Jacob Danielson. + +“Yes, Jacob,” he said presently, taking up the thread of a former +conversation, “this twenty thousand may enable us to weather the +storm. If the first calls made upon us are promptly paid, confidence +must be restored, and the rumour against us will die away.” + +“Very likely,” answered the clerk, in that cool dry tone of voice +which was peculiarly unpleasant to Rupert Godwin; “but when the +sea captain comes home and wants his money--what then?” + +“By that time we may be again in a strong position.” + +“Yes, we _may_! But how?” + +“Some of the speculations in which my money has been risked may +improve. My eggs are not all in one basket. Some of the baskets may +prove to be sounder than they appear just now,” answered the banker, +who tried in vain to appear at his ease under the piercing scrutiny +of Jacob’s sharp grey eyes. + +“Do you believe that, Mr. Godwin?” asked the clerk, in a tone that +was strangely significant. + +“Most decidedly.” + +“Humph!” responded Jacob, rubbing the iron-grey stubble upon his chin +with his horny palm, until the harsh rasping noise produced by that +action set his employer’s teeth on edge. “I am glad you have so much +confidence in the future.” + +Rupert Godwin winced as he felt the sting contained in these simple +words. He felt that to throw dust in the eyes of Mr. Danielson was by +no means an easy operation. But he was no coward. He was a bold bad +man, whose heart was not likely to fail him in any desperate venture. + +“Bah!” he thought, as his strongly-marked brows contracted over his +dark eyes, “what have I to fear from this man? True, that he knows +of the twenty thousand pounds; but what harm can his knowledge do me +when I am far away from England and my creditors? In that money lies +the means of new wealth.” + +His head drooped forward upon his breast, as he abandoned himself to +a reverie that was not altogether unpleasant, when suddenly a voice, +solemnly impressive in its tone, sounded in the quiet of the June +twilight. + +“Mr. Godwin,” said the voice, “I come to demand from you the twenty +thousand pounds which I lodged in your keeping to-day.” + +A thunderbolt descending from heaven to shatter the roof above him +could scarcely have affected the banker more terribly than did the +sound of that unceremonious demand. + +He looked up, and saw Harley Westford standing in one of the long +French windows which opened upon the lawn. The Captain stood on the +threshold of the central window, exactly opposite Rupert Godwin; +and in the dim declining light the banker could see that Harley +Westford’s face was deadly pale. It was the fixed and resolute +countenance of a desperate man. + +For the first few moments after those words had been spoken Rupert +Godwin was completely unnerved; but, with an effort, he shook off +that feeling of mental paralysis which had taken possession of him, +and assumed his usual ease of manner. + +“My dear Captain Westford,” he said, “your sudden appearance actually +alarmed me; and yet I am not generally subject to any nervous +fancies. But this place is supposed to be haunted; and I give you my +word you looked exactly like a ghost just now in the June gloaming. +Pray be seated, and try some of that Chambertin, which I can +recommend. Danielson, will you be good enough to ring for lamps? The +darkness has crept upon us unawares.” + +“Yes,” answered the clerk, “we have been so deeply interested in our +own thoughts.” + +There was something like a sneer in Jacob Danielson’s tone as he said +this; and the banker felt as if his inmost thoughts had been read by +his clerk. + +“Well, Captain Westford,” said Mr. Godwin in his most careless tone, +“to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? You wish to make some +new arrangement about the investment of your money; perhaps you are +not satisfied with the rate of interest allowed by our house. You +want to dabble in some speculative investment.” + +“Mr. Godwin,” exclaimed the sailor, “I am a plain-spoken man, and I +don’t know how to beat about the bush. In a very few words, then, I +want my money back.” + +“You are afraid to trust it in my hands?” + +“I am.” + +“You have heard some false rumour, no doubt; some story got up by +notorious City scoundrels. Some anonymous circular has reached +you, perhaps, intended to undermine the credit of one of the best +considered banking-firms in the City of London. I have heard of such +stabs in the dark; and if I had my will the anonymous slanderer +who destroys his neighbour’s credit should be hung as high as the +assassin who takes his neighbour’s life.” + +“The rumour which I have heard may be true or false,” replied the +Captain quietly. “I trust for your sake, Mr. Godwin, that it is +false. I think it very likely that it may be so. But I am dealing +with that which is dearer to me than my own heart’s blood. I am +dealing with the money which represents the future comfort and safety +of my wife and children. There must be no risk, not the shadow +of risk, about that money. Ask me to trust you with my life, and +I will trust you freely; but I will not leave that money in your +hands. At the risk of giving you mortal offence I come to demand its +restoration.” + +“And you shall have it in due course, my dear Captain Westford,” +answered the banker, throwing himself back in his chair and laughing +aloud. “Pray, excuse me, but I cannot help being amused by your +simplicity. You sailors are as bold as lions on the high seas, but +the veriest cowards when you come into the neighbourhood of the Stock +Exchange. I really can’t help laughing at your fears.” + +“Laugh as much as you please, Mr. Godwin; only, give me back my +money.” + +“Most decidedly, my dear Captain Westford; but as I don’t happen to +carry your fortune about with me in my waistcoat-pocket, you must +wait till business hours to-morrow.” + +The sailor’s countenance darkened. + +“I relied on catching you in Lombard-street before the bank closed,” +he said, “and I have given orders for the sailing of my vessel +to-morrow at daybreak. If I am not aboard her, she sails without me.” + +The banker was silent for some moments. The lamps had not yet been +brought into the room, and in the darkness a sinister smile passed +over Rupert Godwin’s face. + +“Your vessel sails without you,” he said presently; “but of course +your officers will await fresh orders from you?” + +“No, they have no occasion to wait,” answered the Captain; “they have +received all necessary instructions. If I am not on board my vessel +before daybreak to-morrow, my first mate will assume the post of +Captain, and the _Lily Queen_ will leave the Pool without me.” + +Two men-servants entered the room with lamps at this moment. In the +brilliant yet subdued light of the moderator-lamps, Rupert Godwin +looked like a man who was on good terms with himself and all the +world. And yet Heaven alone knew the intensity of the struggle going +forward in this man’s mind. + +“My dear Danielson,” he exclaimed, after glancing at the clock upon +the chimney-piece--“my dear Danielson, have you any notion of the +time? It is now past nine, and unless you start at once, you’ll +scarcely catch the 10.30 train from Hertford.” + +“It is like you, to be so kind and thoughtful, Mr. Godwin!” the clerk +said, looking searchingly at his employer. “Yes, my time is up, and I +must be thinking of getting off.” + +“I’ll order one of my grooms to drive you to the station,” said Mr. +Godwin; and before Jacob could remonstrate, he rang the bell and gave +his directions to the servant who answered it. + +Meanwhile Harley Westford stood a little way from the table, pale and +silent, and with a resolute look upon his frank handsome face. + +During all this time he had not once seated himself; during all this +time he had not once removed his gaze from the countenance of the +banker. He wanted to discover whether or not Rupert Godwin was an +honest man. + +“I am waiting to hear your decision about that money, Mr. Godwin,” he +said quietly; “remember, that to me it is a matter of life and death.” + +“If you will step into my study. I shall be at your service +immediately, Captain Westford,” answered the banker; “I have only a +few words to say to my clerk, and then I will join you.” + +A servant entered at this moment to announce that the dog-cart was +ready to take Mr. Danielson to the station. + +“Show this gentleman into my study,” said Rupert Godwin, “and take +lights there immediately.” + +Harley Westford followed the servant. When he entered the dining-room +he had carried his light overcoat upon his arm: this coat he now left +hanging loosely upon a chair. + +“Now, my dear Jacob,” said the banker, with every appearance of +unconcern, “let me see you off, and then I will go and settle with +this importunate sea-captain.” + +“But how will you settle with him?” asked Danielson in a low +suppressed voice. + +“Very easily. I will persuade him that the rumour he has heard +against our credit is entirely false, and shall by that means prevail +upon him to leave his money in my hands until his return from China.” + +“But he seems determined upon having the money back immediately. I +fancy you’ll find him rather a tough customer.” + +“Trust my diplomacy against his determination. Come, Jacob, you will +certainly lose your train.” + +The banker almost pushed his clerk towards the dog-cart which was +waiting before the Gothic porch of Wilmingdon Hall. Jacob mounted the +vehicle, and the groom drove off at a smart pace. + +Then, for the first time, Rupert Godwin sighed heavily, as he stood +alone in the porch, and a dark cloud fell over his face. + +“It is difficult work,” he muttered to himself; “awful work, let me +plan it which way I will. But let me remember Clara Ponsonby--my love +and her disdain. Let me remember the past, and _that_ memory may give +me nerve and resolution to-night.” + +He stood for some minutes in the porch, looking out into the summer +darkness. No star had yet risen in the June heavens, and the lawn +and gardens of Wilmingdon Hall were as dark as the deepest recesses +of the forest. After those few minutes of silent thought, the banker +breathed one more sigh, profound as the first, and turned to re-enter +the house. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. + + +Rupert Godwin went at once to the library, where Harley Westford was +waiting for him. + +“Come, my dear Captain,” he said, as he entered the spacious room, +the walls of which were lined with books, whose costly and artistic +bindings announced alike the wealth of a millionnaire and the +perfect taste of an accomplished bibliopole,--“come, Captain, let us +understand each other fully. You want this money to-night?” + +“I do. My demand may perhaps be unreasonable, as this house is not +your place of business, nor this an hour in which you are accustomed +to transact business; but the peculiar circumstances of the case must +plead my excuse. I tell you again, Mr. Godwin, to me this is a matter +of life or death.” + +“And if I refuse to give you the money to-night you will apply for it +to-morrow, as soon as the bank opens?” + +“Unquestionably.” + +“And if then there was any delay in the production of your money, +what would you do?” + +“I would dog your footsteps day and night; I would haunt you like +your own shadow; I would stand upon the steps of your banking-house +in Lombard-street and proclaim you as a thief and a scoundrel, until +that twenty thousand pounds was produced. _My_ money!” cried the +Captain in passionate accents; “it is not my money; it is my wife’s +money, my children’s money; and you had better try to take my life +than to rob me of that.” + +“Come, come, my dear sir,” said the banker, with his blandest smile, +“pray do not excite yourself. I was only putting a case. I daresay +if I were a dishonest man you would be what is vulgarly called +an ugly customer; but as I have no intention of withholding your +money for an hour longer than is necessary, we need not discuss the +matter with any violence. I told you just now that I was not in the +habit of carrying twenty thousand pounds about me. Under ordinary +circumstances, therefore, I should not be able to give you your money +to-night. You say your vessel sails at daybreak to-morrow?” + +“She does.” + +“And you will be a loser if you cannot sail with her?” + +“A very considerable loser.” + +“Very well, then, Captain Westford,” answered the banker; “you have +not behaved very generously to me. You have intruded yourself upon +my domestic privacy, and have insulted me by most unjust suspicions. +In spite of this, however, I am prepared to act generously towards +you. As the circumstances of the case are exceptional, I will strain +a point in your favour. It happens, strange to say, that I have in +this house a sum of money amounting to more than the twenty thousand +pounds which you lodged in my hands.” + +“Indeed!” + +“Yes. It is a strange coincidence, is it not?” + +The banker laughed as he made this remark. Had Harley Westford been +a suspicious man, skilled in reading the darker secrets of the human +heart, something strained and unnatural in that laugh might have +struck upon his ear, awakening a vague terror. But he suspected +nothing. He was quite ready to believe that he had wronged Rupert +Godwin by his impetuous demand for the return of his money. + +“I happen to have an eccentric old lady amongst my customers, whose +fortune of some seven-and-twenty thousand pounds was, until a few +days since, lodged in the hands of different railway companies,” +said the banker, in his most business-like tone. “But a week or so +ago she wrote to me in a panic, caused by some silly report she had +heard, desiring me to sell out of these companies, and to keep her +money in my hands until she gave me further directions respecting the +disposal of it. But the best part of the business is, that she begged +me to keep the money at my country-house, for fear, as she said, of a +robbery in Lombard-street. Did you ever hear of anything so absurd?” + +Again Mr. Godwin laughed, the same forced unnatural laugh as before. + +“However, Captain Westford,” he continued, “the old proverb very +truly tells us, ‘It is an ill wind that blows nobody good.’ You shall +profit by the old lady’s eccentricity. If you will come with me to +the other side of my house, where I keep all valuables intrusted to +me, I will give you Bank of England notes to the amount of twenty +thousand pounds.” + +“I thank you very much,” answered the Captain. + +“No thanks, I am glad to do as much for the sake of----your wife.” + +The banker made a long pause before uttering those two last words. + +He opened an iron safe, artfully disguised by doors of carved oak, +and took from it a heavy bunch of keys, all labelled with slips of +parchment. These keys belonged to the northern wing of the Hall. + +As the two men were about to leave the room, the door was opened, and +a woman appeared upon the threshold. + +Never had Harley Westford looked upon beauty more splendid than that +which now greeted his sight. + +A girl of some nineteen years of age, whose darkly-flashing eyes and +Spanish style of beauty proclaimed her the daughter of Rupert Godwin, +stood before him. But all that was stern and cold in the banker’s +face was softened into beauty in that of his daughter. + +The eyes were oriental in their dark lustre, and there was a +dewy softness mingled even with the eager brightness of their +gaze. A crimson glow relieved the pale olive of the clear skin; +and half-parted lips, whose vermilion recalled the hue of the +pomegranate, displayed two rows of small white teeth that glittered +in the lamp-light. + +The girl’s figure was tall and commanding, but she was graceful as an +Andalusian countess. + +Such was Julia Godwin, the only daughter of the banker and of the +poor neglected lady who had been his wife. + +“I have been looking for you everywhere, papa!” exclaimed Julia; +“where have you been hiding yourself all the evening?” + +The banker turned upon his daughter with a frown. + +“Have I to tell you again, Julia, that this is a room which I devote +to business, and that I will not be intruded upon here?” he exclaimed +sternly. “This gentleman is with me on an affair of vital importance, +and I must beg that you will retire to your own apartments, and leave +us undisturbed.” + +“O, very well, papa,” said Julia, pouting her rosy under-lip in +evident vexation, and lingering on the threshold with the privileged +pertinacity of a spoiled child; “but it is dreadfully weary work +sitting alone a whole evening in this melancholy old house, where one +expects to see a ghost walk out of the panelling at any moment after +dark. Mrs. Melville has gone to town to dine with some old friends, +and will not come back till to-morrow morning; so I am all alone. And +I looked forward to such a pleasant evening with you. However, I’m +going, papa; only I do think you’re very unkind, and I----” + +The dark frown upon Mr. Godwin’s face silenced his daughter’s +complaining voice, and she retired, murmuring to herself about her +father’s unkindness. + +Even the sternest men are liable to some weaknesses; and it must +be confessed that Julia Godwin was a spoiled child, the favourite +companion of a doting father. + +Between Rupert Godwin and his son there was neither affection nor +companionship. A strange and unnatural dislike divided the father +and his only son; and it was in his daughter that the proud man had +centred all his hopes. + +“Come, Captain Westford,” said the banker, when Julia had vanished, +“it is growing late. The last train from Hertford leaves at a little +before midnight. Will you be able to walk as far as the station?” + +“Three times that distance, if necessary,” answered the seaman +heartily. + +“Come, then.” + +Rupert Godwin took the lamp in one hand and the bunch of keys in the +other. He went into the hall, followed by Captain Westford. + +“There will be no vehicle required for this gentleman,” the banker +said, to a servant whom they met in the hall; “he will take a short +cut across the park, and walk back to Hertford.” + +Rupert Godwin led the way along corridors carpeted with velvet pile, +and adorned with pictures and statues, and great china vases of +exotic flowers, whose rich perfumes filled the air. All was luxury +and elegance in this part of the house, and through the open doors +Harley Westford caught glimpses of exquisitely-furnished apartments, +in which the carved oaken wainscots and richly-adorned ceilings of +the Elizabethan age contrasted with the most graceful achievements of +modern upholstery. + +But suddenly the scene changed. At the end of a long corridor the +banker unlocked a ponderous oaken door, and led the way into a dark +passage, where the atmosphere seemed thick with dust, and where there +was a faint musty smell that seemed the very odour of decay. + +They were now in the northern wing of Wilmingdon Hall, amongst +those disused chambers to whose dull solitude it pleased the banker +sometimes to betake himself. + +Harley Westford looked round him with a shudder. + +“We seamen are rather superstitious fellows,” he said; “the air of +this place chills me to the bone, and I should expect to meet a ghost +in these dark passages. The place feels like a grave.” + +“Does it?” exclaimed the banker; “that’s strange!” + +Again, if Harley Westford had been a suspicious man, he might have +detected something sinister in the tone in which those words were +spoken. + +The banker unlocked a door leading into a small low-roofed chamber +which bore the aspect of being sometimes occupied by a business man. + +There were iron safes along one side of the room, and a desk and a +couple of chairs stood in the centre of the bare oak floor. There was +a long narrow window, guarded by iron bars and by heavy shutters on +the outside. At one end of the room there was a door, also heavily +barred with iron. + +Nothing could be more dreary than the aspect of this apartment, dimly +illuminated by the lamp which Rupert Godwin placed upon the desk. + +“It is in this room that I keep any objects of special value +intrusted to me for any length of time,” he said, as Harley +Westford’s eyes wandered slowly round the apartment. “Those safes +contain money and securities. That door leads to a cellar in which I +keep plate.” + +He opened one of the safes and took out an iron box. + +“This is Miss Wentworth’s fortune,” he said, “twenty thousand pounds +of which I am about to deliver to you.” + +He set the box upon the desk; and while the Captain was looking at it +with an almost respectful gaze, as the casket which contained so much +wealth, Rupert Godwin turned once more to the safe. + +This time Harley Westford did not see the object which he took from +that iron repository. + +It was something that flashed with a blue glitter in the light of the +lamp--something which the banker concealed in the sleeve of his coat +as he turned towards the sailor. + +“Come,” he said, with his most careless manner, “you must see my +mysterious cellar before you leave this old haunted wing of the Hall. +You are not afraid of the ghosts, I suppose, in my company?” + +“Neither in yours nor alone,” answered Harley; “a sailor is never +afraid. He may believe in the appearance of strange visitants upon +this earth, but he does not fear them.” + +The banker unlocked the iron-barred door, and pulled it open. + +It revolved very slowly on its ponderous hinges, revealing a flight +of steep steps that led downwards into impenetrable darkness. + +“So that is where you keep your treasures!” cried the sailor; “a +regular Aladdin’s cave!” + +“Yes,” answered Rupert Godwin; “if you are an amateur of old silver, +you would find plenty to interest you in that vault--candelabras that +have lighted the banquets of the Tudors, tankards that Cromwell’s +thick lips have touched, tea-pots and salvers made by Queen Anne’s +favourite silversmith, the tarnished treasures of some of the best +families in England. Take the lamp and look down.” + +Harley took the lamp from the table, and approached the threshold of +the door. + +He stood for some few moments looking thoughtfully down into the +gloomy vault below. + +“A queer place!” he said; “darker than the hold of a slave-ship off +the African coast.” + +As he uttered the last few words, the arm of the banker was suddenly +raised, and that mysterious something which flashed with a blue +glitter in the lamp-light descended upon the sailor’s back. + +Harley Westford uttered one groan, staggered forward, and fell +headlong down the steep flight of steps leading to the cellar. + +There was a crash of broken glass as the lamp fell from his hand; +then a dull heavy thud, which was re-echoed with a hollow sound in +the vault below--a sound that prolonged itself like the suppressed +roar of distant thunder. + +The banker thrust his hand into his breast, then pushed the heavy +door upon its hinges, and turned the key in the lock. + +“I do not think he will come to Lombard-street to demand his money, +or stand upon the steps of my house to denounce me for a thief and a +scoundrel,” muttered Rupert Godwin, as he dropped the bunch of keys +into his coat-pocket. + +Then he groped his way from the room, and crept cautiously along the +narrow passage leading to the occupied portion of the house. + +He had left the door of communication ajar, and he saw the light +shining through the aperture. + +He seemed to breathe more freely as he emerged into the carpeted +corridor, and locked the door behind him. + +As he was turning the key in the lock, Julia Godwin came out of one +of the rooms near at hand. + +“Where is your friend, papa?” she asked, with a look of surprise. + +“He has gone back to London.” + +“But how did he go? I saw you both go into the northern wing just +now, and I have been sitting in my own room with the door open +listening for your footsteps ever since. I am sure he has not passed +along this passage.” + +For a moment the banker was silent. + +“How inquisitive you are, Julia!” he said at last. “I let that +gentleman out of the side-door in the northern wing, as he wanted to +get across the park by the shortest way.” + +“Ah, to be sure. But what could take you into that horrible northern +wing?” + +“Business. I have important papers there. Go back to your room, +Julia; I cannot stay to be questioned.” + +The girl looked at her father with an expression of mingled wonder +and anxiety. + +“Papa!” she exclaimed, “you are as pale as death. I never saw you +look like this before. And it is not like you to be so cross to me. +I am sure that something has happened to vex you, something very +serious.” + +“I had rather unpleasant business with that man; but it is all over +now, and he has gone. Let me pass, Julia; I have important letters to +write before I go to bed.” + +“Good-night then, papa,” said Julia, holding up her face to be +kissed. But before the kiss could be given, she recoiled from her +father, with a sudden movement, and a low cry of terror. + +“See there!” she exclaimed, pointing to his breast. + +“What is the matter, child?” + +“Blood, papa! A spot of blood upon your shirt.” + +The banker looked down, and saw a little splash of blood upon the +spotless whiteness of his cambric shirt-front. “How silly you are, +Julia!” he said. “My nose bled a little just now, as I was stooping +over some papers. My brain is overloaded with blood, I think. There, +there--good-night, child.” + +He pressed his lips upon the girl’s uplifted brow. Those cold +bloodless lips sent a chill through her veins. + +“What is the matter with papa, to-night?” she thought, as she +returned to her own apartment; “I’m afraid something must have gone +wrong in the City.” + +The banker walked slowly to the dining-room, where Harley Westford +had first broken in upon his reverie. + +The lamps were still burning on the long table of polished oak; the +wines still glowed with ruby lustre in the diamond-cut decanters. + +But the room was not empty. Seated by the table, with the _Times_ +newspaper in his hand, Rupert Godwin beheld Jacob Danielson, the man +who of all others he would have least wished to encounter at that +moment. + +The banker had buttoned his coat across his breast after that meeting +with his daughter, and the blood-stain was no longer visible. But he +could not repress a sudden start at sight of his clerk. + +“You here, Danielson!” he exclaimed; “I thought you were on your way +to London.” + +“No; I was too late for the train, and so walked back to ask a +night’s hospitality. I might have gone by the midnight train, of +course; but then, you see, my landlady is a very particular sort of +person, and it wouldn’t do for me to go back to my lodgings in the +dead of the night; so I venture to return here. I hope I shall not be +considered an intruder.” + +“O, not at all,” answered Rupert, dropping suddenly into an +arm-chair. “Will you be good enough to touch the bell?” + +“Certainly. You are looking very pale.” + +“Yes, I was seized with a spasm of the heart just now. I am subject +to that sort of thing,” replied the banker, coolly. Then he added to +the servant who entered the room, “Bring me some brandy.” + +The man brought a decanter of brandy. Rupert Godwin half filled a +tumbler with the spirit, and drained it to the last drop. + +“And so you lost the train, and walked over here?” he asked of +Danielson, presently. + +“Yes; I dismissed your man with the dog-cart before I discovered that +the train had started, so I had no alternative but to walk back.” + +“You must have walked uncommonly fast,” said the banker, thoughtfully. + +“Yes, I’m rather a fast walker. But where’s our friend the Captain?” + +“Gone, half an hour ago.” + +“You contrived to pacify him, then?” + +“O, yes. He agreed to let me have the use of his money till his +return from China. I shall pay him rather a high rate of interest.” + +“Ah, to be sure,” answered the clerk, rubbing his chin in that +slow and meditative manner which was peculiar to him, and staring +thoughtfully at his employer, who drank another half-tumbler of +brandy. “And so the Captain walked to the railway station. You +directed him to go by a cross cut through the park, I suppose?” + +“Yes.” + +“By the grotto and fernery, eh?” + +“Yes; I sent him that way,” answered the banker, rather abstractedly. + +“Strange!” said the clerk. “I ought to have met him, for I came that +way.” + +“Very likely he took the wrong path; these sailors never are very +good hands at steering their course on shore.” + +“No; to be sure. And the careless fellow has left his coat behind +him, I see,” said Danielson, pointing to Harley Westford’s light +overcoat, which hung on the back of a distant chair. + +“Very careless,” answered the banker. “And now, as I am rather tired, +I will wish you good-night, Danielson. The servants will show you to +your room. Try some of that cognac. It is quite a liqueur.” + +“It ought to be rather mild,” answered the clerk; “for I never saw +you take so much brandy as you’ve drunk within the last five minutes.” + +Rupert Godwin left the dining-room, and went up the broad oak +staircase to his own apartment--a lofty and spacious chamber, +furnished with dark carved oak, relieved by hangings of green velvet. + +Here the mask fell from the assassin’s face; here the guilty man +dared to be himself. + +He dropped heavily into a chair, and covering his face with his +hands, groaned aloud. + +“It was horrible,” he muttered, “very horrible; and yet they say +revenge is sweet. Years ago I hungered for vengeance as some famished +animal may hunger for his prey. And now it is mine. I am avenged, +Clara Ponsonby. You will never look upon my rival again.” + +The banker plunged his hand into his waistcoat, and drew from thence +a long Spanish dagger of bright blue steel. + +From the point half-way towards the hilt, the blade was stained with +blood. + +“His blood!” muttered Rupert Godwin; “the blood of the man I have +hated for twenty years, and only met for the first time to-day! The +ways of destiny are strange.” + +The banker rose from his chair, and went to an old-fashioned ebony +cabinet, in a secret drawer of which he placed the dagger. + +“No living creature but myself knows the secret of that spring,” he +said to himself. “They must be clever who find the weapon that killed +Harley Westford.” + +Then after a pause, he murmured: + +“The weapon that killed him! Can I be certain that he is dead?” + +And again, after a pause, he muttered: + +“Bah! How should he survive to-night’s work? The stroke of the dagger +was sure enough; and then the fall down the steep flight of steps. +Can there be any doubt of his death? And again, if he survived the +dagger-stroke and the fall, he must perish from loss of blood, cold, +or even famine.” + +There was something demoniac in the face of Rupert Godwin as he +contemplated this horrible alternative. + +“And the twenty thousand pounds are mine!” he exclaimed triumphantly, +after a long pause: “mine--for ever; to deal with as I please. That +sum may help me to sustain the shattered credit of my house. Fresh +speculations may float me back to fortune. I may surmount all my +difficulties, as I have surmounted the difficulty of to-night. What +is it, after all?--this crime, which is so hideous to contemplate, so +awful to remember? One bold, sudden stroke, and the thing is done. +This man’s life comes to an end, as it might have come to an end a +few days hence in some squall at sea. What is the world the worse for +his loss, or how am I the worse for what I have done?” + +This was the argument which this man held with himself in that first +pause after the commission of the dread act which must separate him +for evermore in thought and feeling from men with clean hands and +sinless hearts. + +He was not sorry for what he had done. He was disturbed by no feeling +of compassion or regret for his victim. But he felt that he had done +a deed the weight and influence of which upon his future existence he +had yet to discover. + +It seemed to him as if some physical transformation had been worked +upon him since the doing of that awful deed. He no longer breathed, +or moved, or spoke, with a sense of ease and freedom. His respiration +was troubled, his limbs seemed to have lost their elasticity; when he +spoke, his voice sounded strange to him. + +“It is a kind of nightmare,” he said to himself, “and will pass away +as quickly as it came. I have lived in lands where men hold each +other’s lives very lightly. Am I the man to play the coward because +this insolent sailor’s days have been cut shorter by so many months +or years? Why did he come here to brave and defy me in my own house? +He did not know what a desperate man he came to defy. He did not know +what good cause I had to hate him.” + +Excited by such thoughts as these, the banker paced up and down his +spacious room, with his arms folded, and his head bent upon his +breast. + +Suddenly he stopped, and a look of terror passed across his face. + +“The receipt!” he exclaimed. “Powers of hell! the receipt for the +twenty thousand pounds! What if that should have fallen into other +hands?” + +Then, after a pause, he muttered: + +“No, it is scarcely possible. The man would have kept it in his own +possession. It is buried in the dark vault where he lies, never to +rise again upon this earth.” + +But in the next moment the banker remembered the coat which Harley +Westford had left in the dining-room. + +“If by any chance the receipt should be in one of the pockets of +that coat!” he thought, as he stood motionless in the centre of the +room. After a moment’s hesitation, he snatched a candle from the +dressing-table, left his room, and went down to the hall below. + +He went into the dining-room. There all was deserted. The lamps were +out; Jacob Danielson was gone; but the Captain’s coat still hung on +the chair where he had left it. + +Rupert Godwin ransacked the pockets; but there was no shred of paper +to be found in any one of them. + +“What if Danielson should have examined them before me, and should +have secured the receipt!” exclaimed the banker. “That would indeed +be destruction. But no; surely, careless as these seafaring men +may be, Harley Westford would never have carried the only document +representing his fortune in the pocket of a loose overcoat.” + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. + + +Slowly, very slowly, did Mrs. Westford recover from that attack of +brain-fever which had been brought on by the grief and excitement +of her parting with her husband. It was no ordinary grief which had +reduced her to this alarming condition--she had succumbed beneath +the influence of a strange and unconquerable presentiment which had +oppressed her during the long night of watching that preceded Captain +Westford’s departure. + +Long and patiently through those bright midsummer days did Violet +watch in the sick-chamber, while Lionel, scarcely less devoted, was +faithful to his post in the pretty boudoir adjoining his mother’s +room. Never had a mother been blessed by more affectionate children; +never had more loving eyes kept watch by a sick-bed. + +But sometimes in the pleasantest hour of the June evening, when the +western sky was rosy with the last glory of the setting sun, Lionel +Westford would insist upon Violet going out for a constitutional +walk, while he took her place beside his mother’s bed. + +“It is no use talking, Violet,” he said; “if you don’t get a little +fresh air after a long day’s watching and fatigue, you will make +yourself as ill as poor mamma, and it will be small comfort for her +to find you an invalid when she recovers. Go, dear, and take a nice +long ramble in the forest, and come back fresh and blooming to get a +good night’s rest. Remember, Miss Vio, in the absence of papa I am +your responsible guardian. So no disobedience, miss. Put on your hat +and depart.” + +If the light-hearted young man had been a close observer, he would +have wondered, perhaps, at the blushes which dyed Violet’s cheeks +whenever these evening rambles were discussed. + +Hesitating and confused in her manner, she would seem one minute +as if she most earnestly wished to go, and in the next would plead +almost piteously to be allowed to stay in the peaceful sanctuary of +her mother’s room. + +But Lionel was obstinate where he thought Violet’s welfare was +concerned, and insisted on these evening rambles. + +“I should go with you and see that you took a regular constitutional, +miss,” he would say; “but I am determined that our mother shall +never be left entirely to hired service, however faithful and devoted +that service might be. If you don’t like going alone, you can take +one of the servants with you; but you need scarcely go out of earshot +of the house.” + +All this time Clara Westford lay feeble and helpless, her mind +disordered by feverish visions, in which she always saw her husband +surrounded by peril and tempest. + +The doctor reported favourably, but he owned that her recovery might +be slow and tedious. + +The mind had been very much shaken, he said, by the shock of that +parting with Harley Westford. + +So when the sun was low in the west, Violet was wont to leave her +mother’s room and to go out alone into the forest glades that +stretched beyond the gardens of the Grange. + +No English scenery could be more lovely than that Hampshire woodland, +with its rich undergrowth of fern and hazel, its glimpses of sunshine +and depth of shadow. + +And surely no lovelier nymph ever adorned a classic forest than she +who now wandered forth in the quiet evening, with wildflowers twisted +in the ribbon of her broad straw hat. + +So she went forth one evening about a week after that interview +between the banker and his victim at Wilmingdon Hall. + +She crossed the broad lawn, went along the narrow path that led +through the shrubbery, and left the Grange gardens by a little +wooden gate that opened at once into the forest. Her face was pale +now, though it had been rosy with bright blushes when she left her +brother. She did not keep within earshot of the house, as Lionel had +supposed she would do, but struck at once into a narrow footpath +that wound in and out amongst the grand old trees, and wandered on, +sometimes slowly, sometimes at an almost rapid pace, till she came +to a grassy patch of land shut in by a tall screen of elm and beech, +with here and there the spreading branches of an oak. It was a most +lovely spot, an enchanted circle wherein Vivien might have hushed the +magician to his charmed sleep. The fern grew tall amongst the broad +brown trunks of the old trees, and in the distance a glassy sheet of +water reflected the evening sky. + +It was a lovely spot; and it was not untenanted. A young man sat on a +low camp-seat, with an artist’s portable easel before him. + +He was not working at the water-colour sketch on the easel. He was +sitting in rather a melancholy attitude, and his eyes were fixed upon +that opening in the forest in which Violet appeared. + +He was very handsome; dark, with deep grey eyes fringed by long +black lashes--eyes which more often looked black than grey. He was +very handsome, and his appearance was that of a man upon whom the +stamp of gentle blood had been indelibly fixed. The air of high +breeding was a part of himself, and not borrowed from the clothes +he wore; for no costume could be more indefinite in its character +than his velveteen shooting-jacket and grey waistcoat and trousers, +which might have been alike suitable to a gamekeeper, a pedlar, or a +gentleman on a pedestrian tour. + +No sooner had the first glimpse of Violet Westford’s white dress +appeared in the forest pathway than the young artist sprang from his +seat and ran to meet her. + +“My own darling!” he exclaimed; “how late you are, and how long the +time has seemed--how cruelly long!” + +Now, when a gentleman addresses a lady as “his own darling,” it must +be presumed that the lady and gentleman have met very often, and are +on very good terms with each other. + +“I could not come earlier, George,” the girl said gently; “and even +now I feel as if I were very wicked to come at all. O, if mamma were +well, and I could tell her of our engagement! If I could take you to +her! O, George, you do not know her, if you think that your poverty +would stand in your way. She would never ask me to marry a man I did +not sincerely love. And if she liked you, I’m sure she’d be the last +person to consider whether you were rich or poor.” + +The young man sighed heavily, and did not immediately answer this +maidenly speech. + +But after a pause he said: + +“Your mother may be a very generous woman, Violet, but there are +others who are not so generous. There are some who worship only one +god, the Golden Calf; some there are who bow themselves down before +that modern Moloch, and would offer up the hearts’ blood of their own +children as mercilessly as the Carthaginians cast their offspring +into the furnaces that burned beneath the feet of Belsamen. You do +not know the world, my Violet, as I know it, or you would never talk +of poverty being no barrier between us.” + +“But neither my father nor my mother are money-worshippers,” pleaded +the loving girl. “Papa is the most simple-hearted of men, and I have +only to confess to him that I have been foolish enough to fall in +love with a poor unknown artist, whose sole fortune consists of a +sheaf of brushes, a palette, a portable easel, and a camp-stool, and +he will give his consent immediately--that is to say, as soon as he +knows you, George; for, at the risk of making you very conceited, I +must confess that he can’t know you without liking you.” + +“My dear foolish girl!” + +“Wasn’t mamma charmed with you last Christmas, when we met you at +the ball at Winchester? only she mistook you for a man of fortune, +and little knew that you were a poor wandering artist, lodging at a +cottage in the forest. You have really such an aristocratic air, that +one would imagine you had twenty thousand a year.” + +A dark shade passed over the young man’s face. + +“If I had five hundred a year, my darling, I should have contrived to +get an introduction to your father before he left England, and should +have boldly asked for this dear little hand. But I am a pauper, +Violet. I am a dependant, and the lowest of dependants, for I am a +dependant on a man I cannot esteem.” + +Violet Westford looked at her lover’s gloomy face with an air of +mingled distress and bewilderment. + +“But it will not be always so, George,” she said. “You will be a +great painter some day, and then all the world will be at your feet.” + +The young man’s moody expression vanished as he looked down at the +bright face lifted to his. + +“My beautiful young dreamer!” he exclaimed. “No; I have no such +ambitious visions of triumph and greatness; but I hope some day to +win a name that will at least give me independence. To that end I +work; and you know that I work hard, my darling.” + +“Yes, indeed, I am sometimes afraid your health will suffer.” + +“There is no fear of that, Violet. See here. You must see the +result of my day’s labour, and approve, or I shall not rest happily +to-night. You are all the world to me now, Violet.” + +The young painter led the girl to the easel, and she stood by his +side for some minutes gazing in silent rapture upon the water-colour +drawing before her. + +She had no artistic knowledge--no experience; and yet she felt +somehow that the work before her bore upon it the divine impress of +genius. + +It was only the picture of that forest glade, with the deep fern, the +broad sheet of unrippled water, the rosy glow of the sunset, and the +figure of a deer drinking. + +But the soul of a poet had inspired the hand of the painter, and +there was a quiet beauty about the picture that went home to the +heart. + +“O, you will be great, George!” exclaimed the girl, after that long +silent gaze upon the picture. “I feel that you will be great.” + +She looked up at him with her earnest eyes of darkest deepest blue, +and clasped two little loving hands about his arm. + +He needed no higher praise than this. Glory might come to him +by-and-by, and gold with it; but this one passionate thrill of +delight was the thing neither glory nor gold could buy for him. + +For some little time the lovers wandered together in the forest +glade, supremely happy, forgetful for a while of all the earth, +except that one verdant spot hidden in the heart of the woodland. + +Then, as long streaks of crimson dyed the grass, Violet hurried +homewards, with her lover still by her side. It was only when they +were near the gate opening into the gardens of the Grange that the +young painter reluctantly withdrew. + +Heaven knows, their meetings were pure and innocent as if they had +been denizens of the fairy realms of Oberon and Titania; but Violet +felt a pang of something like guilt as she returned to the sick-room, +and seated herself once more by her mother’s bed. + +“How hard to keep a secret from such a darling mother!” thought the +girl, with a sigh. “I will tell her all directly she recovers. George +cannot refuse me that privilege. I will tell her all, and she will +smile at our folly and sympathize with our hopes, and believe, as I +do, in that bright future when George Stanmore will be the name of a +great painter.” + +Comforted by such thoughts as these, a sweet smile crept over Violet +Westford’s face as she watched her mother’s slumbers, which to-night +were more peaceful than they had been since the Captain’s departure. + +The story of Violet’s acquaintance with the wandering artist is a +very simple one. + +The lovers first met at a ball at Winchester--a grand county ball, +where only people of unblemished respectability were admitted. Here +Mrs. Westford and Violet met Mr. Stanmore, who came with one of the +officers stationed there, an old school-fellow, as he said. The young +stranger made a very favourable impression upon both ladies, and +danced several times with the younger. + +After this, Lionel and his sister frequently encountered the +stranger in their winter walks and drives in the forest. He made +no secret of his profession, but told them at once that he was a +landscape-painter, and that he was living in very humble lodgings in +the forest, in order that he might study nature face to face. + +Sometimes they found him seated in a little canvas tent, buttoned to +the chin in a thick greatcoat, and working hard at a study of some +grand old oak, gaunt and brown, against the wintry sky. + +Little by little, therefore, the young people grew very intimate with +Mr. George Stanmore, the artist. Lionel was much pleased with his +new acquaintance. But during the warm spring months Lionel Westford +had been away at the University, and Violet had been obliged to walk +alone in the forest, for Mrs. Westford’s active charities engaged +the greater part of her time, as she devoted herself much to visiting +the poor in the villages within a few miles of the Grange. + +Sometimes Violet accompanied her upon these missions of charity; but +there were many days upon which the young girl went alone into the +forest, sometimes on foot, sometimes riding a pet pony, that had been +honoured with the name of Oberon. + +But, whether she rode Oberon or went on foot, and whichever pathway +she took, Violet Westford was sure to meet George Stanmore. + +The rest is easily told. They had seen and loved each other. From the +very first, unknown to either, that Divine lamp of love had shone +in the breast of each--innocent unselfish love, which the trials of +life, the cruel tempests of the world, might distress and torture, +but could never wholly quench. It was true love, which knows no base +alloy of selfish fear or mercenary caution. Violet Westford would +have united her fortunes to George Stanmore though he had been a +beggar and would have blindly trusted Providence with her future; and +the only prudential motive that withheld the young man from pressing +his suit was the fear that she whom he so tenderly loved might suffer +by his impetuosity. + +“Not till I have won independence will I ask her to be my wife,” he +thought. “No, not till I can look the world in the face, reliant upon +my own right hand for support.” + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE STORY OF THE PAST. + + +Clara Westford recovered slowly, but she did recover; a faint flush +came back to the wan cheeks, a new brightness lit up in the eyes that +had been so haggard. + +That process of recovery was very painful. When the invalid’s weary +hours of delirium and stupor wore over--when unreal afflictions, +visions of horror and dread, had ceased to torture the agonized and +bewildered mind, real sorrow, stern and cruel, awaited Clara Westford. + +The first syllables that fell from her lips, when reason returned, +formed a question about her husband. + +“Was there any letter?” she asked. “Had any letter come from Harley?” + +Alas, for that anxious wife, the answer was in the negative; no +letter had arrived from the Captain. + +Neither Violet nor Lionel had been rendered uneasy by their father’s +silence. They fancied that if he had not written, it was because he +had had no opportunity of sending a letter. + +But the wife was distracted by a thousand fears. Her husband had left +her declaring his intention of depositing the entire amount of his +savings in a banker’s hands, and immediately sending her the receipt +for the money. + +The fortune itself was a secondary consideration in Clara Westford’s +mind; yet she knew her husband’s anxiety upon that point, and she +could not but wonder that he had omitted to write to her on the +subject before leaving England; or failing to write before setting +sail from London, she wondered that he had not contrived to send a +letter ashore before losing sight of the English coast. + +She was distracted by fears, so shadowy in their nature that she +could scarcely give utterance to them. Her children perceived her +uneasiness, and endeavoured to set her fears at rest. + +“My dearest mother,” exclaimed Lionel, “do you think, if there were +really cause for fear, that _I_ should not also be uneasy? Do you +forget the old proverb, which tells us that ill news flies fast? If +anything had been amiss with my father before the _Lily Queen_ lost +sight of England, Gilbert Thornleigh would have been sure to write +to us. You know how devoted he is to my father; and, indeed, to all +of us,” added the young man, looking with peculiar significance at +Violet, who blushed, and moved to an open window near her to avoid +that searching gaze. + +Everybody at the Grange had perceived the impression made by Violet +on the simple-hearted first mate of the _Lily Queen_. + +Clara Westford tried to smile upon the loving son and daughter, who +watched her every look with anxious eyes. She smiled, but it was the +smile of resignation, not of peace. Her heart was racked by hidden +torture, yet she suffered no cry of despair to escape her lips. For +the sake of Lionel and Violet she tried to suppress all outward +evidence of her anguish, and waited, hoping day after day that ere +the sun set a letter might reach her, sent by some homeward-bound +vessel, to assure her of Harley Westford’s safety. + +“He knows how much I suffer when he is away,” she thought. “He will +not fail to write whenever the opportunity occurs.” + +It was a fearful time--a long, dreary interval of suspense and +anxiety. Lionel was happy; for, with the careless, light-hearted +confidence of youth that has never been clouded by sorrow, he trusted +blindly in the future. All his father’s previous voyages had been +prosperous, why should not this voyage be like the rest? + +And Violet, she too was happy, with the wondrous happiness of a first +love--true, pure, and boundless. Now that her mother was restored +to health, it seemed to her as if there were no cloud upon the +brightness of her life. What if George Stanmore were poor? Her father +would return, and poverty would be no disgrace in the eyes of that +most generous of fathers. + +So the summer time passed happily for the lovers, who met often in +the beautiful woodland, sometimes alone, sometimes in the presence +of Lionel, who saw that the painter admired his sister, but had no +suspicion of any deeper feeling existing between the two. This is +a subject upon which brothers are very slow of understanding. They +think their sisters very nice girls, but are rather surprised than +otherwise when some masculine friend declares that the nice girl is +something akin to an angel. + +If Lionel had suspected the truth, he would scarcely have interfered +to cross the path of that true love. He had no mercenary ambition, +either for his sister or himself; and the hard schooling of adversity +had not yet taught him prudence. + +The summer waned; bright hues of crimson and amber mingled with +the verdant green of the forest, the fern grew brown, the country +children came whooping through the echoing glades, bent on the +plunder of aloe and hazel, beech and chestnut; the days grew shorter, +and the little family at the Grange spent long quiet evenings in the +lamp-lit drawing-room. + +But still there was no letter from Harley Westford--no tidings of the +_Lily Queen_. + +Mrs. Westford and her son and daughter had many friends amongst the +neighbouring county families; but they saw little company during +this period, for Clara had always held herself very much aloof from +society during her husband’s absence. + +All who were intimate with her admired and loved her: but there were +some who knew little of Clara Westford, and who pronounced her proud +and exclusive. + +She was proud, because her husband’s position as a merchant captain +was beneath that of the county gentry, who had never dabbled in trade +or speculation, and who could not quite realize the fact that the +owner of a trading-vessel might be a gentleman. + +Clara was proud for his sake; not for her own. + +“I will go to no house where my husband is not esteemed an honoured +guest,” she said. + +She was exclusive, because her affection was concentrated into one +focus. She loved her husband and children with a deep and devoted +love, and she had little affection left for the world outside that +happy household. + +Three months had passed since the sailing of the _Lily Queen_; and +yet there were no tidings of the Captain. + +To Clara, and to Clara alone, this was a cause of alarm. Lionel and +Violet still trusted blindly, almost too happy to believe in the +existence of misfortune. + +One bright autumn day Clara Westford sent her son and daughter on +a shopping expedition to Winchester. She was pleased to see them +employed and happy; for she had no wish that any part of her burden +should be borne by them. It was a relief to her to be alone, so that +she might give way to her own sorrow, free from the loving scrutiny +of those watchful eyes. + +She sat in the Grange drawing-room, a large low-ceilinged apartment, +with long windows opening on to the lawn. + +The day was warm and bright; and the open windows admitted the +pure air from the gardens and woodland. Clara Westford sat in a +half-reclining position in a low arm-chair near one of the windows. A +little table loaded with books was by her side; but the volumes lay +there unopened and unheeded. She could not read; her thoughts were +far away--on those terrible and unknown seas where the _Lily Queen_ +was sailing. + +Never, perhaps, in the earliest bloom of her girlhood, had Clara +Westford looked lovelier than she did to-day. + +It was the subdued beauty of womanhood, calm and quiet as the mellow +light of the moon compared with the full glory of the noontide sun. + +She was exquisitely dressed, for she was too completely high-bred +to neglect her toilette on any occasion. She was not a woman who +made sorrow or anxiety an excuse for slovenly attire. Her chestnut +hair was coiled in thick plaits at the back of her small classical +head, and fastened with a simple tortoiseshell comb. Her silk dress +was of a golden brown, which harmonized exquisitely with the fair +clear complexion and chestnut hair--the brown which Millais has +immortalized in the dress of his red-coated squire’s fair-haired +daughter. A large turquoise, set in a rim of lustreless gold, clasped +the small white collar, and a stud of exactly the same fashion +fastened each simple cuff of spotless cambric. A few costly rings, +all of turquoise and gold, adorned the tapering white hands, and +these were the only ornaments worn by the Captain’s wife. + +She sat alone, thinking--O, how fondly, how mournfully!--of her +absent husband, when suddenly the curtains of the window farthest +from her were pushed aside with a jangling noise, and a man entered +the room. + +Clara Westford looked up, startled by that sound, and a half-stifled +shriek burst from her lips. + +“You here!” she cried. “_You_ here!” + +The intruder was no other than Rupert Godwin, the Lombard-street +banker. + +He advanced slowly towards the spot where Clara Westford sat. His +dark face was just a little paler than usual, and there was a stern +resolute look in his eyes. + +“Yes,” he answered quietly, “it is I, Clara Westford. After twenty +years we meet face to face for the first time to-day, and I look +once again upon the woman who has been the curse and torment of my +life.” + +Clara Westford shrank back into the cushioned chair almost as if she +had been recoiling from a blow. + +“O, merciful Heaven!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands passionately; +“after twenty years of happiness am I to hear that hated voice again?” + +“Yes, Clara,” answered the banker; “for twenty years there has been +a truce. To-day the war begins again, and this time it shall not end +until I am conqueror.” + +The Captain’s wife clasped her hands before her face; but she uttered +no further appeal. She sat shivering, as if chilled to the very heart +by some sudden blast of freezing wind. + +“Ah, Clara, you are as beautiful as ever, but you have lost some of +your old haughty spirit,” said the banker. “The merchant captain’s +wife is not so proud as the baronet’s daughter.” + +“A hundred times more proud!” cried Clara, dropping her hands from +her face, and looking suddenly at Rupert Godwin. “A hundred times +more proud! For she has her husband’s honour to protect as well as +her own.” + +“Bravely spoken, Clara--nobly spoken! You are the same imperious +beauty still, I see, and the conquest will be a noble one. This time +I will not fail!” + +“Why are you here?” cried Mrs. Westford. “How did you discover this +place?” + +“From your husband. But you shall know more of that by-and-by.” + +“From my husband? Ah! he came to you, then?--you saw him before he +sailed?” + +“Yes; I saw him.” + +“He deposited money to a large amount in your hands?” + +The bunker looked at Clara Westford with an insolent smile. + +“My dear Clara, you must surely be dreaming!” he exclaimed. “Your +husband deposited no money in my hands, nor was he in a position to +do so.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Simply, that when Harley Westford came to me he was a beggar. +He came to borrow money to pay for some part of the cargo of his +ship, and he deposited with me the title-deeds of this estate, as a +security for the amount advanced to him.” + +“He borrowed money from you!” cried Clara, clasping her hands upon +her forehead with a convulsive gesture. “Why, he told me that he +meant to lodge twenty thousand pounds in your hands!” + +“He told you a falsehood, then; for the whole of his earnings were +lost in some foreign speculations in which he had involved himself, +and it was only with the help of borrowed money that he could start +upon this new venture. Do not look at me with that incredulous +stare, my dear Clara; I do not ask you to accept this fact on the +simple evidence of my word. I have documents bearing your husband’s +signature to prove the truth of what I state. When you hold those +papers in your hands you may be able to believe me.” + +“O, it’s too terrible!” exclaimed the wretched wife; “it is too +bitter. Harley, my husband, under an obligation to you--to you, of +all other men upon this earth!” + +“Yes,” answered the banker, with a smile. “It was strange that he +should come to me, was it not? Very strange! It was one of those +startling accidents which go to make the drama of social life.” + +There was a pause. Clara Westford was silent. She was thinking of her +last interview with her husband, and recalling the words he had then +spoken. + +Could it be that he had deceived her as to the state of his affairs? +Could it be, that, with the weakness and cowardice of intense +affection, he had sought to hide from her the approach of ruin? + +It might be so; such things had been. Love shrinks, with a cowardly +weakness, from inflicting pain upon the thing it loves. + +“He might have trusted me,” she thought sadly. “Did he think I should +fear poverty that was to be shared with him? After twenty years of +union can he know me so little as to think that?” + +Clara Westford hated and despised Rupert Godwin, and she would +have been inclined to disbelieve any assertion made by him to the +detriment of the man she loved; but she ceased to doubt him when he +boldly offered to produce her husband’s signature in confirmation of +his words. + +“Let me see Harley’s own handwriting in support of this statement,” +she said presently; “then, and not till then, can I believe you.” + +“All in good time, my dear Clara. You shall see your husband’s +signature, believe me; perhaps only too soon for your own comfort. +But we need not forestall that time. In the meanwhile, let us look +back upon the past. After twenty years of truce the war is to begin +again; and this time it shall be a duel to the death. Let us look +back upon the past, Clara Westford--let us recall that old story.” + +“What, Mr. Godwin!” cried the Captain’s wife indignantly. “Are you +not ashamed to recall the hateful part you played in that story?” + +“I only want to prove to you how well I have remembered. Let me +recall that story, Clara.” + +There was no answer. Mrs. Westford turned from him and covered her +face with her hands once more, as if she would fain have shut out +sight and sound; but, in a cold merciless voice, Rupert Godwin began +thus: + +“Twenty-two years ago, Clara Westford, I spent the autumn at a +fashionable watering-place on the south coast. The place was crowded +that season with all that was most elegant, most distinguished, +most aristocratic. But even amongst that highborn crowd I did not +find myself an intruder. The reputation of my father’s wealth went +with me, and there was a kind of golden glory about my untitled +name. I had been educated in the greatest cities of the world, and +was completely a man of the world, with no vulgar prejudices as to +religion or morals. My youth had been somewhat stormy, and those who +pretended to know most about me whispered dark histories in which my +name was mingled--not pleasantly. In a few words, Clara, I was not a +man to be trifled with, or fooled, by a girl of seventeen.” + +There was a brief pause, and then the banker continued: + +“There were many beautiful women at that pleasant seaside town; but +the loveliest of them all, the acknowledged belle, the observed of +all observers, was the only daughter of Sir John Ponsonby, a rich +Yorkshire baronet of very old family. Need I tell you how lovely she +was, Clara? She is lovely still; with a more subdued beauty, but +with as great a charm as she bore in her brilliant youth. She was a +dazzling creature. I met her at a charity-ball--on the sands--in the +reading-rooms--on horseback with her father, a thoroughgoing Tory +of the old school, and as proud as Lucifer or a Spanish hidalgo. I +met her constantly, for I haunted all the places where there was any +chance of seeing her. The very sight of that girl dazzled me like the +sudden glory of the sun. I loved her, with a mad, wild, unreasonable +passion; and I determined that she should be my wife.” + +For a moment Clara Westford uncovered her face, and looked at the +banker with a quiet scornful smile. + +“Ah, I understand the meaning of that smile, Clara,” said Rupert +Godwin. “I was presumptuous, was I not, when I determined to win this +woman for my wife? But remember, she had fooled me on; she had smiled +upon me, and encouraged me by her sweetest words, her brightest +glances. She was surrounded by a crowd of admirers; but I was one of +the most distinguished amongst them; and it seemed to me that she +singled me out from the rest, and took more pleasure in talking to +me than to the others. There were strangers who thought so too; and +the likelihood of our speedy marriage was soon the public talk of the +place.” + +“She was a weak, frivolous girl,” murmured Clara; “but she meant no +wrong.” + +“She meant no wrong!” echoed the banker. “There are men who commit +murder, and then declare they meant no wrong. This woman did me a +deep and bitter wrong. She fed my mad passion, she encouraged my wild +devotion; and then, when I went to her, confident, hopeful, blindly +believing that I was beloved again--when I went to her and told her +how dearly she was loved, she turned upon me, and slew me with a +look of cold surprise, telling me that she was the promised wife of +another man.” + +The banker paused for a few moments; then, in a suppressed voice, a +voice which was low and hoarse with stifled passion, he proceeded: + +“I was not the man to take this quietly, Clara Westford. I was not +one of those puling creatures who avow their power to forget and +forgive. In my heart there was no such thing as forgiveness; in +my nature there was no such thing as forgetfulness. I left Clara +Ponsonby with a tempest of passion raging in my breast. That night, +after roaming alone for hours on the broad open sands, far away +from the glimmering lights of the town, where no living creature +but myself heard the long roar of the ocean--that night, with my +clenched hand lifted to the stars of heaven, I swore a terrible oath. +I swore that, sooner or later, Clara Ponsonby should be mine--not +as my honoured wife, but mine by a less honourable tie. The cup of +degradation she had offered to me--to _me_, the proud descendant of a +proud race--_her_ lips should drain to the lowest dregs. I was not a +man to work in the dark. I saw my lovely Clara next day, and told her +of the oath that I had sworn. She too came of a proud race, and she +defied me.” + +“She did,” answered the Captain’s wife, “as she defies you now.” + +“For six months the contest lasted,” continued the banker. “For six +months that silent warfare was waged. Wherever Clara Ponsonby was +seen, I was seen near her. I followed her from place to place. Her +father liked and trusted me, so she could not banish me from her +presence without betraying her secret engagement to another--a man +who was her inferior in station, and whom her father would have +refused to admit as a claimant for his daughter’s hand. Clara was +dumb, therefore; and, however odious my presence might be, she was +compelled to submit to its infliction. I stood behind her chair in +her opera-box. I rode beside her carriage when she drove in the +Park. I did _not_ succeed in ousting the low-born rival for whose +sake I had been rejected; but I _did_ succeed in humiliating Miss +Ponsonby in the eyes of the world. Before that season was over the +fashionable circle in which Clara lived was busy with slanderous +rumours against her fair fame. I had managed very cleverly. I had +friends--sycophant followers--always ready to do my bidding. An idle +jest, a significant shrug of the shoulders, a little damaging gossip +at a club-dinner, and the business was accomplished. Before that +season came to its close Clara Ponsonby’s reputation was blighted. +The poisonous whispers reached her father’s ear--I took care they +should; and the proud old man, believing in his daughter’s disgrace, +cast her from his household, declaring that he would never look on +her face again.” + +A convulsive sobbing shook Clara Westford’s frame; but she uttered no +word--no cry. + +“In that hour I fancied myself triumphant,” continued Rupert Godwin. +“Abandoned, desolate, ruined in reputation, I thought that Clara +Ponsonby would have sought the luxurious home which she knew I had +prepared against this day. My letters had told her of my hopes, +my plans; the new home that awaited her; the passionate devotion +that might still be hers. My emissaries watched her as she left her +father’s house; but--O, bitter anguish and disappointment!--it was +not to me that she came. She went to Southampton, and embarked on +board a steamer bound for Malta; and a month afterwards I read in the +_Times_ an announcement of the marriage of Harley Westford, captain +of the merchant vessel _Adventurer_, to Clara Ponsonby. At Malta +she had joined the man to whom she was engaged. His life had been +spent far away from the circles in which she moved, and no breath of +scandal against her had ever reached his ear. That, Clara, is the +end of the first act of the drama. The second act began three months +ago, when Harley Westford, your husband, the man for whose sake you +insulted and scorned me, came into my office in Lombard-street.” + +Clara Westford suddenly rose from her seat and turned towards the +banker, proud and defiant of look and gesture. + +“Leave this house!” she exclaimed, pointing to the door. “It is +disgraced and degraded by your presence. Twenty years ago, when +you intruded yourself upon me, you found me in my father’s house, +from which I had no power to dismiss you. This house in my own, +Rupert Godwin. I command you to leave it, and never again darken its +threshold by your hated shadow!” + +“Those are strong words, Clara, and I cannot do otherwise than obey +them. I go; but only for a time. The time will come when I may have a +better right of entrance to this house. In the meanwhile, I depart; +but before I do so, let me show you a paragraph in this newspaper, +which may perhaps have some interest for you.” + +As he said this, Rupert Godwin handed Mrs. Westford a copy of the +_Times_, in which one paragraph was marked by a heavy black line +drawn against it with a pen. + +The paragraph ran as follows:-- + +“The underwriters of Lloyd’s are beginning to have serious fears +about the trading vessel _Lily Queen_, which sailed from London Docks +on the 27th of last June, bound for China, and has not since been +heard of.” + +The paper dropped from Clara Westford’s hands; she could read no +farther, but with a long shriek of agony fell senseless on the floor. + +“Ah, Clara!” exclaimed the banker, looking down at that prostrate +form with a cruel smile upon his face, “I said truly that the second +act of our life-drama has begun.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE STOLEN LETTER. + + +The banker took no measures for reviving Clara Westford from the +fainting-fit into which she had fallen after the perusal of that +paragraph in the _Times_. + +She had fallen backwards, and her pale still face was turned towards +the ceiling. + +Rupert Godwin knelt beside her, and examined that white statuesque +face with a long and earnest scrutiny. + +“Quite unconscious!” he exclaimed, as he lifted Mrs. Westford’s +unresisting hand, and watched it fall inert and lifeless. “Death +itself could scarcely be less conscious of surrounding events. +Nothing could be better.” + +The banker rose from his knees, and with a soft and cautious footstep +walked slowly round the room. + +It was charmingly furnished, and it bore the traces of constant +occupation. There was an open work-table, an open piano, a box of +water-colours, and upon a table by one of the windows there was +an elegant little walnut-wood easel. In a comfortable corner near +the fireplace stood a desk in different coloured woods, with an +easy-chair before it. The lid of the desk was closed, but a bunch of +keys hung from the lock. + +“It looks like her desk,” muttered the banker, “and if so I can +scarcely fail to find what I want.” + +He glanced once more at the figure lying on the sunlit floor. + +Clara Westford had not stirred. + +Then, with careful fingers, Rupert Godwin lifted the lid of the desk +and looked within. + +In a row of pigeon-holes before him he saw numerous packets of +letters, some tied with common red tape, others with blue ribbon. + +“Those are _his_ letters,” muttered the banker, with a sneer. “I +would wager a small fortune that those are _his_ letters which she +has tied with that dainty blue ribbon. Sir John Ponsonby’s haughty +daughter can be as sentimental as a school-girl, I daresay, where her +dashing Captain is concerned.” + +He took out one of the packets. + +Yes, upon the uppermost envelope was written--“From my husband.” + +“Let me see how the fellow signs his name,” said Rupert Godwin. +“Perhaps he uses only initials, and I shall be balked that way. I +must have his full signature.” + +The banker drew one of the letters from the packet, and took it from +its envelope. + +It was a very long letter, and it was signed in full--“Harley +Westford.” + +“Yes, the Fates favour my schemes,” muttered Rupert Godwin, as he put +the single letter in his waistcoat-pocket, and replaced the packet in +the pigeon-hole from which he had taken it. + +Then, after one last look at Clara Westford, he left the room. + +He went to the hall, where he rang a bell violently. A female servant +hurried to answer his summons, and started back in alarm at the sight +of a stranger. + +“I am an old friend of Mrs. Westford’s,” said Rupert Godwin; “but +unhappily I am the bearer of very ill news. Your mistress has +fainted; you had better run to her at once. Stay; what is the name of +your doctor?” + +“Doctor Sanderson, sir, in the village. He lives at the house with +the green blinds, please sir. The first on the left as you pass the +Seven Stars, please, sir.” + +“I’ll send him, then, immediately.” + +“Thank you, sir; thank you.” + +The girl ran away, eager to be with her mistress; and the banker +left the ill-fated house, whose peace had fled before his ill-omened +coming. + +He went to the village, and found the house where the surgeon lived. +He left a message for that gentleman, and then walked to a little inn +where he had left his dog-cart and groom. + +He stepped into the vehicle and drove towards Winchester, whence he +had come that day. On the road, a little pony-carriage passed him, +driven by a girl with bright golden hair, set off by a coquettish +little turban hat. A young man was lolling by her side. + +That bright happy-looking girl was Violet Westford. + +The banker started as if he had seen a ghost, and looked back after +the vehicle with an eager gaze. + +“Yes, that girl must be her daughter,” he thought. “How the sight of +her recalls the past!--the very day when I met Clara Ponsonby riding +by her father’s side--the day when sudden love sprang up in my heart, +an ‘Adam at his birth.’ And from that hour to this I have loved her. +Yes, I have loved her, though hatred and vengeful thoughts have +mingled strangely with my love. I love her; but I would bring her to +my feet. I worship her; and yet I would humiliate her to the very +dust.” + +With such thoughts as these in his mind, Rupert Godwin drove back to +Winchester, and alighted at the chief hotel in the old city. + +He had come to Winchester; but not alone. Crime has terrors and +penalties which even the cleverest criminal cannot escape. Rupert +Godwin knew that he was to some extent in the power of his old clerk +Jacob Danielson, and he determined to make that clerk his accomplice. + +“If the old man is with me in my schemes, and accepts a reward for +his service, he can never betray me,” he argued with himself. + +The banker knew that Jacob Danielson was the slave of two +passions--two fatal passions, which render a man the easy prey of any +tempter. + +These two passions were avarice and the love of strong drink. Jacob +Danielson was, in his pettifogging way, a miser; and he was an +habitual brandy-drinker. + +To get brandy, or to get money, he would have been tempted to sell +his soul to the legendary fiend of mediæval times, who seems to have +been always on the look-out for that kind of bargain. + +The banker had watched his clerk almost as closely as the clerk had +watched him, and he knew the weak points of Danielson’s character. + +“He would like to be my master,” thought Rupert Godwin, “and he +possesses knowledge that might give him a powerful hold over me; but, +in spite of that, I will make him my slave.” + +In the mean time the banker had determined upon conciliating his +clerk in every way. The hand of steel in the velvet glove was +exemplified by Mr. Godwin’s policy. He had brought Danielson to +Winchester with him; and that gentleman was enjoying free quarters at +the hotel, and drinking as much brandy as he pleased to call for. + +The banker’s policy was very simple. He wanted to destroy the only +creature he feared, and he thought that he should be able to effect +that work of destruction through the agency of Danielson’s own vices. + +He found the clerk sitting in a parlour at the hotel--a very pleasant +apartment, looking into a garden. A decanter half full of brandy +stood on the table; but the clerk was sitting in a moody attitude, +with his arms folded, and he was not drinking. + +The banker looked at his subordinate with a suspicious glance. Rupert +Godwin did not care to see his clerk thus deeply absorbed in thought. + +Sharp and rapid in all his habits and manners as Danielson ordinarily +was, he seemed this afternoon almost like a creature absorbed in a +dream. He turned his eyes slowly towards the banker, and looked at +him with a strange unseeing gaze, almost as a blind man might have +looked at the sun with his dull sightless orbs. + +“Why, Jacob,” cried Rupert Godwin, “what’s the matter with you? You +look like a man who has newly awakened from a trance.” + +“I have been in a trance,” answered the clerk in a dreamy tone. “I +was out in the street just now, and I saw a ghost pass by.” + +“A ghost?” + +“Yes; a ghost, such as men often see in the broad sunlight--the ghost +of my dead youth. I saw a woman--the living image of the only one +creature I ever loved; and she seemed to me like a phantom.” + +The clerk sighed as he stretched out his tremulous hand to the +decanter and refilled his glass. + +“But there’s comfort here,” he muttered; “there’s always comfort in +this. There’s not many sorrows that this won’t drown, if a man can +only get enough of it.” + +Never had the banker seen his clerk so deeply moved. “Why, Jacob,” he +exclaimed, “this does indeed surprise me! I thought you were a man of +iron--hard as iron, pitiless as iron, strong as iron; I never knew +you had a heart.” + +“No more I have,” answered the clerk; “not now--not now. I had a +heart once, and it was broken. I was a fool once, and I was made to +pay for my folly. But that’s long gone by. Come, Mr. Godwin, I’m +myself again. You don’t pay me to dream; you pay me to work, and I’m +ready for your work, whatever it is. You didn’t bring me down to +Winchester for my pleasure, or for yours. You brought me because you +had something for me to do. What is it? that’s the question.” + +“A question not to be answered just yet, Jacob,” replied the banker. +“We’ll dine first, and go to business afterwards. The evenings are +chilly, so I’ll order a fire.” + +The order was given, and the fire lighted; a well-chosen little +dinner was served presently, and the two men seated themselves at the +table, which glittered with cut glass and massive plate. + +“Strange,” thought Rupert Godwin, as he looked furtively at the wizen +face of the clerk, “this man talks of the ghost of his dead youth! +Have not I too, seen the phantom of the past--that girl with the +violet eyes and the golden hair? She seemed to me like the ghost of +the Clara Ponsonby I fell in love with two-and-twenty years ago.” + +The clerk was by this time quite himself again, and he had resumed +that half-servile, half-ironical manner which he generally had with +his master. + +“This is indeed luxury,” he said, rubbing his dry withered palms, +as he looked from the handsomely furnished room to the glittering +dinner-table. “It is not every day that I dine like this. You are a +good master, Mr. Godwin.” + +“I mean to be a liberal one,” answered the banker; “and I will +pay you well, if you serve me faithfully. I make no pretence of +generosity, but I will pay handsomely for handsome service.” + +“Good, Mr. Godwin; the wisest men are those who pretend the least.” + +The banker knew that it was useless to play the hypocrite with Jacob +Danielson. Clever as Rupert Godwin was, he always felt that the +clerk’s sharp rat-like eyes could fathom the remotest recesses of his +mind. + +There was only _one_ secret that he believed to be hidden from Jacob +Danielson. That was the secret of Harley Westford’s disappearance. + +Little more was said during dinner, for the waiters of the hotel were +in attendance throughout the repast. Mr. Godwin kept his clerk’s +glass filled with a succession of expensive wines; and the waiters +opened their eyes to their widest extent as they saw the little +wizened man pour the sparkling liquids down his throat as fast as +they could supply them. + +The banker himself did not drink; and this fact did not escape Jacob +Danielson, who smiled a cunning smile as he perceived his employer’s +abstinence. + +At last the cloth was removed, and dessert was placed upon the +table--the conventional dessert peculiar to provincial hotels, +flanked by a decanter of tawny port, and a jug of claret which the +head-waiter declared to be genuine Lafitte, and which figured in the +wine-carte at eighteen shillings a bottle. The head-waiter hovered +about the table for a few minutes after that noted claret had been +set before Mr. Godwin, poked the fire with a profoundly studious +air, as of a man who had given a lifetime of study to the science +of poking fires, looked meditatively at the two gentlemen as if +deliberating upon the possibility of their wanting something else, +and anon silently departed. + +Then, with the curtains closely drawn, and the waxen lights gleaming +from their tall silver branches, the two men drew their chairs closer +to the hearth, and settled themselves for the evening. + +“Now then for business,” exclaimed the clerk, as the sound of the +head-waiter’s boots died away in the distance. + +The banker was not quick to reply to this address. He was sitting +looking at the fire, brooding darkly. His task was not an easy one, +for he was about to ask Danielson to become his accomplice in a crime. + +At last he spoke. + +“Danielson,” he said, gravely, “you and I have been involved in many +transactions, some of which the world would scarcely call honest.” + +“Some of which the world would call decidedly dishonest,” answered +the clerk, with a sinister grin. + +“But, then, is it an honest world?” asked the banker. + +“O yes; a very honest world, until it is found out.” + +“Ay, there’s the difference. The detected villain is a scoundrel only +fit for the gallows; the undetected villain may pass for a saint.” + +There was a pause, and then the banker said, in a tone which he +endeavoured to render indifferent: + +“You remember that merchant captain--the man called Harley +Westford--who came to Wilmingdon Hall to demand the return of that +money which he had deposited with me?” + +“O yes; I remember him perfectly.” + +“I am sorry to tell you that the poor fellow is dead.” + +“Indeed!” + +Jacob Danielson looked very steadfastly at the face of his employer, +but there was no surprise in the tone in which he uttered that one +word “indeed.” + +“Yes; the _Lily Queen_ has been lost, and all hands with her.” + +“But how do you know that Harley Westford was on board the _Lily +Queen_?” + +“How do I know it? Why, because he was captain and owner of the +vessel, and because he declared his intention of sailing with her, +without fail. Why should he not sail in the _Lily Queen_?” + +“I can’t imagine any reason,” answered the clerk, with his steadfast +gaze still fixed on the banker’s face, which had grown suddenly +pallid. “I really can’t imagine any reason; but then, you know, +such singular things happen in this life. There may have been +something--some accident, to prevent Captain Westford’s departure.” + +“Pshaw!” exclaimed Rupert Godwin. “Utterly impossible! I tell you, +man, Harley Westford sailed in the _Lily Queen_, and has gone down to +the bottom of the sea with her and her cargo.” + +“And in that case Harley Westford’s heirs may come upon you at any +moment for the twenty thousand pounds deposited in your hands.” + +“They might come upon me for it, if they had any evidence that it was +ever placed in my hands,” replied the banker. “But what if they have +no such evidence?” + +“There is the receipt which you gave Harley Westford.” + +“Yes; and which has no doubt gone down with him to the depth of the +ocean.” + +“What if he lodged that receipt in other hands before sailing on his +Chinese expedition?” + +“_That_ is scarcely likely. No man ever foresees his own doom. At any +rate, I speculate upon the chance that Harley Westford carried the +receipt with him, and that it perished with its owner. In that case, +there is only one person who knows of the twenty thousand pounds--and +that person is yourself. Can I trust you?” + +“You have trusted me before.” + +“Yes; and with important secrets, but never with such a secret +as this. Will the gift of a thousand pounds, to be paid in ten +instalments at intervals of six months--will such a gift as that buy +your fidelity?” + +“It will,” answered Jacob Danielson. + +“Then I will execute any deed you choose to draw up, engaging myself +to pay you that money. And now, I want something more than your +silence. I want your service.” + +“You shall have both.” + +“Good!” replied the banker. “Now, then, listen to what I have to +say. When Harley Westford deposited his fortune in my hands, he also +deposited the title-deeds of a small estate in this county. Those +deeds and that estate must be mine.” + +“But how so?” + +“By virtue of a deed executed by Harley Westford before his +departure--a deed, giving me sole possession of the estate if a +certain sum, lent by me to him, was not repaid within six months of +the date of his signature.” + +“O, indeed! The estate will be yours by virtue of such a deed as +that!” + +“Yes; a document formally drawn up by a lawyer, and signed by you as +witness.” + +“But I never witnessed any such deed,” answered the clerk. + +“Your memory fails you to-night, my dear Danielson; you will have a +better memory to-morrow, especially if I give you fifty pounds on +account of our bargain.” + +The banker said this with a sinister smile. The clerk fully +understood him. + +“Make it a hundred,” he exclaimed, “and you will find that I have an +excellent memory.” + +“So be it. And now I want you to try and remember if you have any +friend--a lawyer’s clerk, we’ll say--who knows how to draw up a +legal document in which there shall be no flaw, and who is also +clever at imitating the handwriting of other people.” + +“Let me think a little before I answer that question,” replied +Danielson. + +He sat for some minutes thinking deeply, with his sharp eyes fixed +upon the fire. + +“Yes,” he said at last, “I do know such a man.” + +“And you will have the deed prepared and executed at once?” + +“I will. The man will want money for his work.” + +“He shall be paid handsomely,” answered the banker. + +“And how about the signature which he is to imitate?” + +Rupert Godwin took the stolen letter from his pocket, and tore off +the Captain’s autograph. This he handed to Jacob Danielson. + +“You understand what you have to do?” he asked. + +“Perfectly.” + +No more was said. The clerk’s brains seemed no more affected by the +wine that he had taken than if he had been drinking so much water. He +sat looking, sometimes at the fire, sometimes at the thoughtful face +of his employer; and every now and then he refilled his glass from +one of the decanters standing near him. + +But, drink as deeply as he might, his mind seemed entirely unaffected +by what he drank. Rupert Godwin, watching him furtively even in the +midst of his own reverie, perceived this. + +“The man is made of iron,” he thought, as he went to his own room, +after bidding Jacob Danielson good-night. “With many of my secrets in +the possession of such a man as this, how can I ever know rest?” + +And then, after a pause, he muttered: + +“Rest!--rest! When have I ever rested since--” + +Only a groan finished that broken sentence. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE DAY OF DESOLATION. + + +Bitter, most bitter, was the anguish which awaited Violet and Lionel +Westford when they returned from their pleasant little excursion to +Winchester. + +They had gone forth that morning in all the light-hearted +carelessness of youth, pleased with the beauty of the fair world in +which they lived, scarcely able to believe that sorrow, deep and +lasting sorrow, could exist in so lovely a universe. + +But now the blow, the first most cruel blow which crushes out the +warm life of youth, had fallen. + +Never again could these two bright young creatures feel as they had +felt; never again could they almost doubt the existence of sorrow. + +The cup of anguish was offered to their young lips--the bitter +draught was to be drained to its uttermost dregs. + +Violet found her mother lying once more on the bed to which she had +been so long a prisoner. The doctor had attended her; but he could +do nothing. The miserable woman lay in a stony stupor, with her face +turned towards the wall. No passionate sob relieved the anguish of +her aching heart. She suffered in silence. It seemed as if her heart +was changed to stone. + +The surgeon, who had known Violet and Lionel from their childhood, +was waiting in the drawing-room, and begged to see them before he +left the house. They went to him without delay, and found him seated +near a table, with a newspaper in his hand. + +“Mamma has had some bad news,” exclaimed Violet, whose face was wet +with the tears she had shed at the aspect of her mother’s grief. “O, +Mr. Sanderson, I am sure that it is so. This is no common illness. +Some one has brought news, bad news, of papa. For pity’s sake, do not +torture us by this agony of suspense; let us know the worst.” + +“Yes,” said Lionel, with forced calmness, “let us know the worst.” + +The surgeon looked at them with sad, compassionate eyes. + +“Perhaps it is better so,” he said thoughtfully. “The news that has +so affected your poor mother is not of a very certain nature,” he +continued, “and may not be so bad as it seems. We can still hope +for the best, Miss Westford. Providence is very merciful, and joy +sometimes is near at hand when we are in the depths of despair.” + +“Tell us the worst,” cried Lionel passionately; “you are trifling +with us, Mr. Sanderson.” + +The surgeon placed the newspaper in the young man’s hand. + +“Read that,” he said, pointing to the marked paragraph respecting the +_Lily Queen_; “and may God grant that it is only a false alarm!” + +Lionel read the paragraph--not once only, but three separate times; +and a deadly chill crept to his heart as he read. Presently he felt +a little hand trembling on his shoulder. He turned and saw Violet’s +white face staring blankly at the fatal newspaper. + +“O, no; no, no!” she cried piteously; “not lost--not lost! My +father--my dear, dear father!” + +“Let us hope not, dear Miss Westford,” answered the surgeon, in the +most cheering tones he could assume. “These business men are always +very quick to take alarm. Let us trust, my dear friends--let us trust +in Heaven that all may be well.” + +“No,” cried Lionel vehemently, “I will trust no longer. Something +tells me that my father is lost. Can I forget my mother’s illness? +That illness was caused solely by a presentiment that harm would +come to my father upon this voyage. For twenty years she had been a +sailor’s wife, yet never before had she felt such a presentiment of +evil. I was a presumptuous fool, and I laughed at my mother’s fears. +I know now that they were well founded. My father’s ship has been +wrecked; she and all her crew have perished.” + +The young man was interrupted by a hysterical shriek from Violet, who +fell sobbing into his arms. + +“You will kill your sister, if you talk like that, Mr. Lionel +Westford,” exclaimed the doctor angrily. + +Lionel was silent. He carried Violet to her own room; and that night +Mr. Sanderson had to attend two patients at the Grange. + +As for the young man himself, a terrible despair seemed to have +fallen upon him. All through that long miserable night he paced up +and down the empty rooms absorbed in melancholy thoughts. + +“Why was I not a sailor like him?” he thought. “Why was I not with +him in the hour of trial and danger? It might have been my fate to +save him, or at the worst to perish with him! I feel myself a base +coward when I think of my idle luxurious existence, and remember +how my father has hazarded his life to earn the money I have been +squandering at University wine-parties and boating excursions. And +now that noble life has been lost in the last effort to increase the +fortune of his children.” + +Miserable and dreary were the days and weeks that succeeded that +fatal visit of Rupert Godwin to the Grange. + +For a long time Clara Westford and her daughter lay in their darkened +rooms, victims to a kind of low fever. + +During this weary time Lionel was something more than an ordinary son +and brother to the mother and sister he adored. + +Night after night when the hired nurses had grown weary of their +task--when the servants of the household, sincerely as they were +attached to their mistress and her daughter, had from mere exhaustion +been compelled to abandon their watch, the devotion of the young man +still sustained him. There was something wonderful in this patient +self-abnegation in one who, until the day of calamity, had seemed so +light-hearted and frivolous. + +Lionel Westford’s task was not confined to watching in the sick-room. +He made many journeys to London during that weary time. Again and +again he visited every place where there was any hope of obtaining +tidings of the missing vessel; but no good news rewarded his +patience, and before the time of his mother’s recovery he had learned +the worst. + +A fragment of the lost vessel had been found floating near a rocky +coast--a fragment which bore the name of the _Lily Queen_. + +With a broken heart Lionel Westford returned to the Grange. Bitter as +this loss was to him, the thought of his mother’s anguish was almost +a deeper grief. + +He returned to her, and watched once more by her sick-bed. This time +he could watch and tend her day after day, night after night. He had +no longer need to leave her, for he knew the worst. + +At last, after the long intervals of stupor and delirium were past, +Clara Westford was pronounced well enough to be removed from her bed +to a chair near the fire. + +The windows were closed. Without all was dark and dreary. The trees +were leafless; and the December wind sighed mournfully amongst +the bare branches. The sky was of a dull iron grey--no glimmer of +sunshine relieved its coldness. + +But Clara Westford’s room was no comfortless apartment, even in the +depth of winter. Voluminous curtains half shrouded the windows, and +the invalid was propped up by pillows in a luxurious easy-chair, that +had been wheeled close to the low fireplace of polished steel, in +which the red flames were reflected with a cheerful dancing motion +that was very pleasant to see. The broad marble mantelpiece was +crowded with valuable Oriental china, rare old Japanese monsters, +and curious specimens of crackle, brought home by the Captain for +the gratification of the wife to please whom had been the chief +delight of his existence. A portrait of Harley Westford smiled with +the sailor’s own bright genial smile above the chimney-piece; and a +tapestry screen, of Violet’s workmanship, protected the invalid from +the heat of the fire. + +Clara had not been seated long in that comfortable chimney-corner +when the door was opened, and Lionel came into the apartment, +half-leading, half-carrying, his sister. Violet had also risen to-day +from her sick-bed, but not for the first time. Her illness had not +been quite so long nor so severe as that of her mother, and she had +been the first to rise. + +But she was still very feeble, and in her loose white robes she +looked wan and phantom-like. She was no longer the brilliant +sunny-haired girl who had fascinated the young painter at the +Winchester ball. + +“Violet,” exclaimed Mrs. Westford, “how pale and changed you are! O, +my darling girl, you too have been ill?” + +“Yes, dear mother.” + +“And I was never told of your illness!” murmured Clara, reproachfully. + +“Why should you have been made more wretched by any such knowledge, +dear mother?” said Lionel. “Violet has been taken care of.” + +“Yes, indeed, dear Lionel,” exclaimed the girl, lifting her eyes +with a grateful glance to her brother’s face; for she knew that +during that bitter time Lionel had been the good genius of the +household. + +“My poor Violet,” murmured the mother, clasping her daughter’s hand +with quiet tenderness,--“my poor Violet, the sunshine of life has +been clouded very early for you. I have had twenty years of unsullied +brightness, but for you the storm-cloud has come very soon. My poor +children--my beloved children!” + +The mother laid her weary head on her son’s shoulder. Lionel drew +his arm round her with a caressing gesture. Violet had sunk upon a +low ottoman at her mother’s feet; and, grouped thus, the three were +silent for some moments. + +Lionel was pale as death. The dreaded question would be asked +presently, and the answer must be given. + +He wondered that his mother had not questioned him long before this. + +Alas for her broken heart, the reason of her silence was her +instinctive consciousness that all hope was past. If there had been +joyful tidings, her son would have only too gladly imparted them. +And then Clara Westford had watched the young man’s face, and she +had seen the traces of despair imprinted there only too plainly. She +clasped the strong hand that was supporting her feeble frame. + +“Lionel,” she murmured, “why do you try to hide the truth from me? +Do you think I cannot understand my children’s looks, and read my +sorrows in their sad faces? There is no news of your father!” + +“No, mother; there is no news of--my father.” + +“But there is news,” gasped Clara, “of his ship!” + +“Only the saddest tidings,” exclaimed the young man, sinking on his +knees beside his mother’s chair. “O, mother--mother! for our sakes +try to endure this calamity. Look up, dear mother, and be comforted. +Remember, _we have only you_.” + +Those last words told all. Clara Westford knew that she was a widow. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +A PITILESS CLAIMANT. + + +After that sad scene in Mrs. Westford’s bedchamber, peace seemed to +reign in the household of the Grange. + +Bitter and profound was the grief felt by each member of that little +household; but the heroic hearts battled bravely with their sorrow. +Very little was said of the lost husband and father. Those who had so +dearly loved him, who now so deeply lamented him, dared not speak +that familiar name; but he reigned supreme in the thoughts of all. + +In Clara Westford’s bedchamber a black curtain hung before the +sailor’s portrait. Another portrait in the drawing-room was also +shrouded in the same manner. + +Violet looked very pale and fragile in her deep mourning robes. Her +golden hair gleamed with all its old brightness under the black crape +bonnet; but there was a settled sadness in the dark blue eyes which +had once beamed with such bewitching smiles. + +Everyone in the neighbourhood of the Grange now knew that Harley +Westford’s ship had been lost, and many friends gathered round the +widow to condole with her in the hour of her affliction. + +But, alas, their presence only tortured her. She wanted to be +alone--alone with her despair, alone with the image of her lost +husband. If she had been of the old Catholic faith, she would have +gladly fled to the quiet shelter of some convent; where the remainder +of her joyless days might have been devoted to charitable works and +pious meditations, and where no sound of the clamorous outer world +might have reached her weary ears. + +She endured her grief in silence, but the anguish was not the less +keen. The thought of her loss was ever present to her--not to be put +aside even for a moment. She spent days in wandering listlessly from +room to room, recalling the happy hours which had been spent with +_him_ in each familiar chamber. Everything reminded her of him, every +association was torture. Even the society of her children afforded +no consolation to her. Their burden was not like hers, she said to +herself. The future might bring them new hope; for her all hope, all +joy, was buried with the past. + +Amongst the friends who came to the Grange was a Mr. Maldon, a +retired attorney, who had made a large fortune in Chancery practice, +and who was a person of some importance in the neighbourhood. + +This gentleman questioned Clara about her husband’s property. What +proceedings was she about to take? What was the extent of her +children’s fortune? + +Then Clara related to him Rupert Godwin’s extraordinary statement +about the money advanced by him to Harley Westford, and the +title-deeds lodged in his hands as a security for that loan. + +“Strange!” exclaimed Mr. Maldon. “I always thought your husband had +saved a comfortable little fortune.” + +“I thought the same,” answered Clara, “and I think so still. Upon the +day of his departure my dear husband told me he was about to deposit +a sum of twenty thousand pounds in the hands of Rupert Godwin.” + +“And Mr. Godwin denies having received that money?” + +“He does; and he further declares my husband to be his debtor. But +I will never believe it, unless I see the proof in Harley’s own +handwriting.” + +“My dear Mrs. Westford, this is all very mysterious,” exclaimed the +lawyer. “I don’t see how we can possibly doubt such a man as Mr. +Godwin. His position is that of one of the commercial princes of this +country. He would not be likely to advance any false assertion with +regard to his claims upon your husband.” + +“I do not know that. I have a very bad opinion of Rupert Godwin,” +Mrs. Westford answered coldly. + +“You know him, then?” + +“I knew him once, very long ago; and I knew him then to be one of the +meanest and worst of men.” + +The lawyer looked at Clara with a bewildered stare. “That is very +strong language, my dear Mrs. Westford.” + +“This matter is one upon which I feel very strongly. I believe that +my husband lodged twenty thousand pounds in Rupert Godwin’s hands; +and I believe also that Rupert Godwin is quite capable of cheating +myself and my children out of that money.” + +“Well, well, my dear Mrs. Westford,” exclaimed the bewildered +attorney, “I think you allow your prejudices to mislead you in this +matter. But in any case, I will make it my business to go up to +town and see Mr. Godwin immediately. You shall be protected from +any attempted wrong. I liked and respected your husband. I love and +admire yourself and your children. And you shall not be cheated. +No, no, you shall not be cheated; old Stephen Maldon must indeed be +changed, if he can be done by the sharpest banker in London.” + +The lawyer lost no time in paying a visit to the City, where he had +a long interview with Rupert Godwin. The result of that interview +was that the banker showed Stephen Maldon a deed signed by Harley +Westford, and duly witnessed by Jacob Danielson, and by John Spence, +a lawyer’s clerk. The document bore the date of June 26th, in the +previous year. + +This deed gave Rupert Godwin full power to take possession of the +Grange estate, pictures, plate, furniture, and all appertaining to +house and homestead, on or after the 25th March in the present year, +unless the sum of six thousand five hundred pounds was paid to him in +the interim. + +It was now late in January. For only two months more would the widow +and orphans be secure in their once happy home. + +Mr. Maldon was a very clever lawyer; but he could see nothing in the +deed shown him by Rupert Godwin that would justify any dispute of the +banker’s claim. + +The catastrophe seemed very terrible, but none the less inevitable +because it was a hard thing for the widow and orphans. The law does +not take widows and orphans into any special consideration. The +estate must be abandoned to Mr. Godwin, unless the six thousand five +hundred pounds could be paid on or before the ensuing quarter-day. + +Mr. Maldon searched amongst the Captain’s papers at the Grange, but +he could not find any document calculated to throw the smallest light +on the sailor’s affairs. He called upon the Winchester attorney who +had made Captain Westford’s will, and carefully studied the wording +of that document. + +The will left all property, real and personal, to Clara, who was +appointed sole executrix. But the will was dated a year earlier than +the deed in the possession of Mr. Godwin, and there was no evidence +that the sailor was possessed of any property except his Hampshire +estate, when he sailed on his fatal voyage. + +The lawyer knew that men have often deceived their wives as to their +pecuniary position. Might not Harley Westford have invented that +story of the twenty thousand pounds, in order to lull those he loved +with a false sense of peace and security? + +“A generous, impulsive sailor would be the worst possible man of +business,” thought Stephen Maldon. “What more likely than that Harley +Westford was a ruined man, while all the world fancied him a rich +one?” + +Meanwhile, the weeks sped by. Soon, very soon, the 25th of March +would be at hand. + +Clara Westford knew full well that she must expect no mercy from +Rupert Godwin. + +The heroism of her nature asserted itself, and she prepared herself +with calm resignation to leave the home where she had been so +unspeakably happy. + +She had no money of her own--positively none; for she had fled from +her father’s roof to become the wife of Harley Westford, and had +been disinherited by him in favour of a grandchild, the daughter of +an only son, who died at two-and-twenty years of age, leaving a baby +girl, on whom stern Sir John Ponsonby doted with senile fondness. + +Never had the sailor heard a hint or a whisper of that cruel slander +which had blighted Clara Ponsonby’s youth--never had he heard the +association of her name with that of the notorious young _roué_, +Rupert Godwin. + +From the moment of her marriage, Sir John Ponsonby’s daughter +disappeared entirely from the circles in which she had been once a +star of some magnitude. + +She had gone to her husband quite penniless, and he had loved her +more fondly than if she had been dowered with a million. + +Now, when she examined into the state of her affairs, now that she +was widowed and alone, and had no longer Harley’s strong arm to lean +upon, she found that her circumstances were indeed desperate. + +The yearly bills of the tradespeople who supplied the Grange were +all unpaid, and amounted to some hundreds. The servants’ wages must +also be paid; and to meet these claims Clara Westford had no money +whatever. + +The little stock of ready-money which her husband had left with her +was entirely spent. He had promised to send his wife remittances from +time to time, as it had been his habit to do; but he, and any money +he possessed, had gone down to the fathomless depths of the ocean +with the good ship _Lily Queen_ and all on board her. + +Only one resource remained to the widow. Her jewels, the costly gifts +of a generous husband, these alone remained, and these must be sold +in order that the tradespeople and servants might be paid. + +There was a bitter pain in parting with these trinkets, every one of +which had a tender association of its own. + +But Clara Westford bore this sharp pain with quiet resignation. +She arranged her jewel-box, and delivered it to her old friend +Mr. Maldon, with instructions for the sale of the jewels at some +London auction-room. They were sold, amongst others, at Debenham and +Storr’s, as the property of “a lady going abroad.” + +She was, indeed, going abroad--abroad into a world that to her +inexperienced steps must needs be a trackless wilderness, full of +pitiless thorns and brambles. + +The valuables thus disposed of realized about four hundred pounds. +With this sum Mrs. Westford discharged every claim upon her; leaving +a balance of some thirty pounds. + +Thirty pounds! And with this pitiful sum the widow and orphans, who +had never known what it was to have a wish unfulfilled that money +could gratify, were to begin the battle of life! + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +HIDDEN IN THE YEW-TREE. + + +It was the eve of the 25th of March--that day whose approach had been +so dreaded by Clara Westford and her children,--the day on which they +were to be banished for ever from their happy home. + +As yet the banker had given no notice of his intentions with regard +to his victims. But Clara knew how little mercy she had to expect +from him, and she had determined on saving herself and her children +the agony of humiliation. + +She would not wait for Rupert Godwin to act. She would not be turned +out of her happy home by the man whose blighting influence had +darkened her youth. She determined therefore, to leave the Grange +early on the morning of the 25th. + +But when she announced this determination to Violet, the girl +expressed considerable surprise. + +“Why should we be in such a hurry to leave the dear old place?” +Violet exclaimed. “This Mr. Godwin may not press his claim upon the +Grange. They say he is enormously rich, and surely he would be happy +to let us stay here till he has a tenant for the place. We may be +allowed to live here for some time to come, dear mother, till you are +better and stronger, and more fit to face the world.” + +Mrs. Westford shook her head. + +“No, Violet,” she answered firmly; “I will not remain one hour under +this roof when it becomes the property of Rupert Godwin.” + +“Mamma, you speak as if you knew this Mr. Godwin?” + +“I know that he is one of the vilest of men,” answered Mrs. Westford. +“Do not question me further, Violet; my resolution is not to be +shaken upon this point. Believe me when I assure you that I am acting +for the best. And now, write to your brother, dear, and ask him to +meet us at the Waterloo Terminus to-morrow at one o’clock.” + +Lionel had been in London for the last few weeks, endeavouring to +obtain a situation in some office. + +But the young man, highly educated though he was, found it extremely +difficult to procure any kind of employment, however humble. + +His University education availed him little. London seemed to swarm +with clever young men, all engaged in the struggle for daily bread. +Lionel Westford’s heart sank within him as he made application after +application, only to fail alike in all. + +For every situation that offered there seemed a hundred competitors. +And ninety-nine out of this hundred must endure the misery of failure. + +Lionel had secured a very cheap and humble lodging on the Surrey side +of the Thames, and had made arrangements for the reception of his +mother and sister as soon as they left the Grange. + +O, what a dreary change was that darksome London lodging, after the +luxurious country-house, the lovely gardens, the horses and grooms, +the dogs and guns, and all those things which are so especially dear +to a young man! + +On his own account, however, Lionel Westford never once complained. +His only thought was of his mother and sister; his most earnest +desire that he might be enabled to shield _them_ from all the +bitterest ills of poverty. + +He thought very seriously of his future career. His classical +learning seemed unlikely to be of the smallest use to him; +unless, like Goldsmith and Johnson, he accepted the slavery of a +schoolmaster’s drudge. How bitterly he regretted his careless youth, +his want of a profession, which would give him at least something! +He asked himself whether there was yet time for him to adopt a +profession. There was the Church. Yes; but he must waste two or three +years before he could hope for a curacy worth from fifty to a hundred +per annum. There was the law; but, alas, he was too familiar with the +proverbial miseries of briefless youth idling in the garrets of the +Temple. + +It was a living he wanted, an immediate living, and in search of this +he tramped the streets of London with untiring feet; but day by day +went by, and he seemed no nearer to the object of his desire. + +The afternoon of the 24th of March was dull and cheerless. The wind +howled among the branches of the old trees about the Grange; the grey +sky was cold and sunless. + +Yet upon this afternoon, cheerless and cold though it was, Violet +Westford opened the little garden-gate leading out into the forest, +for the first time for many months. + +Never since her illness had she seen or heard of the artist, George +Stanmore. + +She had fully expected that he would have come to the Grange to +inquire about her during that long illness; and she had contrived +to ask Lionel, in an apparently careless manner, if he had heard +anything of his friend Mr. Stanmore. + +But the answer had been in the negative. George had therefore taken +no steps to discover the cause of Violet’s absence from her favourite +forest haunts. This seeming neglect and indifference had cruelly +stung the girl’s heart. + +“His pretended attachment to me was only a passing fancy, perhaps,” +she thought; “and I daresay he was amused by my sentimental folly in +believing all his protestations of regard. I can understand now why +he shrank from seeing my mother, and making an open avowal of his +love.” + +The idea that she had been the dupe of a sentimental delusion was +very bitter to the girl’s sensitive mind. Her pride was outraged, and +from the time of her recovery she had shunned the forest pathways, +with an obstinate determination to avoid all meetings with her false +lover. + +But now that she was going to leave the Grange for ever, an +irresistible impulse took possession of her, and she felt that she +could not quit the neighbourhood of the forest without making some +endeavour to ascertain the cause of George Stanmore’s neglect. + +Might not he, too, have been ill? Or might he not have been +compelled to leave the forest? It was almost easier to believe +anything than that he could be false. + +Thus it was that Miss Westford’s love overcame her pride; and once +more she opened the little gate leading to her beloved woodland--the +sweet scene which had been familiar and dear to her from infancy. + +The forest pathways looked dreary this cold March afternoon, but +the change in the aspect of the woodland was not so striking as the +change in her who now passed through that rustic gateway. + +The brilliant girl, whose smiling face was once like the sunlight, +looked now wan and pale as some misty shape that glides about the +mountain-tops in the evening dimness. + +She walked with feeble steps along the grassy path, for the beating +of her heart seemed to paralyze her strength. She went straight to +the cottage where the landscape-painter had lodged; but the walk was +a long one, and the twilight was gathering fast when she reached the +modest little habitation, nestling amongst grand old trees. + +The firelight from the cottage window streamed out upon the chill +gray twilight, and there was a look of homeliness and comfort in the +aspect of the simple place. + +A sudden pang pierced through Violet’s heart as she looked at that +cosy little cottage, with the neat, well stocked garden, and the red +firelight in the window. + +“If my mother and I had such a home as that, we might think ourselves +very happy,” she thought; “and yet I daresay the people who live here +have often envied our wealth and luxury.” + +A woman was standing at the open door of the cottage as Violet +approached the gate, and she came out into the pathway to welcome her +visitor. + +“Lor, Miss Westford!” she exclaimed, “you a’most frightened me, +standing there so dark and ghostly like. Do step in, miss, and rest +yourself a bit by the fire. It’s quite chilly these March afternoons. +How sad it do seem to see your black dress, and to think of the poor +dear kind free-spoken gentleman that’s gone! Ah, deary me, deary me, +he were a good friend to all us poor folks, and there’s many will +miss him in these parts. Take a chair close to the fire, miss. I am +so glad to see you getting about once more, though you’re looking but +sadly yet. I was at the Grange many times to ask after you during +your illness.” + +Violet’s heart beat convulsively. She began to think that George +Stanmore had employed this woman as his messenger. + +“It was very good of you to inquire after me,” she faltered. + +“Lor, miss! wasn’t it likely I should be wishful to know how you was? +Haven’t I known you ever since you was a little bit of a child? and +hasn’t your dear ma been a good friend to me times and often? and +didn’t your pa send me a bottle of his own old East-Indy Madeery, +last Christmas was a twelvemonth, when he heard I was ailing?” + +In all this there was no mention of Mr. Stanmore. Violet’s heart +sank. She could not bring herself to question the simple dame, +and she was not sufficiently skilled in diplomacy to extort the +information she was so eager to obtain without direct questioning. +She looked hopelessly round the comfortable little cottage chamber, +wondering what she could say next. She was very pale; but the red +light of the fire gave a false glow to her face, and the good-natured +cottager did not perceive her visitor’s agitation. + +“How neatly you keep your cottage, Mrs. Morris!” Violet said at last, +feeling that she must say something. “It’s quite pleasant to see your +place, it looks such a picture of comfort.” + +“You’re very good to say so, miss, I’m sure,” answered Mrs. Morris. +“But talking of pictures, and talking of comfort, we ain’t half as +comfortable now, since we’ve lost our lodger.” + +Violet’s heart gave a great bound. He was gone, then! But how--and +where? + +“You’ve lost your lodger?” she said. “You mean Mr. Stanmore?” + +“Yes, miss. Mr. Stanmore, that painter gentleman. He left us all of a +sudden, the very first week as you was taken ill; and, what’s more, +it was against his own wishes as he went.” + +“Against his own wishes! How so?” + +“Why, you see, miss, this is how it was. I was ironing in that window +one afternoon, when I saw a dark, foreign-looking gentleman standing +at our gate, and with such a frown upon his face that he set me all +of a tremble like, which I scorched one of my good man’s shirt-fronts +as brown as a coffee-berry for the first time this ten years, having +had an aunt, Rebecca Javes by name, which was brought up to the +clear-starching and laundry-maid at Sir Robert Flinder’s, three miles +on this side of Netley Abbey, and has shown me to iron a shirt-front +with her own hands more times than I could count----” + +“But the foreign-looking gentleman----” + +“Yes, miss. That’s just what I was a-saying. There he stands as large +as life. In he walks, right into our place, as cool as you please. +‘Is my son at home?’ he asks. ‘Your son, sir!’ I answered. ‘Lor, +bless me, no; I don’t know any such person.’ ‘O yes you do,’ he +says. ‘The person who painted that picture yonder is my son, and he +lodges in your house.’ With that he points to one of Mr. Stanmore’s +landscapes, that’s been set to dry on my little table yonder. ‘Mr. +Stanmore your son!’ I cried out. And I assure you, miss, you might +have knocked me down with a feather. ‘He is capable of calling +himself Stanmore, or any other false name,’ answered the dark +gentleman; ‘but whatever he calls himself, the man who painted that +picture is my wicked and undutiful son.’ + +“Before he could get out another word, Mr. Stanmore walked in, with +his hat on, and his drawings and things under his arm. He’d just come +in from the forest. + +“‘I am here, father,’ he said, ‘to answer for my sins, whatever they +may be;’ and he said it as proud-like as if he’d been a prince of the +royal family. + +“So then the two gentlemen walked upstairs to Mr. Stanmore’s +sitting-room, and our walls being thin, you know, miss, I could hear +a good deal of what was said; not the words exactly, but the tones +of voice like, though I’m sure as to bemean myself by listening, I +wouldn’t do it, there, not if you was to lay me down twenty pound; +and I could hear as the two gentlemen seemed at variance, as you +may say; and at last down comes Mr. Stanmore’s father, as stiff as +a poker, and as black as any thunderstorm as I ever see, and walks +out of the house without so much as a word to me; but I could see +by his face that he was regularly upset. And then, about an hour or +so afterwards, down came Mr. Stanmore, looking very pale, but very +quiet-like. He’d packed all his things, he said, and he wanted my +husband to carry them over to Winchester Station in his cart, in +time for the mail-train, which he did. I was regular cut up at the +young gentleman leaving me so sudden like, for never was there a +better lodger, and he paid me very handsome, and was altogether the +gentleman. He seemed quite broken-hearted like at going away, miss; +and, lor bless me, if that don’t remind me of something!” + +The dame stopped suddenly, looking at Violet. + +“Something about you, too, miss!” + +The blood rushed into Violet’s pale face. + +“Did Mr. Stanmore mention me?” she asked. + +“Yes, miss; indeed he did. Just as he was going out of the house he +stopped all of a sudden, and said, ‘If you should see Miss Westford, +tell her that I have painted the old yew-tree she was so fond of; +and I want her to look once more at the tree, in order that she may +remember it when she sees my picture.’ Wasn’t that a funny message, +miss?” + +“Yes,” Violet answered, with pretended carelessness. “I suppose Mr. +Stanmore means an old yew near the lake, which my brother and I +very much admired. I sha’n’t have many opportunities of looking at +the tree, Mrs. Morris, for we are going to leave this neighbourhood +to-morrow.” + +The woman expressed her regret at the departure of Violet and her +mother; but, in the country, news travels fast, and she had heard +some days before that the Grange was to be deserted. The change +of fortune that had befallen the Westfords had been talked of and +lamented by rich and poor. + +Violet left the cottage with a heavy heart. George Stanmore had gone, +leaving no trace behind him--not even a letter for the woman he had +sworn to love and cherish for ever. + +It was all a mystery, which Violet strove in vain to understand. + +The moon had risen when she left the cottage, and every branch and +leaf stood sharply out against the silvery light. Violet looked at +the peaceful scene with inexpressible sadness. + +“It may be the last time that I shall ever see it,” she thought; “the +last time! And I have been so happy here!” + +Then she thought of George Stanmore’s message about the old yew-tree. + +It seemed a very absurd and meaningless message--a message which to +any one not in love would have appeared the very extreme of maudlin +sentimentality. But Violet was by no means inclined to regard it in +that light. She looked upon it rather as a solemn and mysterious +mandate which it was her duty to obey to the very letter. + +Madame Laffarge, of unpleasant notoriety, wrote to her husband +entreating him to eat certain cakes made by her own fair hand, and +to contemplate the moon at a certain hour, when she too would be +absorbed in sentimental meditation upon that luminary. The idea +was poetical, but, unfortunately for M. Laffarge, the cakes were +poisoned, and he died, the victim of obedience. + +Violet was in that state of mind in which she found it pleasanter +to loiter in the forest than to go home, and there was a kind of +consolation in the idea of doing anything that her lover had asked +her to do. It seemed to bring him nearer to her for the moment. He +might be thinking of that favourite spot at the very moment she +stood there thinking so sadly of him. He might even see her in her +loneliness and despondency by some subtle power of second-sight given +to lovers. Was anything impossible to true love? + +So Miss Westford turned aside from her homeward path, and vent +fearlessly through the solitary avenue that led towards the lake. + +That forest lake looked very lovely under the still evening sky. The +broad branches of the yew made patches of black shadow on the grass; +the fallen leaves made a faint rustling noise as the wind stirred +them--a kind of ghostly murmur. + +Around the trunk of the tree there was a rustic bench of roughly-hewn +wood; and on this Violet seated herself, exhausted by her long walk, +and glad to linger on a spot so associated with her lost happiness. + +As she sat there, the beauty of the scene impressed her with an +almost painful sense of its splendour. For the first time throughout +that sorrowful day the tears, passionate tears of regret, rushed +down her pale cheeks. + +She turned her head aside, and rested her forehead against the rugged +bark of the yew. + +As she did so, she perceived a hollow in the tree--a great hollow, in +which George Stanmore had often hidden his colour-box and brushes. +The remembrance of this suddenly flashed upon her. It had been her +lover’s habit to hide things in that old tree. What if he had hidden +a letter there, and had directed her attention to the fact by means +of that message left with Mrs. Morris! In the next moment Violet +Westford was on her knees before the hollow, groping in it with her +hands. + +She found it half-filled with moss and withered leaves; but, after +dragging these out, she saw something white gleaming in the moonlight. + +Ah, how eagerly she picked up that scrap of white from among the +scattered leaves and moss! + +It was a letter. Miss Westford could just make out the words “For +Violet,” written on the envelope. Impatient as she was to see the +contents of that precious envelope, she was fain to wait until she +reached home; for brightly as the moon shone above forest and lake, +that poetic radiance was not sufficient to throw light upon the +mysteries of a modern gentleman’s penmanship. + +Never in her happiest day had Violet Westford’s feet tripped more +lightly along those forest pathways. She reached the Grange panting +and exhausted, took a candle from the hall, and hurried to her own +apartment--the bright airy room, so prettily decked to suit her +girlish tastes, so soon to pass into the hands of strangers. + +She seated herself close to the light, and tore open George +Stanmore’s envelope. The letter it contained was brief, and had +evidently been written in extreme haste. + +It consisted of only these words: + +“MY DEAREST GIRL,--Circumstances which I cannot explain in this +letter compel me to leave England immediately. I do not know when I +may be able to return; but when I do return, it will be to claim you +as my wife. In the mean time, I implore you to write to me at the +Post-office, Bruges, Belgium. Write to me, dearest, and tell me that +you do not doubt my fidelity: tell me also that your faith will be as +constant and unshaken as that of your devoted + + “GEORGE.” + +No words can express the comfort which Violet Westford derived +from this brief letter. To a woman of the world, George Stanmore’s +assurance of unalterable affection might have seemed of very little +value; but to this girl, who did not know what it was to deceive, +that assurance was all in all. + +“He loves me! He is true to me!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands in +a rapture of delight. “And when he comes back, it will be to seek me +as his wife. But what will he do when he finds the Grange deserted, +and our circumstances so cruelly changed? Will he change too?” This +was the question which Violet asked herself very sadly, as she sat in +the familiar room that was so soon to be hers no longer. + +There was little sleep or rest for the dwellers in that pleasant +country-house during the last sad night. The servants sat late in the +cosy housekeeper’s-room, bewailing the misfortunes of their mistress +over a very comfortably-furnished supper-table--for even a funeral +table must be provided with “baked meats;” and faithful retainers, +weighed down by the sadness of approaching farewell, require to be +sustained by extra beer. They were unanimous in their praises of the +family they had served so long, and in their dread of the unknown +ills to be encountered in strange households, and from masters and +mistresses whose “ways” would be new to them. But the old-fashioned +type of servant, who appears so frequently in Morton’s comedies and +in old novels, seems to be almost as extinct as the dodo. The Grange +retainers were honestly sorry for Mrs. Westford’s misfortunes, but +they had no idea of volunteering to follow the family in exile and +poverty without wages, and, if need were, without food. Nor did cook +or housemaid rush into the parlour to lay her savings at the feet of +mistress, in the pathetic manner so familiar in the fairy world of +romance. They sighed over the sorrows of the house as they ate their +cold meat, and shook their heads dolefully over the old housekeeper’s +famous pickles; but their boxes were all packed, and their plans all +made for an early departure from the ruined house. + +All through that long dreary night Mrs. Westford sat at her desk, +sorting and destroying old letters and documents, the records of her +happy womanhood. Of all the friendly notes, the pleasant gossiping +letters, she kept none, except those written by her husband and her +children. + +Ah, how happy she had been in that simple country-house! What a calm +life it had been!--and how brief the years seemed as she looked back +to the early days in which her husband had brought her into Hampshire +house-hunting, in a happy summer holiday, when their honeymoon was +scarcely waned, and there was still in the minds of both the sweet +strange sense that it was a new thing to be thus together! + +She remembered her first year in that quiet haven. The glorious +summer time, in which every sunny day had brought the discovery +of some new treasure in shrubbery or garden. She remembered the +warm midsummer night, in which she had lain, faint and weak, but +unspeakably happy, looking up at the stars, with the perfumed air of +the June night blowing in upon her from the wide window, and her baby +Lionel on her breast. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +HOMELESS AND FRIENDLESS. + + +Very early in the chill spring morning Violet and her mother drove +away from the Grange in a hired fly that was to convey them to +Winchester. + +They took nothing with them but their own personal property and the +two portraits of Harley Westford. These Mrs. Westford knew she had no +legal right to possess, but she stooped to infringe the letter of the +law rather than leave her dead husband’s likeness in the hands of his +hateful rival. + +Thus it was that the widow and her daughter left their happy home, +with all its luxurious belongings undisturbed, to fall into the hands +of strangers. + +It was still early when they reached Winchester; and it was just one +o’clock when the train entered the Waterloo terminus, where Lionel +Westford was waiting on the platform, very pale and very grave, and +altogether different from the light-hearted, careless young Oxonian +who had brought life and gaiety to his home whenever he had come to +it, and whose greatest trouble was the fear of being disappointed in +his hope of University honours. + +The young man bore his reverses nobly. He greeted his mother and +sister with one of his old smiles, and then ran off to attend to +their luggage, which he saw conveyed to a cab. + +In this cab they speedily drove away from the station, and went +through two or three small streets in the neighbourhood of the +Waterloo-road. + +The cab stopped at a shabby but clean-looking house in one of the +smallest of these streets. + +Lionel Westford watched his mother’s face with an anxious expression. +He was thinking how horrible this dingy street, that shabby, +poverty-stricken house must appear, when contrasted with the dear old +Grange, and its lovely lawns and flower-beds, its avenue of stately +elms, and spreading meadows sheltered with old oaks and beeches. + +“It is very poor, very common, dear mother,” said the young man; “but +the landlady seems a decent sort of person, and this place was the +best I could get at present. However, this time of poverty and trial +shall not last long, if any effort of mine can shorten it.” + +He pressed his mother’s hand as he spoke, and she answered him by a +look of the deepest gratitude and affection. + +“My treasures!” she exclaimed, looking fondly at her two children, +“should I not be a wretch to repine while you are still left to me?” + +Lionel had done all in his power to impart an appearance of +cheerfulness to the shabby sitting-room which had been prepared for +the new-comers. A fire burned in the little grate; a bunch of early +spring-flowers adorned the table. + +Only true and pure affection supported the banker’s victims during +these first days of poverty and trial. + +The trial was very bitter; for poverty was new to them, and +everything around seemed to send a fresh chill to their hearts. + +But they were none of them people to waste time in idle complaints. +Every morning, as soon as he had eaten his frugal breakfast, Lionel +Westford set out upon his weary travels in the great desert of London. + +What desert can be more lonely than that wealthy and crowded city to +the wanderer who has neither friends nor money? + +Every morning Violet and her mother also left their dingy lodgings, +and went out into the world by separate ways to seek for bread. Yes, +for bread! For now only a very slender hoard remained between them +and absolute starvation. + +Violet was no more fortunate than her brother. She was accomplished; +but there were many portionless girls in London, all more or less +accomplished, and all eager to earn the merest pittance. Who could +hope that there would ever be enough employment for all of them? + +Mrs. Westford also sought to turn her talents to some use; but she +too sought for a long time most vainly. She offered herself as a +morning governess, and spent what to her was a large sum in the +postage of letters replying to advertisements in the morning papers. +But no answers came to these letters. Education seemed to have +become the most valueless drug in the London market. The Captain’s +widow was troubled by none of those ultra-refined compunctions which +restrain the actions of some among the ranks of the shabby-genteel. +When she found her educational powers would not obtain her the merest +pittance, she fell back upon her mechanical skill in all kinds of +elegant fancy-work. She visited half the Berlin-wool shops and fancy +repositories in London and the suburbs, and at last succeeded in +finding a speculative trader, who agreed to give her a starvation +price for her work. + +At last, however, when a kind of heart-sickness had seized upon both +mother and daughter, a faint glimmer of sunshine broke through the +dense black clouds that darkened the horizon. It was only a chilly +April radiance at best, but still it was the sun. + +Violet was amongst the crowd of clever and accomplished women +who answered an advertisement inserted in the _Times_ by a lady +who required a morning governess for her young daughters--two +pretty-looking, half-educated girls of seventeen and nineteen. + +Mrs. Montague Trevor was a frivolous woman, whose heart and intellect +were alike absorbed in the delights of the fashionable world. She had +been a beauty, and had flourished for her brief hour as belle of a +second-rate watering-place, where she had been fortunate enough to +win the affections of a popular Queen’s Counsel, who fell in love +with her pretty face, and was too busy ever to have leisure in which +to find out how empty the head was behind it. Mr. Montague Trevor had +therefore been very well content with his choice, and in due course +had worked himself to death, leaving the watering-place beauty a +widow with a handsome fortune. On the strength of this fortune, and +her late husband’s professional celebrity, Mrs. Trevor had obtained +an extended circle of acquaintance, and amongst these she still +played off some of the airs and graces which she had cultivated as a +belle of nineteen. + +She was intensely vain; and she fancied that every man who laid +her a compliment was desperately in love with her. She had no +disinclination to part with her freedom to a new lord and master; but +she wanted a rich husband, for her habits were terribly extravagant, +and, in spite of her excellent income, she was always more or less in +debt. + +Unfortunately, though her admirers were numerous, they were not many +of them rich, and the vain and frivolous Annabella sighed in vain for +a wealthy husband, whose boundless purse should supply money for all +her whims and fancies. + +It was this lady whose advertisement Violet Westford saw in the +_Times_ newspaper, and it was in Mrs. Trevor’s fashionably-furnished +drawing-room in the Regent’s Park that the young girl sat amongst a +crowd of other applicants, waiting the nervous moment when she should +be summoned before the lady who was to decide her fate. + +She knew that poverty, dire and terrible, was fast approaching that +miserable lodging near the Waterloo-road, and she felt a painful +anxiety to be of some use to her mother, and to her brave young +brother, on whose brow she already saw the impress of despair. + +At last the moment arrived, and a smartly dressed maid conducted +Violet to Mrs. Trevor’s morning-room, or boudoir, as it was always +called by elegant Annabella. + +Mrs. Trevor was reclining on a sofa, dressed in an elaborately +beflounced muslin morning-dress, dotted about with infantine bows of +sky-blue ribbon, her hair arranged _à la vierge_, an expensive fan +in her hand, and a tiny Maltese dog in her lap. On a table near her +there was a scent-bottle with a gold stopper and an elegant little +Dresden chocolate-service. The two Miss Trevors were lounging near +the windows, and staring idly out into the Park. + +As Violet entered the room, nervously anxious, Mrs. Trevor uttered an +exclamation of surprise. + +“What a sweet face!” she cried. “My dear Theodosia, my darling +Anastasia, did you ever see a sweeter face?” + +Violet had no idea that this speech could possibly apply to her. +She stood opposite the one lady on the sofa, almost trembling with +anxiety, for repeated failure had depressed her spirits, and she had +a morbid apprehension of disappointment. + +“You were so good as to send for me madam,” she faltered. + +“Yes, my love; I sent for you, and I am absolutely charmed with you. +I like to see everything lovely about me--my rooms, my flowers, my +china; and you are lovely! Beauty is almost as necessary to me as the +air I breathe, and you are beautiful! I am sure we shall suit each +other delightfully. Such _objects_, such _creatures_, such absolute +Gorgons as I have seen this morning, my dear!--really enough to give +a sensitive person the horrors; and I am so excruciatingly sensitive. +Anastasia, my love, don’t you think there is something of a likeness +between Miss--Miss----” + +“Westford, madam,” interposed Violet. + +“Between Miss Westford and me? About the nose, Anastasia? Miss +Westford has exactly that delicate style of nose which your poor papa +used to call a perfect Grecian.” + +Miss Anastasia Trevor did not take the trouble to answer her mother’s +question. Nor was there any occasion that she should do so, as the +volatile Annabella rarely gave any one time to reply to her remarks. + +“I am sure you will suit me, my love!” she exclaimed. “You play and +sing, of course?” + +“O yes, madam.” + +Mrs. Trevor waved her jewelled hand towards an open piano. + +“Let me hear you, my dear.” + +Violet seated herself, and after a brilliant prelude which displayed +her execution and expression as a pianiste, she sang a simple little +Italian barcarole, in which her mezzo-soprano voice rang out soft and +clear. + +“Charming!” exclaimed Mrs. Trevor. “You draw and paint in +water-colours, I suppose?” + +Violet blushed as she answered this question, for she remembered how +her artist-lover had admired her sketches, and how much her taste had +been cultivated in his society. + +She opened a little portfolio which she had brought with her, and +showed Mrs. Trevor some water-colour sketches of the forest. + +“Delicious!” exclaimed the fashionable widow. “There is a taste, a +lightness, a warmth, an atmosphere, a _chiaro-oscuro_ which is really +charming. You speak French, German, and Italian, of course, as those +were mentioned as requisite in the advertisement?” + +Violet replied that she was familiar with all three languages. + +“And your references are irreproachable, I conclude?” + +“I can refer you to Mr. Morton, the clergyman of the parish in which +we lived in my dear father’s lifetime.” + +Violet’s eyes filled with tears as she referred to that happy past, +which contrasted so cruelly with the present. + +“Nothing can be more satisfactory,” said Mrs. Trevor, as Violet +handed her the address of the Hampshire rector. “I shall write +to this gentleman by to-day’s post. I take it for granted that +the answer will be favourable, therefore we may as well conclude +arrangements at once. This is Wednesday. On Friday I can receive the +rector’s answer, and on Monday morning you can commence your duties. +Good morning.--Anastasia, my love, the bell.” + +Violet rose; but she lingered hesitatingly. + +“There is one question,” she murmured; “the salary, madam?” + +“Ah, to be sure!” exclaimed Mrs. Trevor. “What a forgetful creature +I am! You will want a salary, I suppose--though really, as it is +your first engagement as a governess, there are many people who +would object to giving you a salary. However, I am not one of those +illiberal persons.--You know, Anastasia, your poor dear papa used to +call me ridiculously generous.--The salary, Miss Westford, will be +half-a-guinea a week.” + +Violet had expected a great deal more; but poverty stared her in the +face, and even this pittance would be something. + +“And the hours?” she asked. + +“The hours will be from nine till two, which will enable you to dine +comfortably at home with your own family,” Mrs. Trevor answered, with +a benevolent smile. + +From nine till two--six days a week--for half-a-guinea! Four-pence an +hour was the value set upon accomplishments the acquirement of which +had cost a small fortune! + +Violet sighed as she thought of her expensive masters, her handsomely +paid governess, and the time and trouble which had been bestowed upon +her education. + +“Perhaps the situation will not suit you?” said the sweet Mrs. Trevor +rather sharply. + +“O, yes, madam; it will suit me very well.” + +“And you accept the terms?” + +“Yes, madam.” + +“Then in that case I shall expect you on Monday. You can then begin +your duties; that is, of course, in the event of the reference +proving satisfactory.” + +“I do not fear that, madam. Good morning.” + +And Violet left the richly furnished boudoir comparatively happy; +for half-a-guinea a week was at least some small provision against +absolute starvation. + +Half-a-guinea a week for the salary of an accomplished governess! +And this from Mrs. Montague Trevor, who thought nothing of paying a +five-pound note for a cup and saucer of Sèvres china. + +As the door closed upon Violet, the diplomatic widow turned with a +look of triumph to her eldest daughter. + +“Well, I think I managed that business admirably!” she exclaimed. +“Half-a-guinea a week! Why, my dear Anastasia, the girl is worth a +hundred guineas a year at the very least. Look at the salary that +elderly Gorgon with the blue spectacles had the presumption to ask +me. This girl is worth as much again as the Gorgon, whose voice was +like a screech owl’s.” + +The younger Miss Trevor, who bore no resemblance to her mother either +in person or disposition, lifted her eyes reproachfully to the +flighty widow’s face. + +“But if this young lady is worth so much, is it not very cruel, and +almost dishonest, to offer her so little, mamma?” she asked gravely. + +“Cruel! dishonest!” ejaculated Mrs. Trevor. “Why, child, you’re a +perfect idiot! You’ll never make a bargain as long as you live.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIL. + +MATERNAL MANŒUVRES. + + +Five minutes before the clocks in the neighbourhood struck nine, on +the appointed Monday morning Violet Westford knocked at the door of +the villa in the Regent’s Park. She was admitted by a maid-servant, +who at once conducted her to an apartment near the top of the +house--a cold, cheerless looking room, very shabbily furnished, +and commanding an agreeable view of the backs of the houses in +Albany-street,--altogether a very different apartment from Mrs. +Montague Trevor’s silken-curtained boudoir, with its somewhat stagey +decoration in modern buhl and marqueterie. + +Here Violet’s duties began; and very tedious they promised to be; for +one of her pupils was idle, frivolous, and flippant, and the other +was naturally slow of apprehension. + +Anastasia Trevor was a clever girl; but her natural idleness +was excessive, and she could only be induced to study those +accomplishments which could be paraded before the admiring of +curious eyes of her acquaintance. + +Theodosia was not a clever or brilliant girl; but she was something +better, for she was truthful and conscientious. She exerted herself +to the utmost under the direction of her new governess. + +“I fear you’ll find me very stupid, Miss Westford,” she said; “but I +hope you’ll believe that I shall do my best.” + +“I am sure you will,” Violet answered gently. + +From that moment it seemed as if a friendship arose between the +governess and her pupil. Theodosia had been accustomed to find +herself neglected by the masters and governesses whom her mother +engaged, and who speedily discovered that the lively Anastasia was +Mrs. Trevor’s favourite, and that attention bestowed upon her would +be better rewarded than if given to the quiet Theodosia. + +Theodosia and her mother were never very likely to agree, for the +girl’s high sense of truth and honour was continually being wounded +by the widow’s conduct; and as Theodosia was too candid to conceal +her sentiments, perpetual disputes arose between them. + +Anastasia, on the contrary, was the exact counterpart of her mother, +and the two agreed admirably, except when their interests clashed, +which was not a rare event. + +Day after day Violet toiled in the dull schoolroom at Mrs. Trevor’s +villa. Her duties were excessively fatiguing, but no murmur of +complaint ever crossed her lips. When Saturday came she was able to +carry home her hard-earned half-guinea, and that in itself was a +recompense for all her trouble. + +In the mean time affairs had brightened a little for Lionel, who +had at last succeeded in getting some work as a copyist of legal +documents. + +It was very hard work, very poorly paid; but for the sake of his +mother and sister the young man would even have swept a crossing. + +For some little time matters went on tolerably smoothly in the humble +lodging. Mrs. Westford bent over an embroidery frame with untiring +patience; Lionel laboured for long hours at his wearisome penmanship; +and Violet attended daily at Mrs. Trevor’s villa. So that, comforted +by affection, which brightens even the dullest home, the widow and +her orphans were comparatively happy. + +But that period of peace was destined to be very brief. The storm was +near at hand; and Violet, the gentle Violet, who until the last few +months had never known sorrow, was the first to be stricken by the +thunderbolt. + +She had been teaching Mrs. Trevor’s daughters for nearly six weeks, +when one day the widow sent her a very condescending message +inviting her to a small evening-party, which was to take place during +the week. + +Of course Violet accepted the invitation. Painful as it would be to +her to appear once more amongst careless and happy people, she feared +to offend her employer by a refusal. She knew full well that she was +invited to this party in order that she might be useful in showing +off her pupils; and that any refusal on her part would inevitably be +resented. + +Anastasia sang Rossini’s and Verdi’s music very brilliantly, and +Violet would be required to accompany her on the piano. Theodosia had +a fine contralto voice, and sang simple ballads with a great deal of +expression; but it was a question if she would be allowed to sing +before company. Mrs. Trevor did not care to see her younger daughter +admired. She was jealous of all praise that was not bestowed upon +herself or her favourite Anastasia. But Violet was determined that, +if possible, Theodosia should sing one of her simple ballads in the +course of the evening. She had taken a great deal of trouble with her +younger pupil’s voice, and was anxious that Mrs. Trevor should be +made aware of Theodosia’s rapid improvement. But it was no pride in +her own teaching that made Violet anxious for this,--it was because +she had really grown attached to her pupil. + +With Anastasia it was quite different. That young lady was resolved +to display her accomplishments to the uttermost, and had perfect +confidence in her own powers. + +The eventful evening arrived. Violet was dressed very simply; in +deep mourning. But her fair face and golden hair were set off by her +sombre dress, and she looked very lovely. Anastasia Trevor was by no +means pleased to see the notice which the governess attracted as she +made her way quietly and shyly through the crowd in the endeavour to +reach her hostess. Miss Trevor was of the order of fast young ladies, +and she had regarded Violet with a kind of benignant pity, as a +creature utterly without “dash” or “style.” + +To be dashing was the chief desire of Miss Trevor’s heart. She +studied the _Court Circular_ and the Parisian fashion-books; she +formed herself and dressed herself after the model of the latest +celebrity in the _haut monde_, and did not even blush to borrow a +grace or a piquant eccentricity from some brilliant leader of the +_demi monde_. + +To-night she had taken more than usual pains with her costume, +complaining loudly as she did so, of the extravagance and selfishness +of her mother, who had ordered her own dress from a Parisian milliner +in Wigmore-street, while expecting her daughters to be satisfied with +the achievements of a clever young person in Somers-town. + +“I hate white tarlatane!” exclaimed Miss Trevor, as she stood before +her mother’s cheval glass, putting the finishing touches to her +dress. “It is all very well for mamma to lay down the law about +girlish elegance and simplicity when she gives twenty guineas for a +moire, and wears lace worth hundreds, in order to set herself off to +the best advantage.” + +The young lady looked very discontentedly at the airy puffings of +her dress, which was dotted all over with dew-spangled rosebuds, +and which was very becoming to the dark-haired beauty, but by no +means the costume she would have chosen had she been permitted to +consult Madame Forchère, of Wigmore-street. Nor was her temper at all +improved when she saw the glances of admiring surprise which greeted +Violet Westford as she made her way through the crowded room. + +Mrs. Montague Trevor’s drawing-room blazed with the light of a +hundred wax candles. The elegant widow would not admit anything so +vulgar and commonplace as gas into her apartments, so they were +lighted entirely by wax candles, in branches of crystal and ormolu. + +The rooms were crowded to suffocation when Violet arrived. When +Mrs. Trevor talked of giving a small evening-party, her friends +always knew very well that her rooms and staircase would be made +insufferable by the crowd assembled at the villa, and that the +elegant supper would be a kind of lottery in which many speculators +would draw blanks. + +Such a moment as this was the pride and delight of Mrs. Trevor’s +life. Radiant in a train of pink moire, the rustling folds of which +were almost covered with flounces of point-lace, the handsome widow +smiled upon her guests. + +Among them she knew that there were several eligible men in a +matrimonial point of view, and two of those eligible beings she had +marked as her intended victims. + +One of these was Rupert Godwin the banker, whom Mrs. Trevor hoped to +win as a husband for herself. + +She had been to a garden-party at Wilmingdon Hall, and had been +agreeably impressed by the splendour of that old mansion and its +surroundings, as well as by the extravagance of the arrangements. + +The other was Sir Harold Ivry, the wealthy descendant of a family +of ironfounders; a young man who was the possessor of a million of +money, and whom the widow fancied she might secure for her favourite +daughter. + +Anastasia was handsome and accomplished; Sir Harold was young and +independent. Why should not a match be brought about between them? + +This was what Mrs. Trevor thought; and she looked with peculiar +favour on the wealthy scion of the Birmingham ironmaster. + +The manœuvring mother and the husband-hunting widow had a difficult +part to play this evening, but the lady proved herself quite equal +to the occasion. While engaged in a sentimental flirtation with the +eligible banker, Mrs. Trevor contrived to keep a watchful eye upon +Anastasia and the young Baronet. + +Nothing could exceed her mortification when she saw that Sir +Harold paid very little attention to Anastasia, and that he seemed +peculiarly attracted by the beautiful but pensive-looking governess, +whose mourning dress and lovely pale face were very conspicuous amid +that gaily attired crowd. + +Mrs. Trevor bit her lower lip with suppressed rage and mortification, +even while she appeared to be smiling her sweetest smiles at Rupert +Godwin. + +“It is too provoking,” she thought, as she kept a furtive watch +upon the admiring glances which Sir Harold Ivry bestowed upon the +governess. “I quite forgot that the creature is really remarkably +pretty; and that mourning dress happens to suit her insipid +complexion, and is, of course, worn on purpose to attract attention. +What a fool I was to allow the artful minx to make her appearance +amongst us to-night! But then I only thought of the use she would +be to Anastasia, who always sings out of time when she accompanies +herself.” + +While Mrs. Montague Trevor was enduring all these secret tortures, +poor Violet Westford was quite unconscious of the Baronet’s admiring +glances. She had seated herself in the quietest corner of the back +drawing-room, in a sheltered little nook between the grand-piano and +a stand of hot-house flowers, and she was waiting patiently until her +services should be required. + +Sir Harold had approached her, and had made an attempt to enter into +conversation with her, of course trying to break ground with some of +the usual feeble truisms about the weather; but her brief and timid +answers gave him little encouragement. + +Violet Westford could not be at her ease in this crowded assemblage, +where she felt instinctively that she was looked down upon as a poor +dependant--a well-bred and accomplished drudge, whose very presence +was forgotten, except at the moment when her services were required. +She could not help thinking a little sadly of the last party at +which she had been a guest,--a carpet-dance at the house of some +old friends in Hampshire, people considerably above Mrs. Trevor in +position. She remembered the attention, the kindness, the praises +that had been lavished upon her; and now she sat alone amongst a +crowd, in which there was not one familiar face, except those of her +employer and her two pupils. + +At last, the eventful moment of the evening arrived for the +manœuvring mother and her favourite daughter. + +Violet took her place at the piano, and Anastasia prepared to +commence an Italian bravura. + +Miss Trevor cast a glance of triumph round the room. She was the +heroine of the moment, and she knew that she was looking very +handsome. Sir Harold was standing near the piano, and he was watching +her with a thoughtful look in his candid eyes. + +Anastasia fancied that thoughtful gaze could not be other than an +admiring one; but she did not know very much of Sir Harold Ivry, who +was a very peculiar young man, naturally reserved, and not given to +displaying his real feelings. + +A murmur of admiration ran through the crowded drawing-rooms as +Violet finished the symphony, so crisp and brilliant was her touch, +and so correct her expression; and then Anastasia began her scena. +Her voice was a soprano, very brilliant in quality, and highly +cultivated; but though she sang well, the charm of feeling was +wanting, and her singing seemed cold and colourless. + +Mrs. Trevor had been seated in the front drawing-room, talking to the +banker; but she rose as Anastasia’s voice rang out in the opening +notes of the scena. + +“You must hear my daughter sing, Mr. Godwin,” she said. “I think you +will acknowledge that her voice is fine, and her style perfection.” + +She led Rupert Godwin towards the archway between the two +drawing-rooms. There were no folding-doors, and only curtains of the +airiest lace divided the two apartments. + +Mrs. Trevor and the banker stood in the archway between the festoons +of drooping lace. + +The piano was at the other end of the room, and the faces of the +singer and the accompanist were turned towards the archway. + +Rupert Godwin’s cheek grew paler than usual as he looked at the +pensive face of the young governess. He had started at the first +sight of that beautiful but melancholy countenance; but the gesture +of surprise had been so slight as to escape the attention of Mrs. +Trevor, who was gazing admiringly at her handsome daughter. + +“Who is that young lady?” whispered the banker; “the young lady at +the piano--the young lady in deep mourning?” + +He asked the question with an eagerness that startled Mrs. Trevor, +who was not a little offended at his inattention to her daughter’s +singing. + +“That young lady who absorbs your attention so entirely is my +daughters’ morning governess,” answered the widow, with considerable +asperity of tone. + +“And her name?” demanded the banker. + +“Her name is Westford--Violet Westford. She is in mourning for her +father, a merchant captain, who was lost at sea.” + +A slight shudder stirred Rupert Godwin’s frame, but it passed as +quickly as the transient breath that ruffles the forest-leaves on a +calm summer day. + +Then a dark frown obscured his face. + +“No child of Clara Westford’s shall succeed where I have power +to hinder her success. When I bear a grudge, it is the great +vendetta--war to the death against body and soul.” + +This was the gist of Mr. Godwin’s thoughts as he looked with a +strange, menacing gaze at the fair face of the girl at the piano. + +“Westford!” he exclaimed. “And so your daughters’ governess is the +daughter of Captain Westford. I am sorry for it.” + +“Why so?” asked Mrs. Trevor, with a look of alarm. + +“Because I am sincerely interested in the welfare and happiness of +you and your daughters, my dear Mrs. Trevor; and I am sorry that +the education of those charming girls should be intrusted to such a +person as the daughter of Mrs. Westford.” + +All this was said in the blandest tone. Mr. Godwin could appear the +best and most benevolent of men when it suited his purpose to do so. + +“You really terrify me out of my senses!” exclaimed Mrs. Trevor. +“What can you mean? I had excellent references with Miss Westford. +Pray explain yourself.” + +“Not now; there are people about who may overhear what we say. +To-morrow, my dear Mrs. Trevor, or to-night even, if I find an +opportunity, I will explain myself more fully.” + +Anastasia’s Italian scena wound up with a brilliant cadence, +whereupon her mother’s guests fell into the usual ecstasies. And yet +there were very few present who cared for showy Italian music except +at an opera-house. + +Some one asked Theodosia to sing. The girl would have refused; but +before she could do so Violet whispered to her, “I know you will +consent, dear, to please me;” and in the next moment the brilliant +fingers flew over the keys in the sparkling symphony of an old +English ballad. + +Theodosia was truly attached to her new friend, and she drew near the +piano, determined to do her best, however painful the task might be. + +“Good gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Trevor; “can I believe my eyes? +Theodosia going to sing! She has a decent voice, poor child; but no +style--no style whatever.” + +Nothing could be more contemptuous than the tone in which the mother +said this. She did not like that Theodosia should attract attention +which might have been bestowed upon Anastasia. + +The first notes of the rich contralto voice were low and tremulous, +but they swelled out presently in a burst of melody. The song was +a very simple one--an old familiar ballad, “Auld Robin Gray;” but +before Theodosia had finished the last verse, tears had bedewed the +eyes of many listeners. + +Anastasia’s brief triumph was entirely eclipsed. The praises which +had been bestowed upon her had sounded cold and unreal compared +to those now lavished on her sister. The vain girl could scarcely +conceal her mortification, and her mother seemed almost equally +annoyed. + +“I should have been glad if you had asked my permission before you +allowed Theodosia to sing, Miss Westford,” she said to Violet, +in her sharpest tones. “I consider her too young to display her +accomplishments in a crowded room; and that old-fashioned ballad is +better suited for a nursery ditty than for a drawing-room.” + +Sir Harold Ivry overheard this speech, and replied to it eagerly. + +“Pray do not say that, my dear Mrs. Trevor!” he exclaimed. “Your +youngest daughter’s singing has drawn tears from our eyes, and has +made us forget what hardened worldly creatures we are!” + +He glanced admiringly at Theodosia as he spoke; but the next moment +his eyes wandered to the beautiful face of Violet Westford, and with +a still more admiring gaze. + +“I am sure that Miss Theodosia Trevor owes a great deal to her +governess,” he said. And then in a lower voice he added to Violet, +“Pray let us hear you sing.” + +Mrs. Trevor’s brow darkened: but she could not oppose the wishes of +the Baronet, who was a privileged person in that house. + +“Will you persuade her, Mrs. Trevor?” he said. “I feel that my +entreaties will be useless. Pray ask Miss Westford to sing.” + +The widow complied, and resumed all her accustomed sweetness of +manner, as she requested Violet to grant the Baronet’s request. + +Poor Violet was much too single-hearted to understand the sudden +anger raging in Mrs. Trevor’s breast. She was entirely without +affectation, and she consented to sing directly she was asked. + +She sang one of Thomas Moore’s sweetest and most pensive ballads, +“Oft in the stilly night;” and again the eyes of almost every +listener were wet with tears. + +Her own eyes filled, as she remembered how often she had sung that +ballad in her happy home, in the pleasant summer twilight, after +dinner, or in the winter dusk, when her lost father was near to +listen and admire. Sir Harold Ivry saw those dark blue eyes fill with +tears, and he saw that it was only with a struggle that Violet could +control her emotion. + +He bent over her chair to thank her at the conclusion of the song. + +“But I fear the ballad has melancholy associations,” he added in a +lower voice. + +“It has indeed; for it recalls the dear father I have lost, and the +memory of a home that is deserted.” + +“It is for your father, then, you wear that mourning dress? O, +forgive me, if I appear inquisitive. I am so deeply interested in all +that concerns you.” + +Violet looked up at the Baronet with a glance of innocent surprise. +She was entirely without vanity, and she could not imagine why Sir +Harold should be interested about her. + +“Yes,” she answered sadly; “I am in mourning for my father--the best +father who ever made his children’s life happy.” + +No more was said; for Anastasia was about to sing again, and Violet +was required at the piano. + +Half an hour afterwards the crowd began to grow thin, and Violet +obtained permission to retire. It was already past two o’clock; for +Mrs. Trevor’s little party had not begun until eleven, and the poor +girl was anxious to return to the cheerless lodging where her mother +was doubtless waiting up to receive her. + +Violet noticed a peculiar stateliness in Mrs. Trevor’s manner as that +lady wished her good-night; but she was too tired even to wonder +about that altered manner. She left the room very quietly, and went +down to the hall, where she had left her cloak and bonnet in the care +of one of the servants. She had refused to incur even the expense +of a cab to bring her to Mrs. Trevor’s house, for the luxury of +that plebeian vehicle would have cost half a week’s salary. She had +preferred to hide her simple evening toilette under a heavy black +cloak, and to make her way to the villa on foot. + +She had just put on her bonnet and cloak when a light footstep +sounded on the stairs, and in the next moment Sir Harold Ivry stood +before her. + +“I hope you will allow me to see you safely home, Miss Westford,” he +said, with profound respect in his tone and manner. “I know you are +alone here, and it will give me unbounded pleasure to conduct you +safely to your home.” + +Violet blushed; for in the happy days that were gone she had been +accustomed to be handed to her carriage after a party or a ball. + +She could not help feeling some touch of shame--false shame, if you +will; but after that one instant of confusion, she answered boldly, +“You are very kind, Sir Harold; but I am going to walk home, and I +believe my brother will be waiting outside to take care of me.” + +“Your brother!” exclaimed the Baronet, who was unable to conceal his +disappointment. “Then in that case I must surrender you to one who +has the best possible right to protect you. But at least you will +allow me to conduct you to your brother.” + +He offered Violet his arm as he spoke, and she felt that she could +not refuse to take it. + +Sir Harold did not escort her very far, for Lionel was waiting at +the end of the terrace, and to his care the Baronet was compelled to +resign his precious charge. + +We often hear and read of love at first sight, and certainly Sir +Harold Ivry seemed to have fallen a victim to that sudden fever. + +Violet could not do less than introduce him to her brother: and for +some little way they all three walked on together, Sir Harold doing +his best to make himself agreeable to Lionel. + +It was a bright summer night, and a full moon was shining high in the +cloudless heaven. Even London, so dingy in its usual aspect, looked +romantic when seen by that soft silvery light. + +But as Violet looked at her brother, a pang shot through her heart as +she compared his worn and shabby attire with the costume of the rich +young Baronet. + +Lionel Westford still retained his gentlemanly bearing, but the awful +stamp of poverty was upon him; and Violet’s heart was wrung as she +remembered the gay, dashing young Oxonian, to whom life had been one +long summer holiday, disturbed by no harder toil than the study of an +obscure passage in Euripides, or a week’s training for the University +boat race. + +It seemed as if that moonlight walk through the streets of London was +a most delightful thing to Sir Harold, for he went on, and on, until +they were drawing near to Waterloo Bridge, when he stopped to say +good-night, feeling that his companions might not wish him to know +the humble quarter of the town in which they lived. + +He had seen enough to understand that Violet and her brother had sunk +from prosperity to poverty--poverty of the sharpest and bitterest +kind, the poverty that must conceal itself under the mask of +gentility. + +He lingered, as he wished Violet good-night. It seemed as if he could +scarcely tear himself away from her. + +“I shall never forget your song,” he said; “it is ringing in my ears +still--I shall never forget it; but I hope to hear you soon again.” + +And then he was compelled to say good-night, for Lionel Westford’s +manner repelled any approach to intimacy. Poverty had made the young +man proud. He, to whom pride had once been an unknown sentiment, was +now almost haughty in his manner to strangers. + +“How lovely she is!” thought Sir Harold, as he walked through the +moonlit streets towards his chambers in the Albany. “How lovely she +is! And what an air of high breeding there is in her every tone and +gesture! And to think that such a woman should be poor, compelled to +walk through the streets at three o’clock in the morning--compelled +to put on her cloak at the bottom of a staircase, with half-a-dozen +grinning flunkeys staring at her while she does it. It’s too +bad--it’s shameful.” + +Then, after a pause, the Baronet murmured, “While I am so rich; +while I have thousands lying idle at my banker’s, and half-a-million +in the public funds! But I will call on Mrs. Trevor to-morrow, and +find out Miss Westford’s address. I will send her a thousand pounds +anonymously. I will do something, no matter how desperate, even at +the risk of being kicked as an intrusive snob by that priggish young +brother of hers, who was very stand-offish just now as he bade me +good-night.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +A DAUGHTER’S TRIAL. + + +Late though it was when she returned home after Mrs. Trevor’s party. +Violet knew that she must be punctual in her attendance on her pupils +on the following morning. At eight o’clock she was walking westwards, +after having taken her scanty breakfast at home. No refreshment had +ever been offered to her at Mrs. Trevor’s house, for the widow knew +how to make the best of a good bargain; and liberal though she was +in the matter of fine words and elegant compliments, she would have +grudged her hard-working slave a cup of tea or a class of indifferent +sherry. + +Nine was striking as Violet was admitted into the hall. She was about +to proceed to the back-staircase, which led to the schoolroom, when +the man-of-all-work stopped her. + +“My missus wants to see you in her _boodore_,” he said, with the +cool insolence with which a well-paid footman addresses an ill-paid +governess; “which it’s very important, and you wos to go upstairs +immediate, and to look sharp about it.” + +Violet was surprised at this summons, as Mrs. Trevor rarely rose +until nearly mid-day, when it was her habit to sit sipping her +chocolate and reading a novel until it was time to go out upon +a round of fashionable visits; but, although the governess was +surprised at this unexpected summons, she was in no way apprehensive +of any unpleasantness in an interview with her employer. + +Never had she looked brighter or prettier than when she presented +herself before Mrs. Trevor, who had not long risen from her bed, and +who sat untidily dressed in a loose morning-gown, at a well furnished +breakfast-table. The barrister’s widow had acquired the tastes of an +accomplished _gourmet_ from her late husband, and was selecting the +daintiest morsels out of a raised pie for her own consumption as Miss +Westford entered the room. + +Her favourite daughter Anastasia was sitting on the other side of the +table, and a dark frown obscured that young lady’s handsome face. + +She had perceived the impression made by Violet Westford on Sir +Harold Ivry, and she felt something nearly akin to hatred for the +innocent girl whose charms had outrivalled her own. + +Violet saw at a glance that something had happened to alter her +position in the estimation of Mrs. and Miss Trevor; but, as her +conscience was entirely free from blame, she met the changed looks of +the two ladies with a frank and fearless countenance. + +“Miss Westford,” exclaimed Mrs. Trevor in the affected and high-flown +manner which was peculiar to her, “when you first entered this room, +you entered the presence of a woman who is as confiding as a child. +I saw you, and I liked you. You are beautiful; and I am a sensitive +creature, to whom the presence of beautiful things is almost a +necessity. You sought to enter my employment; I accepted your offer +with confidence; I admitted you into my household; I trusted you with +the care of my innocent girls; and now--now, when I had lulled myself +to rest, believing in your truth and purity, I find that I have +nourished a viper.” + +Violet started and turned deadly pale. Never before had Captain +Westford’s daughter known what it was to receive an insult. + +“Madam!” she exclaimed, with a sudden pride, which contrasted +strangely with her usual gentleness, “you are mistaken in the person +you address in this extraordinary manner.” + +“I wish I were,” answered Mrs. Trevor, shaking her head solemnly. “I +wish I were indeed mistaken, and that I could awake from my delusion +to find you worthy of my confidence.” + +“In what way have I proved myself unworthy of that confidence, +madam?” asked Violet, with the same proud and fearless manner. + +“O, Miss Westford,” ejaculated the widow, raising her lace-bordered +handkerchief to her eyes, with a sniff that was meant for a sob, “it +is a sad case--a most painful case. It is not yourself against whom +I have anything to say--except, indeed, that you have withheld the +truth from me.” + +“I have withheld the truth, madam?” exclaimed Violet. “What truth +have I withheld from you?” + +“You entered my house under false pretences; you concealed from me +the character of--your--unhappy mother.” + +At this point Mrs. Trevor made a pretence of being almost overcome by +her emotion. + +“The character of my mother!” cried Violet. “What should I tell you +of her, madam, except that she is the best and dearest of mothers, +and that I love her better than my life?” + +“Unhappy girl! Do you pretend to be ignorant of your mother’s +character prior to her marriage with your father?” + +“Ignorant, madam! What should I know of my dear mother? Who is it +that dares sully her name by so much as a whisper?” + +“One who knows her only too well,” answered Mrs. Trevor. “Alas, poor +child! I begin to think you may indeed be ignorant of the truth. And +yet surely you must know the maiden name of your own mother?” + +A vivid blush suddenly dyed Violet’s pale cheeks. For a moment a +deadly fear--shadowy, shapeless, but terrible--took possession of her. + +She had never been told the maiden name of her mother. More than +this, she remembered that she had never heard that mother allude to +any one circumstance of her early life. A dark veil of mystery had +seemed to shroud that portion of Mrs. Westford’s existence. + +But the daughter’s love was stronger than the base feeling of +suspicion, that poisonous and fatal weed which at times twines itself +about the purest and truest heart. + +“I beg to resign my situation here this instant, Mrs. Trevor,” Violet +exclaimed, indignantly. “If any one has dared to slander my mother +in your hearing, I declare that person to be the falsest and basest +of mankind. But, be it as it may, I will not stop an hour in a house +where my mother’s name has been sullied by the breath of suspicion.” + +“The person who told me your mother’s sad story--sad and shameful +also, alas!” sighed Mrs. Trevor, “is a person far too high in +position to become the promoter of any idle slander. He spoke of +facts--facts which I thought you might have been able to disprove; +but you cannot do so. You cannot even tell me your mother’s maiden +name. But I can tell you that name, Miss Westford. Your mother’s name +was Ponsonby, and she was turned out of doors by her father, Sir John +Ponsonby, when his heart had been almost broken by the disgrace which +had fallen upon his daughter.” + +“What disgrace, madam?” + +Mrs. Trevor was silent. Rupert Godwin had not chosen to tell her that +he was the lover whose conduct had caused a cruel slander to blacken +the name of Clara Ponsonby. + +“What was that disgrace, madam?” repeated Violet. “I have a right to +know the extent of the falsehoods that some wretch has dared to utter +against the best and purest of women.” + +“Nay, child,” answered Mrs. Trevor, with affected sympathy; “enough +has been said--more than enough! I pity your misfortune, for no +misfortune can be greater than that of being the daughter of a +worthless woman. I pity you, Miss Westford. But I am a mother myself; +I have my own daughters to consider, and I cannot possibly allow you +to enter this house again.” + +“You cannot allow me, madam!” cried Violet, with passionate +indignation. “Do you think my own feelings will allow me ever again +to cross the threshold of a house in which my mothers name has been +so cruelly and pitilessly slandered? No, Mrs. Trevor! I wish you good +morning; and I can only trust that we may never again meet. You may +have been deceived by your informant, but I cannot forgive you for +being so ready to think ill of my dear mother.” + +Having said this, Violet left the room, calm and dignified in outward +seeming, though her heart was almost bursting with the agony that +tortured it. + +Mrs. Trevor sat for some moments staring at the door by which the +young girl had left her apartments, as if she could scarcely collect +her scattered senses. + +“Did you ever see such assurance, Anastasia?” she exclaimed at last. +“If this penniless girl had been the Queen of England she could +scarcely have answered me more proudly. However, we’ve got rid of +her, that’s one comfort. It’s very lucky Rupert Godwin told me what +he did, for I’m sure that designing creature would have set her cap +at Sir Harold Ivry, and tried to supplant you, my pet. I had my eye +upon her last night, though she little knew it, and I saw her artful +manœuvres.” + +Anastasia Trevor bit her lips with vexation as she remembered the +events of the previous evening--the evening which was to have been +one long triumph to herself, and which had only resulted in bitter +disappointment and humiliation. Hypocritical though we may be in our +conduct to the world, we cannot deceive ourselves; and Anastasia +knew only too well that Sir Harold’s admiration had been freely and +spontaneously given, and that Violet had been even unconscious of the +impression she had made. + +“There’s one blessing,” exclaimed the fashionable Mrs. Trevor, after +some minutes of meditation, “we save half a week’s salary by this +quarrel--though where we shall get such another governess for the +same money, goodness only knows!” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +LOVE AT SIGHT. + + +While Violet walked slowly homewards to the cheerless lodging in that +dingy street near the Waterloo-road, a mail-phaeton dashed up to +Mrs. Trevor’s pretty villa, and Sir Harold Ivry alighted. + +It was the fashionable hour for paving and receiving visits; so the +widow and her favourite daughter were seated in the drawing-room, +dressed exquisitely, prepared to fascinate any eligible marrying man +who might fall in their way, for which favoured being the delights of +social afternoon tea were specially reserved. + +Anastasia was seated close to the window, pretending to be occupied +by some fashionable Berlin-wool work; but she watched the phaeton as +it drew up to the door. + +“Mamma!” she exclaimed, “it is Sir Harold!” + +“Indeed!” cried Mrs. Trevor, in triumphant tones. “Then you see last +night’s party was not an unsuccessful affair after all. The Baronet +must be smitten, or he would never be in such a hurry to call. I +shall see you mistress of that splendid place in the North, my love, +depend upon it.” + +“That’s just like you, mamma!” exclaimed the petted Anastasia, +impatiently; “you always fancy that everything is going to happen +just as you want it. I’m sure Sir Harold took no more notice of me +last night than if I were the plainest gawky that ever emerged from a +third-rate boarding-school. And I daresay he has only come to-day in +the hope of seeing _that_ Miss Westford.” + +“What!” shrieked Mrs. Trevor, almost hysterically. “You don’t mean +to tell me that Sir Harold would presume to come to my house for +the purpose of paying his addresses to your governess! Nonsense, +Anastasia, you are really too absurd.” + +No more could be said, for the Baronet was announced, and the two +ladies turned to receive him with their brightest smiles. + +“My dear Sir Harold, how very kind of you to call to-day!” exclaimed +the widow. + +“Your party was so charming, Mrs. Trevor, that I really could not +delay coming to tell you how thoroughly I enjoyed myself, and to +express a hope that neither you nor your daughters were fatigued +by your exertions in our behalf,” answered the young man. “How +magnificently Miss Trevor sang!” he added, bowing to Anastasia; “and +Miss Theodosia; and that other young lady, Miss Westford--what a +lovely voice she has!” + +Anastasia crimsoned with anger. The Baronet did not even attempt to +conceal his admiration of Violet. Mrs. Trevor’s indignation knew no +bounds, and yet she contrived to smile sweetly at the Baronet. + +_Nil desperandum_ is the motto of every manœuvring mother; and +Mrs. Trevor was by no means disposed to abandon her hopes at the +first disappointment. Even though Sir Harold admired the penniless +governess, a little clever management and an unlimited amount of +flattery might change the current of his fancies, and bring him to +the feet of Anastasia. + +This is what Mrs. Trevor thought; and this hope inspired her with +heroic courage. + +The Baronet talked of general subjects for some little time. He +discussed the operas, the picture galleries, the botanical fêtes, +the delights of a Sunday afternoon at the “Zoo,” the Toxophilite +Society’s field-days in the neighbouring park, and the movements +of the Royal Family, in the most conventional strain of polite +commonplace; but Mrs. Trevor could see that he talked at random, +and that he was thinking of other subjects than those in which he +pretended to be interested. At last he broke out suddenly, without +any reference to his previous conversation: + +“What a charming girl that Miss Westford is! I never saw any one I so +much admired. She is so lovely, so modest, so completely unconscious +of her own beauty! She is really the most bewitching creature I ever +beheld; and O, my dear Mrs. Trevor, if you wish to render me your +grateful and devoted slave, pray introduce me to that charming girl’s +family! I want so much to know them, that I may have the opportunity +of seeing more of her.” + +“Sir Harold, I really am at a loss to----” + +“O, pray do not misunderstand me, my dear Mrs. Trevor. You surely +cannot think that I should feel any less respect for that sweet +girl, because I find her in a dependent position--going away from a +party on foot, and all that kind of thing. No, Mrs. Trevor, I am not +the man to be influenced by any consideration of that sort. I am no +aristocrat, as you and all the world know very well indeed. My father +won his position by sheer hard work, and there’s a blundering old +wheelbarrow kept in a lumber room at Ivry Place, which my grandfather +used to wheel when he was a navvy, and helped to make the Slopsall +Canal down in our county. So, you see, it wouldn’t do for me to +give myself airs. I am rich, independent, and can afford to marry +the woman I love, if I am only so happy as to win her regard. Under +these circumstances, Mrs. Trevor, I am sure you will believe me when +I declare the honourable nature of my intentions with regard to Miss +Westford; and I know you are just the kind of warm-hearted woman to +be fond of that feminine amusement called match-making. You’ll not +refuse to introduce me to her family, will you now?” + +No words can describe Mrs. Trevor’s rage and mortification as she +listened to this speech. Here was the wealthy Baronet, whom she +had intended to win as a husband for her own daughter, utterly +indifferent to Anastasia’s charms, and ready to throw himself at the +feet of a friendless orphan girl, whom he had only seen once in his +life. The fashionable widow was past-mistress of all the hypocrisies +of polished society. She contrived, therefore, to conceal her +aggravation, and looked at Sir Harold with a countenance expressive +only of the most profound sympathy. + +“My dear Sir Harold,” she exclaimed, with a long-drawn sigh, “I pity +you--I do indeed pity you. Nothing could be more charming than the +sentiments which you so eloquently express. I only regret that they +should be wasted upon an unworthy object.” + +“An unworthy object, Mrs. Trevor!” cried the Baronet; “what do you +mean?” + +“I have only this morning dismissed Miss Westford from my employment +as an unfit associate for my dear children.” + +Annabella Trevor gave a little shiver of horror as she spoke. The +Baronet turned pale, and the widow saw that her poisoned arrow had +gone home to its mark. + +“You dismissed her!” exclaimed Sir Harold. “An unfit associate! But +how?” + +“_That_ I decline to tell you,” answered Mrs. Trevor, with supreme +dignity. “There are secrets which no honourable woman can ever bring +herself to reveal. I will not sully my lips by repeating what has +passed between Miss Westford and myself. It is enough for you to know +that she was dismissed from this house--and in disgrace.” + +“But the nature of that disgrace, Mrs. Trevor?” asked the Baronet, in +an almost imploring tone. + +“_That_, I must repeat, I decline to tell you; and I must beg you, +as a gentleman, not to press the question,” answered the lady with +dignity. “Surely, Sir Harold, you cannot doubt my word?” + +“Doubt you, Mrs. Trevor! O, no, no. What motive could you possibly +have for blighting the fair fame of this poor girl? I _cannot_ doubt +you. But the blow is very bitter to me. A few days ago, I should +have ridiculed the mere idea of love at first sight; and yet I +believe, upon my word, that I am as deeply attached to Miss Westford +as if I had known her for half a lifetime. And to discover that she +is unworthy of an honest man’s regard! O, Mrs. Trevor, you cannot +imagine how cruelly I feel this disappointment!” + +In his almost boyish candour, the Baronet made no attempt to conceal +the state of his feelings. Anastasia looked at him with mingled +contempt and anger. She had always envied and disliked Violet +Westford for her superior beauty; but now she hated her with as +fierce a hatred as ever raged in a woman’s breast. + +Sir Harold Ivry rose to take leave. + +“I fear I have made a fool of myself, and that you must really +despise me, ladies,” he said, blushing crimson, as he remembered the +emotion he had betrayed; “but I am a spoiled child of fortune, and I +am not used to disappointment--and I am the worst possible hand at +keeping a secret. Forgive me for having bored you with my affairs. +Good morning.” + +He shook hands with both the ladies, and was about to leave; but Mrs. +Trevor was not inclined to let him escape so easily. + +“You will dine with us to-morrow evening, I hope, Sir Harold, and +escort us to Covent Garden, where my dear friend Lady Mordaunt has +given me her box. Pray don’t say you are engaged elsewhere. Anastasia +knows you are an excellent musical critic, and wants to hear your +opinion of the new opera.” + +The young man hesitated for some moments, but at last accepted the +invitation. + +He did not do so from any regard for Mrs. Trevor or her daughter, +but because he still cherished the hope that from them he should +discover the truth about Violet Westford. He left the house very +much depressed and disheartened by what he had heard, and ashamed of +his impetuous devotion, now that he had been told that its object +was base and unworthy. He had been accustomed to find life the +pleasantest, easiest kind of affair, like a royal progress by special +train, with a saloon-carriage fitted by Jackson and Graham to repose +in, and all the stations draped with red cloth and festooned with +garlands in honour of the favoured traveller. To-day, for the first +time, he discovered that there is happiness which wealth cannot +purchase, and his disappointment was even keener than that of the +young spendthrift, who wanted a box for the opera on one of Jenny +Lind’s field-nights, and offered a hundred pounds for the object of +his desire, only to be told that it was impossible of attainment +even at that price; whereupon he left Mr. Mitchell’s shop, murmuring +dolefully, “By Jove, there’s something that money won’t buy!” + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +VIOLET RESOLVES UPON ENTERING A NEW SPHERE. + + +A cloud fell upon the little household in the purlieus of the +Waterloo-road. Violet sought for fresh employment, but in vain. She +was incapable of uttering a falsehood, and she did not attempt to +conceal the fact of her having lately quitted Mrs. Montague Trevor’s +employment. + +In every case she was asked for a reference to her late employer, and +when she refused to refer to Mrs. Trevor, people shook their heads. +The case looked suspicious, and no one would have anything to say to +the helpless girl, whose youth and beauty were additional obstacles +to her success. + +Thus Violet found herself with a blighted character, helpless and +friendless, in the vast city of London. + +Now for the first time the poor girl’s heart failed; her courage +gave way. Her enforced idleness gave her time for thought, and she +sat brooding upon her fate for hours together, until a profound +melancholy took possession of her. + +She had lost so much--a doting father; a betrothed lover, in whom +she had so fondly trusted--it was scarcely strange that she should +feel her life very hopeless and desolate, even though her mother and +Lionel were still left to her. + +Once, and once only, she had written to George Stanmore, at the +Poste Restante, Bruges. She had written to him, telling him of her +father’s death, and the sad changes of fortune which had followed +that calamity. In a spirit of mingled pride and generosity she had +released her lover from the engagement that bound him to her. + +No answer had come to that letter. Violet could only imagine that Mr. +Stanmore had left Bruges, or that he accepted her release in silence. +The pain of this thought was very bitter; but Violet Westford was +becoming used to sorrow. Neither her mother nor Lionel suspected the +existence of that hidden grief, which made a dull aching anguish in +the girl’s breast. + +And in the meantime they were poor, very poor. Toil as she might with +her skilful needle, Clara Westford could earn very little towards the +support of that small household; and Lionel’s earnings as a copyist +of law-papers were very uncertain. It was only by the most unfailing +economy that this once prosperous family were able to pay the rent of +the pitiful lodging, and obtain the commonest necessaries of life. + +To Violet enforced idleness was almost insupportable. She saw those +she loved toiling through the long weary days--hot summer days, whose +sunshine brought back the remembrance of the shadowy gardens about +the Grange, the cool depths of the forest, those deep and sheltered +glades in which she had spent such careless hours of happiness with +George Stanmore. When she saw her mother and Lionel toiling in their +close, dingy London lodging, and felt that she could do nothing to +help them, despair took possession of her heart. + +Every day she answered fresh advertisements in the _Times_ newspaper, +the hire of which from a neighbouring stationer cost her a penny a +day. Every day she walked weary miles, in order to form one of the +crowd of helpless girls, highly educated and tenderly reared, whom +the iron hand of poverty has thrust out upon the hard world of London. + +But her perseverance was of no avail. Without a reference to her +former employer, no one would venture to trust in her. Even her +beauty--that gift so precious for the pampered child of a luxurious +home--became an impediment to her success, and gave rise to cruel +suspicions about her in the minds of the worldly-wise. + +She had doubtless been dismissed from her last situation because of +some imprudence--or perhaps something worse than imprudence--which +rendered her unfit to be the companion and guardian of innocence. + +After efforts that would have almost exhausted the patience of a +martyr, Violet’s hope and courage at last failed her altogether, +and she gave up all thought of obtaining another situation. She was +crushed and bowed to the very earth under the burden of despair. + +It was on a glorious day in August that this sense of utter +hopelessness took possession of her mind. She had walked to Hampstead +that morning, after breakfasting on a little dry bread and a +teacupful of milk. She had walked from the Waterloo-road to the +breezy Heath at Hampstead, and had presented herself before noon at +a pretentious villa, only to be told by its prosperous mistress that +she was a great deal too young for the situation. + +“There was no age stated in the advertisement, madam,” poor Violet +pleaded almost piteously; “and I can assure you that I possess all +the accomplishments required, or I should not have applied for the +situation.” + +“Very likely,” answered the lady of the villa, who was the wife of +an ironmonger at the West-end; “very likely you have a school-girl’s +smattering of the accomplishments I require; but I could not possibly +intrust my children’s education to a person of your age, and I really +consider it almost an impertinence in a girl of nineteen to apply for +such a position as governess in a house of this kind.” + +The lady tossed her head contemptuously as she uttered this speech. +Had there been one spark of womanly feeling in her breast, she +might have seen that poor Violet was well-nigh exhausted from sheer +fatigue, and ready to drop fainting to the floor. She might have +seen the mute anguish pourtrayed in the girl’s face; and she might +at least have offered a glass of wine from her well-stocked cellar, +and a few words of sympathy and comfort from one Christian woman to +another. + +“Alas for the rarity of Christian charity” in this hard world! The +lady of the villa only rang the bell, and desired her servant to show +the “young person” out. Poor Violet found a seat upon the Heath, +where she was able to rest for some time, in order to regain strength +for the long homeward walk. There was no occasion for haste; why +should she hurry home, when she had no good tidings for those whom +she loved? She had only the old cruel story to tell--the story of +failure and disappointment. + +She sat for a long time, gazing dreamily at the dark roofs and +steeples of the city, which were half hidden under a cloud of smoke +in the valley beneath her. Then at last she rose, and walked slowly +and despondently homewards. + +The walk was a very long one; and the way she went took her across +Long-acre and into Bow-street, which she entered at about three +o’clock in the afternoon, dusty with her long walk in the high-road, +pale and exhausted with fatigue. + +Bow-street was very busy at this hour of the afternoon. A series of +cheap performances were being given at the close of the Covent-Garden +opera-season, and people were buying tickets and engaging boxes for +the night’s entertainment. + +Bow-street is the centre of the theatrical world of London. In this +street the dramatic agents have their offices, and to those offices +flock all classes of the theatrical profession, from the provincial +Macready, who is only waiting to get an innings in order to set the +town in a blaze, and who enters the official chamber with a pompous +tragedy stalk, to the timid amateur aspirant for dramatic fame, +who has never yet set foot upon a public stage, and who announces +his approach by a faint nervous cough, expressive of profound +self-abasement. + +The street is redolent of the footlights. Here the theatrical +wigmaker exhibits the flowing _chevelure_ of roistering +Charles Stuart--that supreme favourite of _vaudeville_ and +_commedietta_--side by side with the oily locks of _Tartuffe_, or +the close-cropped poll of Jack Sheppard. There the theatrical hosier +displays the sacred mysteries of his art, and treacherously reveals +the means by which art and cotton-wool can supply the deficiencies of +nature. Close at hand the theatrical gold-lace maker sets forth his +glittering wares, and allows the vulgar eye to gloat upon the diadem +of a Richard, and the jewelled sword-hilt of a Romeo. Next door hang +Beauty’s robes, limp and dowdy of aspect when untenanted by their +fair mistress. Everywhere the specialty of the street reveals itself. + +Walking slowly down this street, Violet Westford glanced, in sheer +absence of mind, at the big brass plate upon the door of a dramatic +agent’s offices. + +A dramatic agent! It was only after a few moments’ reflection that +she understood what the term meant. + +A dramatic agent, of course, must be a person whose business it is to +procure situations for actors and actresses. + +A sudden and desperate fancy entered Violet’s brain. She knew that +people earned money, sometimes a great deal of money, by acting. She +had read novels in which lovely young creatures, with a taste for +histrionics, had walked straight from their domestic retirement on +to the stage of Drury Lane, to take the town by storm on their first +appearance, and to be the delight and glory of the universe, until +prevailed upon to exchange the triumphs of the drama for the social +successes of fashionable life by an adoring duke, who languishes to +lay his strawberry leaves and rent-roll at their feet. + +Why should she not be an actress? She was rejected on every side as a +governess. In her despair, she would have been almost willing to have +swept a crossing, if by so doing she might have helped her mother and +Lionel. + +Why should she not be an actress? The thought was not quite so wild +as it seemed. Violet Westford had often acted in amateur theatricals +in pleasant country-houses near the Grange, and at merry Christmas +gatherings in her own home. She had shown considerable talent +upon these occasions, and had been much admired and applauded for +that talent; and she had no idea of the width of that gulf which +divides the clever young actress of the domestic charade from the +hard-working artist who woos public favour. + +She remembered her social successes--not with any feeling of vanity, +but as one last wild hope, to which, in the depth of her despair, she +was ready to cling, as the drowning sailor clings to the frailest +plank that ever floated on a blustrous ocean. + +Acting on the impulse of the moment, she seemed inspired by a +boldness that was strange to her. She entered the open doorway +by which she had seen the brass plate, and went up an uncarpeted +staircase leading to the first-floor. Here she saw the word “office” +painted upon a door opposite to her. She knocked timidly, and a +voice, that sounded harsh and abrupt in her unaccustomed ears, told +her to enter. + +She went into the room, and found herself in the presence of a man +of about five-and-thirty years of age, who was sitting at a table +writing, with a heap of papers, open letters, and many-coloured +playbills lying about him. + +The walls of the room were adorned with big rainbow-hued playbills +and theatrical portraits. In one of the curtainless windows a +foppishly dressed man was lounging, with his back to the interior of +the room. + +The agent looked up from his writing, and bowed to Violet; but he did +not speak. He evidently waited for her to state her business. + +The poor girl’s courage failed her all at once. Physically exhausted +by her long and weary walk, she was not capable of any very heroic +mental effort. She dropped into the chair to which the agent pointed. +Her lips moved tremulously; but she could not speak. + +Fortunately, the agent was by no means an ill-natured man. He saw +Violet’s embarrassment, and came to her relief. + +“You want an engagement, I suppose?” he said. + +“Yes,” faltered Violet. + +“Very good. You’ve brought some bills with you, I suppose?” + +“Bills, sir? I----” + +“Yes; bills from the theatre where you were last engaged. What’s +your line of business? The juvenile lead, I suppose, or first +walking-ladies, hay? Where have you been acting lately?” + +Violet shook her head. + +“I have never acted in any theatre,” she said. “I have only acted in +private theatricals at the houses of my friends.” + +“What!” cried the agent. “Do you mean to say you’ve never acted on a +public stage?” + +“Never.” + +Mr. Henry de Lancy, the agent, who had been born a Higgins, gave a +long whistle, expressive of extreme surprise. + +“Then you’re a regular amateur, my dear girl,” he said, “and as +ignorant as a baby. I don’t suppose the manager of any theatre in +England would care to engage you--unless you were willing to go for a +month or so on trial, without any salary.” + +Without any salary! Violet’s heart sank in her breast. It was the +salary, and the salary alone, she wanted. She did not wish to exhibit +herself before a gaping crowd. She only wanted to earn money for +those she loved. + +“You don’t seem to like the idea,” said Mr. de Lancy. “Most young +ladies like you are very glad to get the chance of acting, and would +often be willing even to pay for it. Indeed, there are many of them +who do pay--and pretty stiffly too.” + +“Perhaps so,” Violet answered sadly; “but I am very poor, and I want +to earn money. I thought that I could get a salary as an actress.” + +“And so you can, my dear, when you’ve learnt how to act; but acting +is an art, like every other art, and must be learnt by experience. If +you like to go to some little country theatre, and play small parts +for a couple of months without any payment, in order to get a little +accustomed to your business, I’ll look over my books and see if I can +manage the matter for you.” + +“A country theatre, sir!” exclaimed Violet, “and no salary! O, that +is quite useless for me. I want to be in London, with my mother, and +I _must_ earn money.” + +The agent flung himself back in his chair with a half-contemptuous +shrug of his shoulders. + +“You want impossibilities, my dear young lady,” he said. “I can’t be +of any use to you. Good afternoon.” + +He dipped his pen in the ink, and went on with his writing. Violet +rose to leave the room. She began to think that the career of an +actress must be attended with as many difficulties as that of a +governess. + +But as she stood on the threshold of the door, the man who had been +lounging in the window, and who had turned round to stare at her +during this brief scene, suddenly addressed her. + +“Stop a bit, my dear,” he said. “Just sit down five minutes, will +you?--De Lancy, my boy, what a fool you are!” he added, addressing +the agent. + +Mr. de Lancy looked up from his writing. + +“What do you mean?” he asked. + +“Why, what a confounded fool you must be not to see that this young +lady is the very person we want at the Cir!” + +“The Cir” was an abbreviation of the Circenses; and this gentleman +was no less an individual than Mr. Maltravers, the stage-manager of +the Circenses Theatre. + +“What for?” asked the agent. + +“Why, for the Queen of Beauty, to be sure, in the new burlesque. +Haven’t I been hunting all over London for a pretty girl, and haven’t +you sent me all sorts of guys and dowdies to apply for the situation? +and isn’t this young lady Venus herself in a straw bonnet?” + +Violet blushed crimson. The stage-manager smiled as he perceived her +confusion. + +“You’ll get used to this sort of thing by-and-by, my dear,” he said. +“Now, let us understand each other. You want to be engaged at a +London theatre?” + +“I do, sir.” + +“And you’ve never been on any stage in your life?” + +“Never.” + +“Then all I can tell you is this: the first moment you tried to open +those pretty lips of yours before a London audience you would find it +almost as difficult to speak three words as if you had been born deaf +and dumb. You think because you’ve read Shakespeare, and acted in a +charade now and then among your friends, that you only want a chance +in order to burst upon the world as a modern Siddons. But that kind +of thing is not quite so easy as you imagine. No, my dear young lady, +acting isn’t an accomplishment that comes natural to people, any more +than playing the piano, or painting pictures, or speaking foreign +languages. Acting must be learnt, my dear, and it isn’t learnt in a +day.” + +Violet looked despairingly at the speaker, who said all this in the +airiest and pleasantest manner. + +“What am I to do, then, sir?” she asked piteously. “I have no time to +learn an art. I want to earn money, and at once.” + +“And you shall earn some money, my dear, and very easily too,” +replied the stage-manager. + +“O, sir, tell me what you mean!” exclaimed Violet, who was bewildered +by the stage-manager’s vivacity. + +“What would you say if I were to pay you eighteen shillings a week +for sitting in a golden temple for ten minutes every night, in one of +the most splendid dresses that was ever made in a theatre? What would +you say to appearing as the Queen of Beauty in the last scene of our +burlesque? You’ll have nothing to say; you’ll have nothing to do, but +sit still and allow the audience to admire you; and you will be paid +the liberal sum of eighteen shillings a week. What do you say, young +lady? Do you accept my offer?” + +“O yes, yes; most willingly,” answered Violet. + +Eighteen shillings a week--nearly double the amount of Mrs. Trevor’s +miserable salary! Violet was only too eager to secure so much +prosperity. + +“I accept your offer, and with gratitude!” she exclaimed. + +Then, suddenly, the flush of excitement faded from her face, and she +grew very pale. Would her mother and Lionel--proud, high-spirited +Lionel--would those two, who loved her so dearly, ever consent that +she should earn money in this manner? Could the young Oxonian--so +quick to feel the humiliation of those he loved--permit his sister to +be stared at by an audience who paid for the privilege of criticising +or admiring her? + +“Surely, when we are so poor, they would scarcely object to any +honest means by which I could earn money,” Violet thought. + +But she dared not decide the question without her mother’s permission. + +“Will you give me time to consult my friends?” she said. “I was too +hasty in what I said just now. I cannot accept your offer without my +mother’s consent.” + +“Very right and proper,” answered the stage-manager approvingly. “But +you must get your mother’s permission between this and eleven o’clock +to-morrow morning, or I shall be obliged to find another young lady +for the Queen of Beauty. I suppose you can come to me at the theatre +by half-past ten o’clock to-morrow?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Very well, then; there’s my card. You must go to the stage-door, and +if you give that to the door-keeper, he’ll send you to me directly. +Mind you are punctual, for there are plenty of people anxious for the +situation. All the ugliest ballet-girls in London fancy themselves +the very thing for the Queen of Beauty.” + +Violet promised to be punctual. There was a fee due to Mr. de Lancy; +but when that gentleman found the poor girl was penniless, he very +good-naturedly volunteered to wait until she had received her first +week’s salary. + +Violet hurried homewards after this interview, rejoiced beyond +measure at having the chance of help held out to her. She told her +mother and Lionel of what had happened, and implored them to lay +aside all prejudice at a time when poverty in its worst bitterness +had entered their household. + +At first, both Mrs. Westford and Lionel were strongly averse to her +proposition; but little by little the girl won their consent. + +Lionel’s concurrence was given unwillingly, even at the last; it +stung him to the very quick to think that his sister should be +obliged to earn money by exhibiting her lovely face to a careless, +perhaps insolent crowd. But when he looked at his mother’s careworn +countenance, the beautiful lines of which were already sharpened by +the cruel hand of want, his courage gave way, and he burst into a +passion of tears--those tears which seem so terrible when they flow +from the eyes of a brave man. + +“Do as you will, Violet!” he exclaimed, dashing those bitter drops +away with a hasty passionate gesture. “How can we refuse the help of +your feeble hands? I am a man; I have received an education which +cost my father a small fortune; and yet, work as I may, I cannot earn +enough to keep my mother and sister from penury.” + +Thus it was that Violet presented herself at the stage-door of the +Circenses at the appointed hour on the following morning. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +BEHIND THE SCENES. + + +To Violet Westford scarcely anything could have been more trying than +the ordeal which she now had to undergo. What scene could be more +strange to this delicate-minded, home-bred, carefully nurtured girl, +than the busy world behind the curtain in a great London theatre? + +The door-keeper of the Circenses received the card which she +presented to him, and, after uttering some half-sulky, half-insolent +remark, gave her into the charge of a dirty boy, who was to take +her upstairs to the stage, where she would find Mr. Maltravers, the +stage-manager. + +Poor Violet was almost bewildered by the many dark passages along +which her conductor led her. There seemed scarcely a gleam of the +summer sunlight in all the great building, and the underground +passages smelt like vaults or charnel-houses--charnel-houses in +which there was a perpetual escape of gas, mingled with that odour +of corduroy and shoe-leather which the working classes are apt to +leave behind them, and which a very witty lady once spoke of as their +_esprit de corps_. + +At last the dirty boy led the way up a little break-neck staircase, +opened a slamming wooden door, and ushered Violet into a corner, +where crowds of shabbily dressed men and women were lounging amongst +heaps of piled-up scenery. + +These men and women were the inferiors and subordinates of the +company--the banner bearers and supernumeraries who appear in grand +processions, and the ill-paid girls who fill up the stage in crowded +scenes. + +Many of these girls were dressed neatly and plainly; others were +distinguished by a tawdry shabbiness--a cheap finery of costume; but +there were some girls whom Violet saw lounging together in little +groups, whose attire would have scarcely seemed out of place upon +women of rank and wealth--handsome girls some of them; and they +looked at the stranger’s shabby mourning dress with a supercilious +stare. + +Violet had to stand for some time amongst these different groups, +waiting until it should please the stage-manager to come to her. + +That gentleman was working as hard as it is possible for a man to +work; running from one side of the great stage to the other; giving +directions here, there, and everywhere; abusing those whose stupidity +or neglect annoyed him; giving a hasty word of praise now and then; +answering questions, writing letters, correcting the rough proofs of +playbills, looking at scenery; stooping over the orchestra to say a +few words to the _répétiteur_; and appearing to do a dozen things at +once, so quickly did he pass from one task to another. + +Little by little Violet became accustomed to the half-darkness of the +place, which was only illumined by the glare of a row of lamps at the +edge of the stage, technically known as the “float.” + +As she grew better able to distinguish objects around her, she felt +still more keenly the strangeness of her position. The handsomely +attired girls stared at her, always with the same supercilious gaze; +and at last one of them, after looking at her fixedly for some +time, addressed her. She was a beautiful, dark-eyed, Jewish-looking +girl, and her costume was more extravagant than that of any of her +companions. + +A train of mauve moire antique, bordered with a deep flounce of the +richest block lace, trailed upon the dirty boards of the theatre. +Over this dress the Jewess wore a lace shawl of the costliest +description; and a small white-chip bonnet, adorned with mauve +feathers and silver butterflies, crowned her queen-like head. + +She was a magnificent looking woman--a woman who might have +graced a throne; but there was something almost terrible in her +beauty--something that sent a thrill of indefinable pain and terror +through the heart of the thoughtful observer. + +Her dark eyes had an ominous lustre; there was a hectic bloom upon +her oval cheek, and that cheek, perfect though its outline still was, +had a sunken look that presaged ill. + +A physician would have said that the stamp of decay was upon this +splendid creature, the foreshadowing of an early death. + +“Pray, are you engaged here?” she asked of Violet; “because, unless +you are engaged, you will not be allowed to stand in this wing. It is +against the rules for strangers to hang about the theatre.” + +There was an insolence in the girl’s tone which aroused Violet +Westford’s innate dignity. + +She replied very quietly, but with perfect self-possession. + +“I am here because I have been told to come here,” she said. + +“By whom?” + +“By Mr. Maltravers.” + +“O, indeed!” exclaimed the Jewess; “then in that case I suppose you +are engaged?” + +“I believe so.” + +“For what?” + +“To appear in the new burlesque.” + +The Jewess flushed crimson, and an angry light gleamed in her +splendid eyes. + +“What!” she exclaimed, “then I suppose you are to be the Queen of +Beauty in the grand tableau?” + +“So Mr. Maltravers told me.” + +The Jewess laughed--a hollow laugh, that was very painful to hear. +To sit in the golden temple, as the representative of all that is +lovely, the observed of all observers, had been Esther Vanberg’s +ambition. She was the handsomest girl in the theatre, and she fully +expected to be chosen for this distinction. So when she found a +stranger was about to be engaged, she flew to Mr. Maltravers, and +complained to him bitterly of an arrangement which she declared to be +a deliberate insult to herself. + +The stage-manager was a thorough man of the world, accustomed to deal +with all the different airs and graces of the company under his rule. + +He shrugged his shoulders, paid the handsome Jewess some very +high-flown compliments, but told her he wanted her to fill another +part of the tableau, and that he must have a new lady for the Queen +of Beauty. + +The truth of the matter was, that in the opinion of Mr. Maltravers +the beauty of Esther Vanberg was on the wane. She was very well known +to the regular audience at the Circenses, and, handsome though she +was, people might be, perhaps, just a little tired of her beauty. + +Beyond this, there was something in Esther’s beauty that was almost +demoniac in character--something which reflected the reckless +wildness of her life and the violence of her temper. Mr. Maltravers +had the eye of an artist. His taste in the composition of a stage +picture was scarcely inferior to that of Vestris herself, beneath +whose despotic sway he had served his apprenticeship in the art of +stage management. For the central figure of his tableau he wanted a +woman whose beauty should possess the charm of youth and innocence. +Thus it was that he had been peculiarly struck by the appearance of +Violet Westford. He was a hard, worldly-minded man of business, but +he was devoted to the dramatic art, and he held the interests of the +theatre before every other consideration. + +He came off the stage presently, and made his way to the spot where +Esther and Violet were standing. + +“Good morning, my dear,” he said to Violet, addressing her with +a fatherly familiarity that was entirely free from impertinence. +“I’m very glad to see you. You’ve made up your mind to accept the +engagement?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Very well, then; go upstairs to the wardrobe--any one will show you +the way--and ask Mrs. Clements to measure you for your new dress. +You can take this,” he added, scrawling a few words in pencil on the +back of a card. “Mrs. C. knows all about the dress. There, run along, +that’s a good girl.” + +Before Violet could reply, Mr. Maltravers had returned to the centre +of the stage, and was busy among the scene-shifters. A good-natured +looking, gentle-voiced girl, very simply but yet very neatly +dressed, who had been sitting in a dark corner of the side-scenes +working crochet, came forward and offered to conduct Violet to the +wardrobe-room, and the two set out together. + +It was a long journey--up staircases that seemed interminable to +Violet; but at last they arrived at a great, bare whitewashed +apartment, immediately under the roof of the theatre--an apartment +which was littered from one end to the other with scraps of +gorgeous-hued satin and glittering tissue, spangles, ribbons, and +gold-lace. About twenty women were at work here, and to one of these +Violet was conducted. + +Mr. Maltravers’s card produced an immediate effect. The +wardrobe-mistress left her work, and proceeded to take Violet’s +measure for the dress. She was in raptures with the young girl’s +appearance, and told her she would look lovely in a robe of silver +tissue, spangled with stars, and with draperies of rose-coloured +crape. + +“The dress will be perfection, miss, _per_fection, and will just suit +your beautiful fair skin. Now don’t you let any of the ballet-ladies +persuade you to plaster your face with _blanc de perle_, or _blanc +Rosati_, or _blanc de_ something, as most of them do, until their +faces have about us much expression as you’ll see in a whitewashed +wall. I shall take great pains with the costume, for I know Mr. +Maltravers has set his heart upon the Temple of Beauty being a great +success. My youngest little girl is to be one of the Cupids, and +she does nothing but talk of it at home. She went on in last year’s +pantomime as the Singing Oyster, and did _so_ well, bless her dear +little heart!” + +To Violet all this talk was utterly strange. Already she began to +look forward with fear to her first appearance on a public stage; but +for the sake of those she loved she would have dared more than the +ordeal before her. + +She went downstairs, and at the back of the stage met Mr. Maltravers, +who told her to come at ten o’clock the next morning for the +rehearsal of the new burlesque. + +“O, by the bye,” he said, “what name shall I put down in the cast? +You never told me your name.” + +“My name is Wes----,” Violet began; but she stopped abruptly, +remembering that the subordinate position she was about to occupy in +that theatre would be a kind of disgrace to her lost father’s name. + +The stage-manager seemed to guess the nature of her scruples. + +“You are not obliged to give me your real name, my dear,” he said +kindly; “if you like to take a false name, you can do so. Most +actresses and ladies of the ballet assume false names: they have +generally some relations or friends who object to their appearance +on the stage--straitlaced people, you know, who fancy that the +stage-door is the entrance to a kind of Tophet.” + +“You are very good, sir. I should not wish my position here to be +known,” Violet faltered. “I honour and admire the dramatic art, and +those who profess it; but as my position in the theatre will be a +very humble one, I shall be glad to keep my name a secret. You can +call me Watson, if you please, Mr. Maltravers.” + +“Very well, my dear; so be it. You will be known here as Miss Watson. +And don’t you be put out if Esther Vanberg gives herself airs because +you’ve been chosen for the best place in the tableau. You just attend +to your business, and if Vanberg annoys you, come to me, and I’ll +take my lady down a peg or two.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +CRUEL KINDNESS. + + +While Violet began her lowly career at the Circenses, Lionel made a +new effort to earn a few pounds. His powers as an artist were of no +mean order, and he made a desperate attempt to turn his talents to +some account. He gathered together a little bundle of sketches, some +in water-colours, some in pen-and-ink, but all of them exhibiting +considerable dash and talent: sporting sketches, military sketches, +graceful groups _à la_ Watteau, cavaliers in the ever-picturesque +costume of the Restoration, all the work of happy hours at the +Grange. With this bundle under his arm, Lionel Westford sallied +forth one wet afternoon in quest of some enterprising dealer in art. + +Never had the streets of London looked duller or dingier than they +did to-day. There were few carriages even in the best thoroughfares, +and the muddy foot-passengers who trod wearily upon the sloppy +pavement seemed all of them more or less at odds with fortune. + +Lionel Westford crossed Waterloo Bridge and made his way by different +short cuts to Regent-street. + +Here, as well as in the meaner quarters of the town, the +foot-passengers might suffer all the inconvenience and discomfort of +muddy pavements and perpetual rain; but pampered beauty, rolling here +and there in her luxurious carriage, could descend therefrom to be +sheltered by the huge umbrella held by a deferential footman, and to +be escorted into a shop as elegantly and as comfortably furnished as +a West-end drawing-room. + +Lionel entered the shop of a fashionable printseller. It was +comparatively empty, and he was able to make his way at once to +the counter, where the principal was busily occupied sorting some +engravings in a portfolio. + +Three or four fashionable-looking men were lounging near the door, +and glanced with supreme indifference at the shabbily-dressed +stranger, whose threadbare coat and shining hat, dripping with rain, +too palpably betrayed his poverty. + +Lionel Westford approached the counter, and after a few preliminary +words, opened his portfolio. + +The printseller looked at the sketches readily enough. They were very +clever, he said; they gave indications of great talent, but unluckily +they were not wanted; there were plenty of such things to be had, +done by the regular people. + +Lionel Westford’s cheek grew paler as he saw his last hope deserting +him. + +“Can you not give me some kind of employment?” he asked, with a +feverish energy. “You think, perhaps, I shall want high prices for +what I do. You are mistaken. I will work for starvation wages, and +work untiringly--I only ask you to give me a chance.” + +The printseller shook his head decisively. + +“Quite impossible,” he said. “I have more of these kind of things in +my stock than I shall be able to sell in a twelvemonth. Photography +has quite superseded this kind of work. The fashion for scrap-books +has gone out.” + +“But if I were to paint a more important picture----” + +“There would be no market for it, my good young man. You must have +some kind of reputation as an artist before you can expect your +pictures to sell,” answered the shopkeeper impatiently. + +Lionel shut his portfolio, and turned away from the counter with a +feeling of heart-sickness in his breast. None, save those who have +endured such disappointments, can tell their anguish. + +His face was deadly pale; his lips contracted rigidly; and there was +an angry look in his eyes. He was in the humour which would have sent +a Frenchman on the first stage of that fatal journey which halts at +the _filets de St. Cloud_, to make its dismal end in the darksome +cells of the Morgue. + +As he turned from the counter he found himself face to face with a +woman--a woman whose beauty startled him by its splendour. + +Never before had he seen a face that seemed to him so wondrous in +its magical charm. It was not an English type of beauty. The large, +almond-shaped eyes, darkly lustrous yet soft and dewy even in their +lustre, were like the eyes of a Madonna by Correggio. The rich +complexion was foreign in its clear olive tint. The hair, simply +dressed under a pink crape bonnet, was of that bluish-black which a +painter would choose for the massy tresses of an Assyrian queen. + +This Spanish-looking divinity was dressed in the height of fashion +and the perfection of taste, as it seemed to Lionel Westford, whose +artistic eye took in every detail of her appearance, even in that +dreary crisis of his fate. His own troubles and perplexities vanished +out of his mind as he looked at this unknown beauty, and he was +wholly absorbed by the painter’s delight in loveliness of form and +colour. + +The young lady wore a dress of some silken material, in which violet +and silvery grey were artfully intermingled. A priceless cashmere +shawl draped her perfect figure, lending itself to those diagonal +lines which are agreeable to the painter’s eye. Close behind this +brilliant demoiselle appeared a stout but very stately matron +of the chaperone class--the kind of person created for domestic +surveillance--the modern form under which the dragon of the famous +garden guards the unapproachable fruit. + +Lionel Westford was scarcely conscious of this latter lady’s +presence. It was the young beauty whose sudden appearance bewildered +him, as he turned away, despairing, from the printseller’s counter. + +He gazed for some moments upon the unknown beauty, dazzled by her +splendour, and then passed hastily on. He wanted to leave the +shop--he felt eager to withdraw himself from the influence of that +beauteous face. It seemed to him as if there was something almost +stifling in the atmosphere. What had he to do with such a creature +as this pampered and doubtless high-bred beauty?--he, a beggar, an +outcast, a kind of Pariah, by reason of his poverty? + +He would have passed out of the shop; but, to his utter +bewilderment, the fashionable beauty followed him towards the door, +after a brief whispered disputation with the elder lady, and laid +her little gloved hand upon the damp sleeve of his shabby coat. The +gesture was only momentary. The slim fingers touched him as lightly +as a butterfly’s wing; and yet a kind of thrill seemed to vibrate +through his veins. + +“Do not go just yet,” pleaded a low earnest voice; “I should be glad +to speak with you for a few minutes.” + +“I am quite at your service, madam.” + +At her service! How cold and formal the words sounded as he uttered +them! What was she to him but a stranger, whose face had shone upon +him for the first time only five minutes ago? And yet he felt as if +he could have surrendered his life to give her pleasure. He stood +with his hat in his hand, waiting until she should address him. + +If he was embarrassed, she was still more so. The rich crimson +blood rushed to her cheeks--the dark fringes drooped over her eyes. +And yet the impulse that stirred her heart was only one of womanly +compassion; it was pity alone that had impelled her to address Lionel +Westford. + +She had overheard his appeal to the shopkeeper. She had perceived +from his tone and manner that he was a gentleman, unaccustomed to +bitter struggles for daily bread. She had seen his white face, almost +ghastly in its look of despair; and, with impulsive generosity, she +had determined, if possible, to help him. + +“You are very much in need of employment?” she said hesitatingly. + +“My dearest Julia,” exclaimed the outraged matron, “this is really +such a very unprecedented kind of proceeding, I must protest against +such inconsiderate conduct.” + +“My dear Mrs. Melville, for once in a way don’t protest against +anything: I am only going to speak to this gentleman about a matter +of business,” returned the young lady, just a little impatiently. + +“But, my dear Julia, your papa----” + +“Papa always allows me to have my own way.” + +“But, my dear love, this per--this--ahem!--gentleman is an utter +stranger to you.” + +All this was spoken in an undertone, but Lionel could perceive that +the language of remonstrance was being addressed to the young lady by +an outraged duenna, and he moved again towards the door, anxious to +terminate an embarrassing situation. + +The young lady’s generous impulses were not to be subjugated by +matronly caution. + +She stopped Lionel once more as he was about to leave the shop. + +“Pray do not hesitate to answer me,” she said. “I heard you say just +now that you needed employment.” + +“I only said the truth, madam. I need it very much.” + +“And would you be particular as to the nature of the employment, so +long as it were tolerably remunerative?” + +“Particular, madam!” exclaimed Lionel. “I would sweep a crossing in +the muddy street yonder, or hold horses at the doors of the clubs. I +would do anything that an honest man may do, in order to get bread +for those I love.” + +“For those you love!” repeated the lady. “You have a young wife, +perhaps--or even children--whom you find it difficult to support?” + +“O no, madam! I have no wife to reproach me for my poverty. The dear +ones of whom I spoke are my mother and sister.” + +“I think I could offer you remunerative employment,” said the Spanish +beauty, still in the same hesitating manner, “if the nature of it +would not be unpleasant to you.” + +“Unpleasant to me, madam!” exclaimed Lionel. “Believe me, there is no +fear of that. Pray speak--command me, in any way you please.” + +“I have an only brother,” answered the lady, “who possesses the +same talent as yourself. He is abroad now; and indeed we have been +separated for some time; but we are truly attached to each other, and +everything relating to him is sacred in my eyes. When he went away +from home he left behind him a great quantity of sketches--things +to which he attached no value, but which are very precious to me. I +am anxious to get these drawings mounted by some one with artistic +taste. I should be very glad if you would undertake the task. Our +house in the country is a very large one; and I have no doubt papa +would give you rooms in it while you were engaged in carrying out my +wishes. I will ask him to write to you on the subject, if you like. +In the mean time, here is my card.” + +She opened an exquisitely carved ivory case, and handed Lionel a +card, while the outraged matron looked on in silence, with an air of +wounded dignity that approached the tragic. + +Her tone and manner throughout, even when she was most hesitating, +seemed those of one accustomed to command. There was an imperious +grandeur in her beauty, which contrasted strongly with her maidenly +shyness in addressing a stranger. + +The name which Lionel Westford read upon the card was + + MISS GODWIN, + _Wilmingdon Hall, Herts._ + +Miss Godwin of Wilmingdon Hall! Lionel Westford started, and recoiled +a little from his lovely companion. + +“I dare say you know my father’s name,” she said; “almost everybody +knows Mr. Godwin the banker.” + +“I don’t know what people would say if they knew Mr. Godwin’s +daughter went about the world picking up strange young men in shops,” +thought the matron. + +Lionel faltered some few words in reply to Miss Godwin, but those +words were not intelligible. + +Rupert Godwin’s daughter! This girl, who was anxious to be his +patroness, his benefactress, was no other than the daughter of Rupert +Godwin, his mother’s worst enemy! + +Could he accept any favour from that man’s race? And, on the other +hand, how could he now refuse this girl’s help, so generously +offered, so eagerly accepted, a few moments before? + +He was silent. He stood with the card in his hand, staring absently +at the name inscribed upon it, while a sharp mental struggle went on +within his breast. + +What was he to do? Was he, who so needed help, to reject this most +unexpected succour, this friendly rope flung out to him at the moment +when he was buffeting with waves that threatened his annihilation? +Was he to refuse the help offered in this crisis of his life, in +deference to a feeling which was, perhaps, after all, only a foolish +prejudice? + +He thought of his mother’s broken home. He believed that Rupert +Godwin had only acted as any other hard-headed, callous-hearted man +of business might have done. But the memory of that desolate home was +very vivid in his mind, and he had long ago learned to look upon the +banker as a bitter enemy. + +Yet he _could not_ reject Julia Godwin’s offer of assistance. The +images of his mother and sister seemed to fade from his mind. He +stood before Julia Godwin bewildered by conflicting emotions, +helpless as some creature under the influence of a spell. + +“Shall I ask Papa to write to you about terms and other arrangements? +Will you consent to mount my brother’s sketches?” asked the soft +voice, while the chaperone still looked on with the stony stare of +amazement. + +“Yes, I am at your service. I will do what you please,” answered +Lionel. + +“You are very good. And to what address shall papa write?” + +The young man paused for a moment, and then named a post-office in a +street near his lodging. + +Julia Godwin wrote the address on the back of one of her cards +with the jewelled pencil dangling amongst the costly toys at her +watch-chain. + +“And the name?” she asked. + +“Lewis Wilton,” Lionel answered, after another brief pause. + +He could only enter Rupert Godwin’s house under a false name. +Henceforward his independence would be gone, for there would be +falsehood and dishonour in his life. + +He felt this; and a sense of shame mingled with his delight in the +thought that he and Julia Godwin would meet again. + +“And now I am quite at your service, dear Mrs. Melville,” she said +to her duenna, placidly ignoring the tempest of indignation with +which the matron’s breast had been swelling. “Yet stay, I had almost +forgotten to make my purchases.” + +She went to the counter, and bought some trifling articles, while +Lionel waited to escort the two ladies to their carriage. + +It was a very magnificent equipage; and the young man thought, as +Julia Godwin bowed to him from the window, that she looked like some +foreign princess, dazzling alike by her beauty and by the splendour +of her surroundings. + +He little knew that the infamous theft of his father’s hardly-earned +fortune had alone preserved that splendid equipage from the hands of +infuriated creditors. He little knew that all his own sufferings were +occasioned by the diabolical fraud which had enabled Rupert Godwin to +stem the tide in his affairs, and float into new enterprises that had +brought him the command of money. + +Yes; the twenty thousand pounds had saved the banker’s commercial +position, and had enabled him to enter upon new speculations, which +had been singularly, almost miraculously, fortunate. + +Lucifer sometimes favours his children. Harley Westford’s money had +been very _lucky_ to Rupert Godwin. + +And yet, hard and resolute as the banker’s nature was, there were +times when he would have gladly sacrificed all his position in the +commercial world if he could have recalled the day upon which he +first saw the captain of the _Lily Queen_. + +Lionel stood on the muddy pavement, lingering until Godwin’s carriage +was quite out of sight. + +Then he turned slowly away, and walked homeward; heedless of the +fast-falling rain--almost unconscious of the way by which he went; +entirely absorbed in thoughts of the lovely face that had so lately +beamed upon him--the low musical voice which seemed still to sound in +his ear. + +But, think as he would of the beautiful Julia, he could not quite +banish from his mind the memory of his mother’s trials. What would +she think of her only son, could she but know that he was about to +accept service with the man who had rendered her home desolate, the +man of whom she never spoke without a shudder of aversion? + +“There is something horribly base in this business,” thought the +young man. “False to Rupert Godwin, since I enter his house as a +concealed enemy; false to my mother, whose natural hatred of this +man I must outrage by any dealings with him or his race. False every +way! What can I do but despise myself for my meanness and folly? +No!--come what may, I will not be so utterly weak and degraded. I +will not enter the house of Rupert Godwin!” + +But there is a Nemesis who guides the footsteps of the avenger. It +was destined that Lionel Westford should enter Rupert Godwin’s house +under a false name. + +The hand of fatality pointed to Wilmingdon Hall. Harley Westford’s +son was to go thither. + +Chance seemed to have brought about that which was to be the first +step in a long train of circumstances leading, slowly but surely, +towards discovery and retribution. + + * * * * * + +Two days after his interview with Julia Godwin, Lionel called at the +post-office, and received a letter from the banker. + +It was brief, but not uncourteous: + +“SIR,--In accordance with my daughter’s request and recommendation, I +am prepared to employ you for some weeks in the cleaning and mounting +of my son’s sketches. The salary I can offer you is five guineas a +week; and you can be accommodated with rooms at my house. + +“I shall naturally expect a reference to some person of position who +can testify to the respectability of your character and antecedents. + + “Yours obediently, + “RUPERT GODWIN. + +“_Wilmingdon Hall, Herts_.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +WILMINGDON HALL. + + +Lionel Westford yielded to the influence of the bright face which had +looked at him so compassionately in the moment of his despair. He +gave way to the temptation against which he had struggled resolutely +and manfully, only to break down in the end; and he wrote to Rupert +Godwin, accepting the engagement offered him. + +Before writing this letter the young man called upon an old college +companion, a shallow-minded but kind-hearted young idler, from whom +he had kept aloof since his reverse of fortune. It was very much +against the grain that he went to ask a favour at the hands of this +gentleman, but he had no alternative. Mr. Godwin required some +testimony as to the respectability of the stranger whom he was to +admit into his household, and Frederick Dudley, his once familiar +chum, was the only person to whom Lionel could apply. + +Mr. Dudley willingly consented to testify to his old friend’s merits. +He knew very little of the changes that had befallen the Westfords, +and he jumped at once to the conclusion that Lionel’s assumption of a +false name was only a part of some romantic scheme. + +“I see it all, Westford,” exclaimed the young man, “though you are +so confoundedly close with a fellow. It’s a love affair, that’s what +it is; you’ve fallen head over heels in love with this old fogy’s +handsome daughter--I’ve met Julia Godwin in society, and a remarkably +fine girl she is, though not _my_ style--and you want to get into the +house disguised as a poor artist. Quite a romantic dodge, upon my +word, and I envy you the spirits for the adventure! I’m so deucedly +used-up myself that I should never have thought of such a thing. Come +now, confess that I’ve hit it;--eh, old boy?” + +“I can confess nothing,” answered Lionel; “but I must not allow you +to entertain any false ideas with regard to Miss Godwin. I have +only seen that young lady once in my life, and then only for a few +minutes.” + +“Very likely, my dear boy; and for all that you may be awfully in +love with her. There’s such a thing as love at first sight, you +know, if we’re to believe those prosy old poets. I don’t understand +the thing myself; but then I’m so deucedly used-up. I have not +experienced the tender passion since I was spoony on a pretty little +pastrycook at Eton,” added the young simpleton, whose moustache had +only lately begun to sprout. + +“At any rate, I may rely upon your kind offices, Dudley?” asked +Lionel, as he prepared to leave his friend’s chambers. + +“You shall have them with all my heart, dear boy. But you’ll stop +to luncheon, won’t you? I can give you a grilled chicken, and a dry +sherry that you’ll not match every day in the week. I shall so enjoy +a smoke and a chat with you. It will recall the old times, you know, +when we were young and fresh. What have you been doing with yourself +lately, old fellow? I haven’t seen you for the last six months.” + +“No, my dear Dudley,” answered Lionel; “and very few of my friends +have seen me during that time.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because your world is no longer my world. Since my poor father was +lost at sea, a great change has taken place in my fortunes. Such +lucky young scapegraces as you can no longer be my companions, for I +have entered the ranks of the breadwinners.” + +“But, my dear Lionel,” exclaimed the young man, “surely your friends +could be of some service to you! I haven’t a very large balance at my +banker’s, for the relieving officer has all the parochial hardness of +heart, but so far as it goes it is entirely at your disposal.” + +Lionel wrung his friend’s hand with a grateful pressure. + +“My dear Fred, I know what a good fellow you are, and I thank you +most heartily; but I am now certain of employment which will be +tolerably remunerative. Good-bye, old friend!” + +“And you don’t like me well enough to borrow a few tenners just to +carry on the war with?” + +“No, thanks, Dudley; I can do without the tenners, if I get the five +pounds a week Mr. Godwin is willing to give me for some very easy +work.” + +“Do you want an introduction to my tailor? I keep the fellow an +unconscionable time waiting for his money, but I make a point of +recommending him to my friends. What a pity a fellow’s friends have +such a knack of going through the Bankruptcy Court, by the way! It +takes so much off the value of one’s introductions. Shall I give you +a line to my snip?” + +“No, dear boy, I’ll not victimise him, this time. I have the remnant +of my University extravagances in that way, and can make a decent +appearance at Wilmingdon Hall.” + +“You will come and see me again, dear boy?” + +“Yes, when my position has improved; until then, good-bye.” + +Three days after this interview, Lionel Westford left King’s Cross on +his way to Hertfordshire. For the first time in his life the young +man had told his mother a falsehood. He had told her that artistic +work had been offered him in the town of Hertford, and that he was +about to occupy himself for a few weeks in that place. + +Clara Westford was grieved at the thought of even a brief separation +from her son; but she had seen his spirit drooping, and a dark cloud +upon his brow, so she was glad to think that he would have employment +and change of scene. Lionel’s conscience upbraided him cruelly as he +left that devoted mother; and yet he tried to reason with himself +against his scruples. Was not Rupert Godwin’s money as good as that +of any other man? and would it not purchase comfort for that dear +patient sufferer? and was he, Lionel Westford the pauper, to fling +away the chance of fortune because it was offered by the banker’s +hand? + +Thus it was that he went to Wilmingdon Hall. Rupert Godwin had +only yielded to a caprice of his daughter’s when he consented to +engage the young artist. Julia’s influence over her father was +almost unbounded. The cold heart for her grew warm and human; the +remorseless nature became softened. Rupert Godwin hated his son; for +he knew that the young man had read the secrete of his inner nature, +and despised him. He hated his son; but he loved his beautiful +daughter with a morbid and exaggerated affection, and there were few +requests of hers which he cared to refuse. + +At any other time Mr. Godwin might certainly have been inclined to +question the prudence of his daughter’s views with regard to the +stranger whose desperate condition had excited her compassion. He +was by no means given to the Quixotic impulses which were common +to Julia’s nature; and whatever benefits he had bestowed upon his +fellow creatures had been given in obedience to the prejudices of +society rather than to the impulses of his own heart. At another time +he would have sided with the outraged guardian of his daughter’s +youth, and would have protested against Julia’s philanthropic schemes +as absurd and impracticable. Julia had been prepared to encounter +such opposition, and had been just a little inclined to repent her +somewhat precipitate offer of employment in the interval which +elapsed between her meeting with Lionel Westford and her father’s +next flying visit to Hertfordshire. + +To her surprise, however, the young lady met with only the faintest +possible opposition. Of late Rupert Godwin’s mind had been entirely +occupied by one all-absorbing care, and he had grown strangely +indifferent to the details of his daily life. + +He made one or two peevish objections to Julia’s proposition, and +then gave way to her wish, but not with the good grace with which he +had once been accustomed to grant a favour asked by that fondly loved +daughter. + +“You want me to write to this young man,” he said half absently, +as if it were almost too much trouble for him to concentrate his +thoughts for even a few moments on the subject in question. “Very +well, Julia--very well; I will write. Don’t worry me any further +about the business. I think the whole affair very absurd, but you +must have your wish. What does it matter?” + +“What does it matter?” That was a phrase which Rupert Godwin had +used very frequently of late when called upon to discuss the trifles +that make up the sum of existence. These things had become of such +complete indifference to him, and it seemed to him that people +made such fuss and noise about the petty details that appeared so +contemptible in his eyes;--in his eyes, before which for ever loomed +one dark awful shape, the shadow whereof shut out all other things +from his sight. + + * * * * * + +Lionel Westford arrived at the Hall in the afternoon of a brilliant +August day. Not a leaf stirred in the verdant depths of the park, not +a blade of grass was ruffled by a passing breeze. The lake, lying in +a green hollow overshadowed by spreading chestnuts and beeches, was +smooth as the face of a mirror, and reflected the rich blue of the +cloudless summer sky. + +Lionel had been for many months a prisoner in the dreary desert of +London;--London, which is a delightful city for the denizens of +Mayfair or Belgravia, who, if called upon to make a map of the +British capital, would place its centre at Apsley House, and its +eastern boundary on the further side of Regent-street; but a dismal +abode for those needy wayfarers who contemplate it from the purlieus +of the New-cut. For months he had looked only on shabby houses, close +streets whose blackened walls shut out the light of day; and the +pleasantest sound which had announced to him the advent of summer had +been the shrill cry of the costermonger vending his “Cauliflow-vers!” +to the small householders of the neighbourhood. So it was that, +entering the banker’s grand old domain, a kind of intoxication stole +over his senses. He looked about him, and drew a deep inspiration--a +long breath of rapture. His chest heaved, his head was lifted to the +summer sky, his step grew elastic as he trod the crisp springy turf. + +“It is a paradise!” he exclaimed--“a paradise, and she is its queen!” + +The distance from the lodge-gates to the house was a long one. +Lionel had left his portmanteau at the lodge, and had there obtained +instructions as to the nearest road to the Hall. The lodge-keeper +had directed him to go by a narrow pathway winding through a thick +shrubbery, and leading past the grotto and fernery. + +In the depths of this leafy arcade a solemn gloom prevailed, even on +this brilliant summer day; and as Lionel Westford advanced further +into that forest darkness, the sombre twilight of the place, together +with its perfect stillness, produced a strange effect upon his mind. + +He was no longer elated, he was no longer carried away by a sense of +rapture. On the contrary, he felt all at once strangely depressed; a +mysterious burden seemed to weigh down his heart. It was almost as +if there had been something stifling in the very atmosphere of that +luxuriant shrubbery. And under this strange influence even the image +of Julia Godwin faded out of the young man’s mind. All other feelings +seemed absorbed by that mysterious sensation, the nature of which he +could not define. + +He quickened his pace. The solitude of the scene was distasteful to +him. He hurried on, eager to reach the Hall, eager to behold human +faces, to hear cheerful voices. + +After walking a considerable distance, he came at last to a spot +which he recognized as the grotto and fernery. + +The spot was darker, wilder, and more solitary than any other part of +Wilmingdon Park. + +Great craggy masses of limestone and granite were mingled with the +ruins of some classic temple; and amongst the broken pillars and the +rugged rockwork the ferns grew high in rank luxuriance. + +A small cascade trickled noiselessly amongst the moss-grown stones, +and dropped into a smooth pool of water--a pool that looked as if +beneath its quiet surface there lurked a treacherous depth. + +“It looks like a spot that has been blighted by the influence of +some evil deed,” thought Lionel, as he paused for a few moments to +contemplate the scene. “It looks like a place upon which the red hand +of murder had set its stamp. I could fancy some Eugene Aram lying +in wait for his victim behind one of those Doric columns, prepared +to shoot him through the head, and then drop him quietly to the +bottom of that pool. It’s the sort of place a Highlander would call +‘uncanny.’” + +While this thought was still in his mind he was startled by long +melancholy moan, which sounded near him. + +Lionel Westford inherited his father’s courage, and yet his heart +sank within him as he heard that strange unearthly utterance. + +The hardiest nature succumbs, for a moment at least, beneath the +influence of the supernatural. + +But that sudden thrill of fear passed with the moment. + +“Pshaw!” exclaimed the young man; “the sound was human enough, I +daresay, though it was awfully like the wail of a departed soul. I +have only to discover its cause. It seemed to come from behind this +rockery.” + +As he said this, Lionel Westford walked round the irregular pile of +stonework, and speedily discovered whence that mysterious moaning had +proceeded. + +An old man, dressed in a suit of well-worn corduroy, was sitting on a +block of moss-grown stone, with his elbows resting on his bony knees, +and his face hidden in his tanned and withered hands. + +He seemed very old, for long thin locks of snowy whiteness fell over +his spare shoulders. He was evidently employed about the grounds, for +gardening implements lay on the grass near him. + +As Lionel stood looking at this strange figure, the dismal moan was +repeated. + +Then the old man spoke. + +“O Lord, O Lord!” he cried, “it’s dreadful to bear; it’s dreadful, +dreadful, dreadful!” + +This time Lionel Westford’s only feeling was one of compassion. + +He laid his hand lightly upon the gardener’s shoulder. The old man +started to his feet as if under the influence of a galvanic shock. +The face he turned towards Lionel was blanched with fear, and his +whole frame was shaken by a convulsive trembling. + +“Who are you?” he gasped. “Who are you, and where did come from?” + +“I am a perfect stranger here,” answered Lionel. “I heard you moaning +just now, and naturally felt anxious to discover the cause of your +distress.” + +“A stranger!” repeated the old man in a hoarse whisper, wiping the +sweat-drops from his forehead as he spoke. “A stranger! Are you sure +of that?--eh?” + +He peered earnestly into Lionel’s frank face, as if he would fain +have read the truth there. + +“Yes, yes,” he muttered; “I see you don’t deceive me. You _are_ a +stranger to this dreadful place. But just now I was talking, wasn’t +I? I talk sometimes without knowing it. I’m an old man, and my +brain’s getting muddled. Did I say much--did I say anything--anything +queer--anything that made your blood run cold and your hair stand on +end?--eh?” + +Lionel Westford looked compassionately at the old gardener. + +What could this be but madness, or at least the cloudy twilight of a +fading mind, through which there flitted the dark and hideous shadows +of delirium? + +“My good man, there is no occasion for this distress,” Lionel said +gently. “You said nothing, except that something or other was +dreadful. Pray calm yourself. It was only the sound of your moaning +that attracted me here.” + +“And I said nothing? Ah! but I say queer things sometimes--very queer +things! But there’s no meaning in ’em--no meaning; no more meaning +than there is in the screeching of them old ravens as you’ll hear +sometimes in this here shrubbery. They’re as old as I am and older, +them ravens, and they screeches awful sometimes after dark. _That_ +sounds dreadful; but there’s nothing in it. I’m a very old man. I’ve +served the Godwins, man and boy, for seventy years. I remember this +Mr. Godwin--Rupert Godwin--a baby; and I remember his father a boy--a +bright-faced, free-hearted boy; not dark and silent, like this one, +but bright and open; the right sort he was--yes, the right sort. I’ve +served ’em long, and faithful; and they’ve been good masters to me. +It isn’t likely that I should turn against ’em and betray ’em, now +I’m an old man. Is it?” + +“Of course not,” answered Lionel. “What should you have to betray?” + +“No, no,” muttered the old gardener, speaking to himself rather than +to Lionel, “it isn’t likely. I’ve eaten their bread for seventy +years, and it isn’t likely I should speak agen ’em, though I feel now +sometimes as if that bread would choke me. But I musn’t be talking, +sir; I musn’t stand talking here to you, for I say queer things +sometimes, only there’s no meaning in ’em; mind that--there’s never +any meaning in ’em.” + +The old man shouldered his spade and walked off, leaving Lionel very +much bewildered by his manner. + +“Mad!” thought the young man. “Mad! Poor old fellow; I wonder the +banker doesn’t pension off such an old servant. I should scarcely +like to have such a melancholy object about my place, if I were Mr. +Godwin. _Frère, il faut mourir!_ The man must be a perpetual reminder +of the horrors of old age.” + +Lionel Westford walked on a few paces further, and presently emerged +from the shrubberies on to a smooth lawn, across which he saw the +grand old mansion that had sheltered so many noble inhabitants. + +In a moment the recollection of the mad old gardener was blotted out +of his mind. He thought only of that radiant vision which had so +bewitched and enchanted him a week before in the printseller’s shop. +He could only think of the wondrous dark eyes of Julia Godwin. + +He arrived at the house, and was received by a stately butler, who +ushered him immediately up the broad staircase and along a corridor, +out of which a great many doors opened. One of these doors was +thrown open by the aristocratic butler, and Lionel found himself in +a comfortably furnished sitting-room, out of which there opened a +bedroom and dressing-room. + +These were the apartments which the housekeeper had caused to be +prepared for the artist. Lionel could but compare their simple though +luxurious furniture with the dingy curtains and meagre-looking +weak-legged chairs and tables of the shabby lodging in which he had +left his mother and sister. + +He seated himself before a table near the window, on which a large +portfolio had been placed ready for him, and began to consider his +work without further delay. But his mind was oppressed by the thought +that he was acting a treacherous part towards both his mother and +Rupert Godwin; and the image of the half-imbecile old gardener +mingled itself strangely with the radiant vision of Julia in all her +proud young beauty. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +A RECOGNITION AND A DISAPPOINTMENT. + + +Violet attended the rehearsals at the Circenses with unfailing +regularity, and won the warm praises of Mr. Maltravers, the +stage-manager, both for her punctual habits and her quiet manners, +which were in strong contrast with the noisy chatter and clamorous +laughter of some of the giddy careless girls employed in the theatre. +The interior of the theatre was like a strange world to this girl, +who had been reared in the refined atmosphere of home. Esther Vanberg +and her companions treated the newcomer as an intruder. They would +have been very kind to her, perhaps, had she been an ordinary-looking +girl, the homely muddy-complexioned sort of young person whom other +girls speak of as “a dear;” but she was something very different. +Her undeniable beauty inspired all manner of malice, envy, and +uncharitableness; and these young ladies did their uttermost to +render the theatre uncomfortable to her. + +They did their uttermost, but they failed most completely; for +Violet’s thoughts were so far removed from theirs that she scarcely +felt any annoyance from their sneers or their insolence. Strange +as this unknown world behind the curtain seemed to her, she was +supported by the knowledge that she was earning money that would +at least secure her mother from actual privation; and she was +comparatively happy. + +At last the eventful night arrived on which the new burlesque was to +be performed. Violet was by this time perfectly familiar with the +easy task she had to perform. Her dress was ready for her, and no +expense had been spared to render the costume magnificent. + +Even Violet Westford, unconscious though she ordinarily was of her +own attractions, could scarcely fail to recognize the perfection of +the face and figure she saw reflected in the glass when the finishing +touch had been put to her dress, and a starry circlet placed upon her +sunny hair, which was allowed to fall in wavy masses that reached +below her waist. + +She went downstairs to the stage, and was warmly complimented by Mr. +Maltravers on her appearance. + +He saw her seated in a fairy temple which formed the central feature +of the gorgeous scene that was to conclude the extravaganza, and then +left her. In a few minutes the front scene would be drawn aside, +and Violet Westford would find herself face to face with a London +audience. + +Her heart beat quickly; for though she had nothing more to do than +to sit in statuesque repose upon a gilded throne and look beautiful, +she could not help being a little alarmed at the prospect of finding +herself the focus of all the eyes in the crowded house. On one side +of the temple Esther Vanberg was placed amongst a group of girls +ranged on gilded pedestals, for the scene was one of those displays +of pretty young women and gorgeous stage decoration which Mr. Ruskin +condemns on aesthetic principles. The Jewess was talking loudly while +waiting for the scene to be unclosed. + +“Pretty!” she exclaimed scornfully; “if Mr. Maltravers calls that +piece of fair-haired insipidity a beauty, I don’t think much of his +taste. She’s about as fit to be the Queen of Beauty as the snuffy old +woman who cleans out the theatre.” + +Violet knew that this elegant speech referred to her; but she knew +also the envious feeling which dictated it, and she was not disturbed +by her rival’s malignity. + +But as Esther Vanberg spoke Violet turned almost involuntarily +to look at her. The Jewess was splendidly dressed, and looked +very handsome; but the hollowness of her cheeks and the feverish +brightness of her eyes were visible, in spite of the rouge and other +cosmetiques which she used to enhance her beauty. + +As Violet looked at those dark eyes, some memory, which she was +powerless to put into any distinct shape, arose in her mind. Where +and when had she seen such eyes as those? + +She could not answer the question; but she knew that she had at some +time or other encountered a gaze which was now recalled to her by +that of Esther Vanberg. + +Miss Westford had no time to ponder upon this question, for the scene +was unclosed, and she saw before her the crowded theatre, with its +myriad faces and dazzling lights. + +A tremendous burst of applause followed the unclosing of the scene, +for the final tableau of the new burlesque was a miracle of the +scene-painter’s art. + +For some moments Violet could only see a confused mass of faces and +glittering lamps; then little by little the scene grew clearer to her +eyes, and she could distinguish single faces from among the crowd. + +She saw beautiful women--aristocratic-looking men. She saw hundreds +of opera-glasses, which all seemed to be levelled at herself. She +saw humbler sight-seers gazing with enraptured countenances upon the +scene from the Olympus of the eighteen-penny gallery, and little +children applauding vehemently, with their chubby hands. + +Then, as the scene was a long one, and as she had nothing to do +during its progress, her gaze wandered idly about the house, now +resting here, now lingering there, attracted by the novelty of the +scene. + +Suddenly she started, and trembled from head to foot. + +In the dress-circle--in a corner nearest the stage--she had +recognized a man sitting alone, with his arms folded on the velvet +cushion, his eyes fixed dreamily on the scene before him, as if in +utter absence of mind. + +This man was George Stanmore the painter! + +The recognition had set Violet’s heart beating violently. But she +remembered where she was, and the myriad eyes that were upon her. By +a powerful effort of self-control she restrained all outward token of +emotion. + +George Stanmore’s dark eyes were still fixed upon vacancy, rather +than on the dazzling scene at which all the rest of the audience +were looking; and as Violet watched those dark eyes, a sudden fancy +startled her, almost as much as she had been startled by her first +recognition of the artist. + +She perceived a singular resemblance between the eyes of George +Stanmore and those of the Jewess, Esther Vanberg. This was the +likeness which had so puzzled her only a few moments before the +unclosing of the scene. It was strange; and Violet was grieved at +finding a likeness between the man she loved and the _figurante_, +whose short youth had been one career of folly and extravagance. + +It was strange; but these accidental resemblances are of frequent +occurrence, so Violet did not long puzzle herself about the subject. +She was too much absorbed by the knowledge that the plighted lover +from whom she had been so long separated was now before her. Surely +he must speedily recognize her, as she had recognized him. + +She did not consider that she saw George Stanmore in his everyday +habiliments; while he beheld her in the complete disguise of a +brilliant stage costume, and moreover in a position which he could +not have supposed she would occupy. Presently, however, she saw him +rouse himself from his reverie and look at the stage. He had no +opera-glass; but he started, and looked at Violet with a prolonged +and eager scrutiny. + +“Yes,” she thought, “he recognizes me; I knew that he would do so. +And now, how will he act? Will my appearance in this place disgust +and annoy him? Will the change in our circumstances produce an +alteration in his feelings? Will he despise the woman who has sunk +from affluence to poverty, or will he respect my endeavour to earn a +livelihood by any means in my power?” + +Violet asked herself these questions, but in her heart she never +doubted the fidelity of the man she loved. He had recognized her, +and he would doubtless leave the box immediately, and hasten to the +stage-door, whence he could send her a message or a letter. + +But to her surprise he did not hasten to quit his seat. He sat quite +still, gazing fixedly at her until the curtain fell and shut him from +her sight. + +Then Violet fancied that he had only waited for the fall of the +curtain, preferring to wait rather than to disturb the people about +him by rising in the middle of a scene. + +She left the stage, where the confusion caused by the shifting of the +scenery was something beyond description. She left the tumultuous +chaos of noisy carpenters and ponderous machinery, and hurried to +the room in which she dressed, in company with Esther Vanberg and +about half-a-dozen other girls. Her heart throbbed with a new sense +of happiness, her cheeks were flushed with expectation, her hands +trembled as she removed her fantastic dress, and plaited her long +hair. She had no ears for the loud talk of her excited companions, +who were noisily discussing the success of the scene they had been +engaged in, and the relative merits of their several costumes, +or speculating and disputing as to who was or who was not in +“front,”--the front in question being that portion of the theatre +which has been more elegantly described as the _auditorium_. + +Every moment Violet expected to hear her name pronounced outside the +door of the dressing-room; every moment she expected to be summoned, +in order that a letter or message might be given to her. + +But no letter, no message came. Half an hour, and then the greater +part of an hour, passed. Violet had dressed herself very slowly, +lingering over the operation in expectation of a summons; but she +had now put on her bonnet and shawl; she was ready to go home; and +her mother, the careful anxious mother, to whom this ordeal of her +daughter’s was unspeakably painful, would be waiting in the hall by +the stage-entrance, ready to escort the _débutante_ home. + +Clara Westford had insisted upon coming to fetch Violet from the +theatre. Lionel was away, and the girl had now no male protector. How +could the devoted mother rest within doors, with the knowledge that +her daughter was exposed to all the perils of insult and annoyance in +the half-deserted London streets? + +Poor Violet could not linger any longer in the dressing-room with +the knowledge that her mother was waiting for her below. No words +can tell the bitterness of her disappointment. Only those who have +known a life as joyless and hopeless as hers had been of late, can +imagine the anguish which she felt as she saw her brightest and most +cherished dream fade away from her. + +Throughout her sorrows her heart had been sustained by a belief in +George Stanmore’s constancy, a deep and heartfelt confidence in his +affection, which circumstances might shake but could not destroy. + +Now that fondly treasured hope was crushed all at once. + +He had seen her after a long separation, which should have made her a +hundredfold more dear to him; he had seen her, he had recognized her, +and yet had made no effort to approach her. + +“He despises me in my altered fortune,” she thought bitterly; “he has +been to the neighbourhood of the Grange perhaps, and has heard of our +losses; and now that he sees me struggling to earn a living as best +I may, he despises me. It was all very well for him to talk so nobly +about the worshippers of Mammon while he thought me the daughter of +a rich man, but he is not disinterested enough to forgive the sin of +poverty in the woman he pretended to love.” + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +THE MARQUIS OF ROXLEYDALE. + + +From the night of that first performance of the burlesque at the +Circenses, Violet Westford’s life was one long conquest over +self--one long act of womanly heroism. + +The noble-hearted girl was determined that her mother should be kept +in perfect ignorance of her grief. Had not that dear mother already +suffered enough? Did she not still suffer unceasingly for the loss of +the best and truest of husbands? + +Violet had not told her mother the secret of her love when its object +had appeared thoroughly worthy of her affection. She could not now +reveal it, when to do so would have been to stamp her lover as a +traitor. She had been ashamed of her clandestine engagement from the +first; she was doubly ashamed of it now, when the falsehood of her +lover seemed to be a punishment for the secrecy that had attended her +attachment to him. + +“If I know that he is heartless and mercenary, I can at least hide +the knowledge from others,” she thought. “If I cannot myself respect +him, I can at any rate shield him from the contempt of strangers.” + +Alas for poor Violet! All this suffering, which was so much harder to +bear than the worst stings of poverty, might have been saved her. All +this pain arose from a very natural misconception. She had herself +recognized George Stanmore, and she had imagined it impossible that +he could fail to recognize her. + +She had seen his gesture of surprise, his scrutinizing gaze, so +fixed in its earnestness, which had lasted until the falling of the +curtain; and she fancied that gesture and gaze could only arise from +Mr. Stanmore’s recognition of her. + +But it was not so. The artist had not recognized in the fair face of +the Queen of Beauty the innocent countenance of the girl he had wooed +and won in the New Forest. + +George Stanmore had been only attracted by the _likeness_ which he +fancied the ballet-girl at the Circenses bore to the daughter of +Captain Westford. He never for a moment imagined that Violet and the +Queen of Beauty were one and the same person. + +The young man had been wandering in Flanders, from village to city, +and from city to village, studying the old Flemish masters, and +exploring every nook and corner in which an old picture was to be +found. He had only crossed from Ostend to London within a few days of +his visit to the Circenses. He had no idea of the changes that had +taken place at the Grange. How, then, should he believe that Violet +Westford, the only daughter of a prosperous gentleman, the highly +educated but country-bred girl, could appear before him on the stage +of a London theatre? + +Almost involuntarily he had consulted his playbill. No such name as +Westford appeared there. The Queen of Beauty was distinguished by the +very commonplace cognomen of Watson. + +But even if he had seen Violet’s real name in the list of characters, +George Stanmore would have been more inclined to doubt the evidence +of his own eyes than to believe that it was indeed his simple +woodland nymph whom he beheld amidst the glare and glitter of that +brilliantly lighted stage. + +No. He gazed to the last moment at the beautiful girl in the roseate +draperies and crown of stars; but it was only because he loved to +look upon a face that closely resembled the one so dear to him. + +He had no opera-glass, and could not bring the face nearer. If +Violet had been more experienced in theatrical matters, she would +have known how few amongst an audience in a large theatre can afford +to dispense with an opera-glass; and she would have also known how +much difference is made in every actor or actress’s appearance by an +entirely strange costume. + +Unhappily, she knew nothing of this. She fancied that her lover must +have inevitably recognized her as easily as she recognized him. + + * * * * * + +Nearly a week passed. Every evening Violet Westford’s lovely face +beamed radiantly on the spectators of the burlesque. Already she +had learned one lesson belonging to the life of the stage: she had +learned that she must smile always, whatever secret canker might be +eating silently into her own heart. The public, who pay to be amused, +will of course tolerate no doleful faces, no sad or thoughtful looks, +in the paid favourites of the hour. The queen of tragedy alone can +indulge in sorrow; and her sorrow must be as unreal as the gladness +of the ballet-girl, who may smile upon the aristocratic loungers in +the stalls while her heart is breaking with sorrow for a father, +a mother, or a favourite sister, lying on a deathbed at home. Let +those who would be lured away from peaceful and comfortable homes by +the false glitter of the stage, look well at the dark side of the +picture, ere they take the first step in a career which is successful +only for the few. + +Violet Westford needed all her fortitude in that London theatre. +The stage-manager was very kind to her, in his rough-and-ready +semi-paternal manner. The actresses of superior rank saw that she was +no vulgar or disreputable person, and often noticed her by a friendly +word or smile; but, in spite of this, Violet was cruelly persecuted +in the quiet performance of her duty. + +This persecution was inspired by the foul fiend called Envy. Violet’s +beauty had been much noticed, and had been commented upon in the +papers which criticised the new burlesque. Although she had not so +much as one line to speak, her position in the grand scene of the +_spectacle_ was a very prominent one, and drew upon her the notice of +every spectator. + +Her beauty did the rest. That beauty was so striking; in its +youthful freshness, and formed such a contrast with the faded +splendour of those around her, that the waning belles of the theatre +resented her appearance amongst them as a personal injury. + +Esther Vanberg was the leader of a little band who made it their +business to sneer at Violet, and nothing but the girl’s quiet spirit +of endurance enabled her to bear the insolence of their innuendoes. + +But she did bear it, and without shrinking. It seemed so small a +trouble to endure when compared with the thought that George Stanmore +was false and cold-hearted. “The heart once broken by the loved is +strong to meet the foeman.” + +She had been little more than a week in the theatre when one of the +largest private boxes was occupied by three gentlemen well known to +the world of London. + +One was a handsome Spanish-looking man of middle age; the second +was an insignificant individual, with a round fat face, small gray +eyes, sandy hair, and long, carefully trained whiskers, which were +evidently the pride of his heart; the third was a very young man, +with a pale auburn moustache, faultless evening-dress, and languid +manner, as of a sufferer bowed down by the burden of existence. + +The first of these three men was Rupert Godwin the banker; the second +was Mr. Sempronius Sykemore, a renowned tuft-hunter and toady, who +was always to be found following close upon the heels of some wealthy +and weak-witted young nobleman, and whose presence was an unfailing +sign of approaching ruin for the nobleman in question; the third was +the Marquis of Roxleydale, a young gentleman who had inherited one of +the oldest titles in England, an estate worth sixty thousand a year, +and whom nature had not gifted with a very large amount of brains or +a very noble heart. + +It had lately pleased Rupert Godwin to be extremely civil to the +shallow-headed young Marquis. But he did not put himself to this +trouble without an eye to his own interests. He hoped to secure Lord +Roxleydale as a husband for his idolized Julia. + +With this end in view, he invited the Marquis to Wilmingdon Hall, +whenever that young nobleman could be prevailed upon to withdraw +himself from the delights of London life--a life of the vilest and +most degraded order; a life passed in the haunts of vice, in which +horrible dens the Marquis was always attended by Mr. Sempronius +Sykemore, who conducted him through the seven circles of this +earthly Inferno as faithfully as Virgil conducted Dante, and who was +eminently calculated to play the part of Mentor, as he was old enough +to be the young man’s father. + +Lord Roxleydale very much admired Julia Godwin’s beauty; but he had +no wish to fetter himself with the chains of matrimony; and he found +Wilmingdon Hall a very dull place after the brilliant assemblies in +which his evenings were generally spent. + +Rupert Godwin perceived this, and for a while he allowed the active +working of his schemes to be suspended. But he only waited his time. +He watched the young Marquis as a cat watches a mouse. He affected +to admire his high spirit--he even joined in his vicious amusements; +but there was a deep and rooted purpose under all he did--a purpose +that was fraught with danger to the shallow-brained scion of the +Roxleydales. + +To-night the banker had entertained Lord Roxleydale and his toady Mr. +Sykemore at a sumptuous dinner given at a West-end club. He was too +much of a diplomatist not to know that in order to succeed with the +Marquis he must first secure that gentleman’s guide, philosopher, and +friend, Mr. Sykemore, and he had purchased Mr. Sykemore’s good graces +at rather a high figure. + +After dinner, when a great deal of wine had been drunk by the Marquis +and by the worthy Sempronius, it had been proposed that the party +should adjourn to the Circenses, where the new extravaganza had +acquired considerable popularity. + +Rupert Godwin had been the only one of the party who had refrained +from drinking. He had excused himself from tasting the choice +moselles and sparkling hocks which he ordered for his guests, and +had limited his potations to a few glasses of the driest and palest +sherry obtainable for money. + +Sempronius Sykemore had perceived this; and he suspected some design +on his friend and patron the Marquis. + +He determined to keep a close watch over the banker; but his +intellect was of a very low order as compared with that of Rupert +Godwin. All he wanted was to sponge upon the fortune of the weak +young nobleman, so long as that fortune held out against the ruinous +habits which Lord Roxleydale had acquired by the evil teaching of +false friends. + +It was past ten o’clock when the three gentlemen entered the theatre. +They had not long taken their seats when the scene opened, revealing +the final tableau in which the Queen of Beauty appeared seated in her +golden temple. + +The Marquis lifted his opera-glass and surveyed the stage. He was at +once attracted by Violet Westford’s lovely face, which amongst all +the faces on that crowded stage was the only one that was new to him. + +“By all that’s beautiful,” he exclaimed, “she’s a houri--an angel!” + +“Who is an angel, my dear Marquis?” asked the banker, laughing. + +“She is--that girl in the temple yonder! She’s a new girl. I never +saw her face before. I wonder where the deuce Maltravers picked +her up. Look at her, Godwin,” added the young man, handing his +opera-glass to the banker as he spoke. + +Rupert Godwin shrugged his shoulders with a careless gesture, and +then looked at the stage. + +But presently he started violently, and the glass almost fell from +his hand. + +Again the ghost! Again the vision of the past! Again the face that +recalled to him Clara Ponsonby in all her youthful beauty, as he had +first seen her riding by her father’s side! + +“Come,” exclaimed the Marquis, “I see you’re as much struck with her +as I was.” + +“Yes,” answered Rupert Godwin slowly, “she is very lovely.” As he +spoke his brows contracted over his dark, unfathomable eyes, his lips +grew rigid,--a diabolical scheme was forming itself in that satanic +mind. + +He had sworn to revenge himself upon the woman who had done him the +supreme wrong of preferring a happier rival, and who had inflicted +a wound which had rankled and festered in his envenomed soul. How +better could he assail this woman than through her daughter’s +temptation and peril? + +This weak young Marquis could be made the instrument of his plot. + +Yes; the vile deed shaped itself before him, distinct and palpable as +the scene now acting on the stage. + +“I will pay Clara Westford a visit to-morrow,” thought Rupert Godwin. +“I have already brought her to the very dust. She defied me when we +last met; but at that time she was still the mistress of a luxurious +home, secure, as she believed, from the trials and degradations of +poverty. I will see her again now, when she has tasted the bitterest +waters of life’s chalice. Surely she will have grown too wise to defy +me now. If not--if the indomitable spirit of Clara Ponsonby still +reigns in the breast of Clara Westford,--I will find a way to bring +her to my feet, and that way shall be through the peril of yonder +golden-haired girl.” + +These were the thoughts which filled the plotting brain of Rupert +Godwin as he sat, with the glass in his hand, looking fixedly at the +stage. + +Presently his gaze wandered from the face of Violet Westford, and +he took a sweeping survey of the groups of showily dressed girls +arranged in graceful attitudes, which were the result of careful +study on the part of ballet-master and stage-manager. + +Once more the banker’s hand faltered, and he started violently; but +this time his eyes were fixed upon the Jewish beauty, Esther Vanberg. + +“Who is that girl?” he gasped, in a tone that revealed unwanted +excitement--a degree of emotion extraordinary in this man of iron. +“Who is she?” + +“My dear Godwin,” exclaimed Mr. Sempronius Sykemore, laughing at +the banker’s vehemence, “I thought just now you were going to fall +in love with the fair girl! and now you seem suddenly smitten with +the dark beauty. That young lady is Miss Vanberg, celebrated for her +handsome face and her demoniac temper. She boasts that she has the +blood of Spanish Jews in her veins--the old Jews of Andalusia--the +aristocrats of the fallen race. She is an extraordinary woman--as +proud as Lucifer, as changeable as the wind. They say that the Duke +of Harlingford worships the ground she walks upon, and would have +made her his Duchess long before this, in spite of his exasperated +relations, if her violent temper had not always caused some desperate +quarrel between them just as the marriage was about to take place. +Most women of Esther’s class would be too prudent to quarrel with +a Duke and a millionnaire--but Miss Vanberg’s temper and pride +are utterly ungovernable. In the meantime she occupies a house in +Mayfair, drives a pair of chestnuts worth five hundred guineas, +dresses as extravagantly as the Princess Metternich, and gives +herself the airs of a Russian Empress.” + +“Strange!” muttered the banker; “the blood of Spanish Jews in her +veins! And then so like--” + +These words were uttered in an undertone, which did not reach the +ears of the Marquis or his toady. As for Lord Roxleydale, that young +nobleman was entirely absorbed in admiration of Violet. He sat with +his eyes fixed upon her, in a gaze as profound as if his senses had +been enthralled by some supernal vision. So might Faust have looked +on the phantasm of fair young Gretchen; so might have gazed the son +of Priam and Hecuba when he first looked on her whose fatal beauty +was predoomed to be the destruction of Troy. + +He gazed thus fixedly until the curtain fell, and then sank back into +his chair with a profound sigh. + +“I’m done for, Semper!” he said--he always called his toady Semper; +“that girl, that adorable angel, has imprinted her image on my inmost +heart. Egad! I never knew that I had a heart before. I must see her +to-night--immediately. I’ll make Maltravers give me an introduction; +I’ll--” + +“Stay, Roxleydale!” exclaimed the banker, laying his hand upon +the arm of the Marquis, as the young man rose from his seat: “not +to-night. I know the girl--and know all about her. To-morrow night I +will introduce you to her.” + +“You, Godwin?” + +“Yes; I tell you, I know the girl. If you try to get an introduction +to her through Maltravers, she will give herself prudish airs, and +refuse to see you. Trust all to me. I can exercise indirect influence +that you can never guess at. Wait till to-morrow night. I don’t ask +you to wait long.” + +The Marquis sighed. + +“You may not think it long,” he answered; “but to me it will be an +age--an eternity. I never saw such a lovely creature as that girl. +Egad, I should like to lay my coronet at her feet, and make her +Marchioness of Roxleydale.” + +“Bah!” exclaimed the banker, contemptuously. “It is only a fool +or a madman who lays his coronet at the feet of a ballet-girl. +Marchionesses are not picked up out of the gutter. I thought you were +a man of the world, my dear Roxleydale.” + +“A man of the world!” Yes. It had been ever thus. From his earliest +boyhood the Marquis had been surrounded by flatterers, sycophants, +and scoundrels, who prided themselves upon being “men of the +world.” Every generous impulse, every noble emotion that had arisen +in the young man’s breast, had been stifled by the influence of +such companions as these; while, on the other hand, every vicious +inclination had been fostered, every bad quality had been encouraged; +for it was out of the rich nobleman’s vices that his flatterers hoped +to make their market. + +The Marquis had a mother who adored him, and whom he in his boyhood +had dearly loved. But his vicious companions had contrived to lure +him away from the society and influence of that devoted mother, and +the Dowager Marchioness lived lonely and neglected at one of the +country seats belonging to her son. + +The house she had chosen was situated upon a small estate in +Yorkshire. There, secluded from the world, the Marchioness spent her +quiet life, the greater part of which was devoted to works of charity +and benevolence. + +She wrote very often to her son; long letters--earnest supplications +that he would lead a life worthy of a Christian gentleman, an +Englishman of high position. + +But these letters were never answered. To the young man, living +in so impure an atmosphere, those tender letters seemed to convey +only reproaches; his guilty conscience imparted a sting even to his +mother’s affectionate advice. + +And then the tempters were always by his side; always ready to +whisper evil suggestions into his too willing ear; always ready to +pooh-pooh the earnest remonstrances of that one good adviser, with +some insolent modern slang about “the maternal,” or “the dozy old +party in the North.” + +The three men supped together after leaving the theatre, and this +time Rupert Godwin drank deeply. + +He drank deeply, and there was a wild joviality about his manner that +had something fiend-like in its reckless mirth. He drank deeply; and +once, when the talk was wildest, he lifted his glass above his head, +and cried: + +“I drink this to Clara, and to the fulfilment of an old vow!” + +He drained the glass, and then flung it against the wall opposite to +him. The crystal shivered into a hundred fragments. + +“So will I break your proud spirit, my haughty Clara!” he exclaimed. + +The Marquis and Sempronius were both too tipsy to take much notice of +the banker’s wild talk; or, if they heard it, they little dreamed how +deep a meaning lurked beneath those threatening words. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +BENT BUT NOT BROKEN. + + +The day that succeeded the night on which the Marquis of Roxleydale +and his two friends had visited the Circenses happened to be +Saturday, and Violet Westford had to attend at the theatre in order +to receive her salary for the week. This business was a long one, for +the salaries were not paid until after the rehearsal of a new piece +that was about to be produced, and Violet had to wait until all the +principal actors and actresses had received their money. Thus it +happened that Clara Westford was alone all that Saturday morning; +alone and very sad; for when her children were away from her she made +no effort to control her sadness. She gave free course to melancholy +and regretful thoughts; mournful and bitter memories crowded upon +her mind, and the unheeded tears rolled slowly down her wan cheeks, +as she bent over the needlework, which took such time and labour to +accomplish, and was so poorly paid for when done. + +She was seated at the little table near the window, when a man’s +footstep sounded on the stair without, and in the next instant the +door was suddenly opened. + +Clara Westford started to her feet, her heart beating quickly. To +whom could that unexpected footstep belong except Lionel, her bright, +brave son, in whose presence there was always comfort? + +Her disappointment was very keen when, on turning towards the door, +she found herself face to face with her bitterest foe, the man whom +of all others she hated and feared. + +But the proud spirit of Sir John Ponsonby’s daughter was not yet +quenched. The widow drew herself to her full height, and turned to +meet her persecutor, very pale, but self-possessed as her visitor +himself. + +“You here, Mr. Godwin!” she said. “I thought that in this place at +least I should be secure from such an intrusion.” + +“Love, Clara, respects no place in its pursuit of the beloved object.” + +Mrs. Westford shuddered, and turned from the banker with a look of +scorn and disgust. + +“Love!” she exclaimed. “Pray do not profane that sentiment by the +poison of your lips! Why are you here, Mr. Godwin? By what right do +you enter this room? This poor lodging is at least my own, and I +request you to leave it immediately. When you came to me in my happy +country home you came as the harbinger of sorrow and desolation. By +your machinations I and my children have been banished from that +home. Here we have taken shelter. This place is our own, supported +by our own labour, and here our poverty should preserve us from your +hateful presence.” + +“Fine words, Clara Westford--grand words!” exclaimed the banker, with +a sneer. “You would banish me from your presence; you would order me +out of your lodgings; and yet I come to you as a friend.” + +“A friend!” cried the widow, with a bitter laugh. + +“Ay, a friend, Clara, as well as a lover. Let me first be the lover; +let me first tell you that my heart is still unchanged. After all +these years of separation, after all your unconcealed hatred, your +bitter scorn and defiance, I love you still. Yes, Clara, even now in +your poverty, even now in your fallen pride.” + +“My pride has not fallen,” answered Clara Westford. “It is the pride +of a woman whose love has been given to a noble and generous-minded +husband, and who holds that husband’s memory after death even more +sacred than his honour in life.” + +“Clara!” cried Rupert Godwin passionately, “Clara, have pity upon me! +Remember, how deeply, how devotedly I loved you.” + +His hands were clasped entreatingly; his head sank upon his breast; a +vivid light burned in his dark eyes. It seemed as if in that moment +the feelings of youth returned to him; and for a while at least it +was love, and not vengeance, that animated his breast. + +“Clara,” he murmured tenderly, “at the sight of your face the past +all comes back to me, and I forget your cruelty, I forget your +preference of another, I forget all except my love. I cannot bear to +see you thus--poor, degraded; for poverty is in itself degradation. +Leave this place, Clara. Your old home shall again be yours; +beautified and enriched by the lavish outlay of wealth which I prize +very little except for your sake. Return to the Grange, Clara, as its +mistress--and the mistress of my fate.” + +Clara Westford looked at the banker aghast with horror. + +“Return thither!” she cried. “Return to that house as your dependant; +your--no, I will not utter the odious word. Return to that house +which is sacred to me by the memory of my husband’s affection! You +must know me very little, Rupert Godwin, when you can come to me with +such a request as this.” + +The banker’s face grew black as thunder. + +“Enough, Clara!” he exclaimed. “I was a fool to show you the weakness +of my heart. I came to you as a friend; but you refuse to accept +my friendship. So be it. Henceforth I am your foe. You have chosen +to set your pride against mine. You have elected to defy me. Good, +madam! I accept the challenge. It is a duel to the death. I am what +is called a good hater, Mrs. Westford, as you may live to discover.” + +For some moments Clara Westford made no reply. She stood before the +banker, calm, impassable; very beautiful in her quiet dignity, in +her threadbare mourning robes, her simple widow’s cap. The delicate +colour had faded from her cheeks, the perfect oval of her face was +hollowed by care and deprivation, but the classic outline of feature +and the subtle loveliness of expression remained, and Clara Westford +was still beautiful. + +After a few moments of silence, during which the banker’s breath came +thick and fast between his set teeth, Clara Westford seated herself +in the chair by the table, and resumed her work. + +“I must remind you that this room belongs to me, Mr. Godwin,” she +said, very quietly, “and that your presence is unpleasant to me. +Allow me to wish you good morning.” + +“Not yet, Mrs. Westford; I did not come here entirely on a fool’s +errand. You have despised my friendship; you have defied my enmity. +Perhaps, however, you will not refuse to accept my advice. Have a +care of your daughter!” + +Clara Westford started; and her face, always pale, grew ghastly +white. She tried to speak, but her trembling lips refused to shape +the words she would have spoken. + +“Have a care of your daughter!” repeated Rupert Godwin. “She is very +young. She is inexperienced. It is only a few months since she first +came to London, and already strange things have happened. She has +left one situation--under suspicious circumstances. She is now in a +sphere where there is constant danger for one so young and beautiful +as she is. Once again, I say, beware, Clara Westford! and if ever +disgrace or ruin come upon your only daughter, remember that I have +warned you. In that hour you will perhaps come to me. In that hour +you will perhaps condescend to accept my friendship.” + +What words could have been better adapted to strike terror to the +heart of a mother? The sickness of despair blanched the cheek of +Clara Westford. Everywhere, on every side, there seemed danger and +misery. And she was so utterly alone in the world, so completely +helpless, hedged round by calamities, face to face with a man who +openly avowed himself her deadly enemy! Yet, even in this supreme +hour of trial, her fortitude did not entirely abandon her. + +“My daughter is able to protect her good name in any position, Mr. +Godwin,” she said proudly, “however degraded that position may +appear in your eyes. If I am destined to eat the bread of dependence, +I would rather be indebted to the precarious labours of my daughter +than owe sixpence to your--_friendship_.” + +“You carry matters with a high hand, Mrs. Westford,” replied the +banker, irritated beyond measure by the undisturbed calmness of his +victim’s manner; “but I can afford to wait. What is it Tennyson +says about that? ‘My faith is strong in Time!’ You defy me to-day, +but before long I may find you in a more reasonable temper. _En +attendant_, I can only advise you to keep a sharp eye upon Miss +Violet. The Circenses ballet is not quite the highest school of +morality; and Hogarth has taught us what happens to rustic simplicity +when she comes to seek her fortune in London. Good morning.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +JULIA’S PROTÉGÉ. + + +The life at Wilmingdon Hall was a new and pleasant one for Lionel +Westford. + +Here every luxury and comfort were provided for him. He was earning +money which he knew would ensure considerable comfort for his mother +and sister in their humble lodging, or even a change to better +quarters, if they would consent to make that change. He was living +in a house in which objects of art and beauty met his eye on every +side; and this, to the man endowed with artistic tastes, is no small +privilege. Without, a fair sylvan landscape spread itself before his +eyes--those weary eyes that had grown so tired of the smoky streets +and high black chimneys of London. His work was light--absurdly +light, as it seemed to him, after his dreary unprofitable toil as a +copyist of law papers. He was his own master, free at any time to +ramble where he pleased in the pleasant country, or in the verdant +solitude of the park; and if he chose to ride, one of the banker’s +horses was at his disposal. + +Beyond all this--infinitely more precious a privilege--he was near +Julia Godwin, the woman whose compassionate glances had seemed to him +like the looks of an angel; the woman with whom he, the penniless +adventurer, had fallen over head and ears in love. + +He was near her. He heard her low contralto voice as she sang in the +rooms below, accompanying herself sometimes on her piano, sometimes +with the bewitchingly romantic sound of a few careless chords on +her guitar. He saw her--accidentally, of course--not once only, but +several times in the day. He met her in the park or gardens, and +loitered talking with her for an hour at a time; or he was summoned +to discuss the mounting of some picture, and spent an agreeable +half-hour or so in the morning-room, where Miss Godwin sat with the +stately widow whom the banker had appointed as companion, chaperone, +and protectress of the _convenances_, at a very handsome salary. + +Somehow or other, the young people were always happening to meet. + +And Lionel Westford would have been supremely happy in this dependent +position, but for the stings of conscience. Unhappily, the stings of +conscience were very sharp. Argue with himself as he might, he could +not shut his eyes to the fact that there was guilt and dishonour in +his intercourse with the Godwin family. + +There was secrecy, nay, deception,--and deception must always involve +meanness. Lionel Westford felt that he had no right to live at ease +in the house of the man whom his mother counted as her foe. + +He tried to argue with himself that women are always unreasoning in +their dislikes. He tried to persuade himself that Rupert Godwin was +not the enemy of his household; that the banker had only acted as any +other business man might have acted in the same circumstances. + +The young man’s sense of his false position was not to be lulled to +rest. He knew that he was acting dishonourably. He knew that there +was a kind of treachery in the fact of his presence at Wilmingdon +Hall, and he could not be entirely at peace, even in the enchanting +society of the woman he loved. + +A heavy burden seemed to weigh upon his spirits. It was only while he +was in Julia’s society that he could put aside that weight of care. + +He had been more than a week at Wilmingdon Hall, and he had not again +encountered the half-witted old gardener. + +But the recollection of the old man’s strange words had often flashed +upon him. Sometimes, against his own will, those words haunted his +memory, and puzzled and tormented his brain, when he would fain have +thought of other things. + +One day, when the August weather was brightest and balmiest, Lionel +left his apartment after a long morning’s work at the drawings +intrusted to him. He strolled out into the grounds, where a few +minutes before he had seen Julia Godwin’s muslin dress glancing +amongst the laurel groves. + +Nothing could be more beautiful than the smooth lawns, the flowery +parterres, the sloping banks, and glistening laurel hedges that +surrounded Wilmingdon Hall. Nothing could be more beautiful than +those exquisitely cultivated gardens, as Lionel Westford saw them +to-day, under the golden light of an August sun. + +In the distance there sounded the low murmur of a waterfall, which +seemed the complaining voice of some spirit of the woodland, rather +than any earthly sound. There had been a time when the gardens of +Wilmingdon Hall were the pride of Rupert Godwin’s heart. Many a +fashionable assembly had met on that broad lawn; many an agreeable +flirtation had commenced in those winding shrubbery walks, in which +the spreading foliage of the evergreens made a solemn darkness all +day long. Many a fair young country damsel had winged her ruthless +arrows home to the hearts of her admirers under the patriarchal +beeches of the avenue. Fancy-fairs, garden-parties, toxophilite +meetings, and flower-shows had been wont to enliven those spacious +gardens. It was only within the last year that a shadow seemed to +have fallen on the life of Rupert Godwin, the reputed millionnaire; +and the county people marvelled at the change in the man who had once +aspired to hold a high place amongst them. + +It was known that the banker had quarrelled with his son, though the +cause of that quarrel had never transpired. + +Rumour had made herself busy with the interior of Mr. Godwin’s +mansion, and strange things had been said of the disagreement between +father and son. People said that it was his son’s misconduct which +had led to Mr. Godwin’s desertion of his country seat; and the county +gentlemen spoke of the young man’s behaviour in terms of unmitigated +disapprobation. + +He had turned his back upon the paternal mansion for ever, it was +said, and had gone abroad to wander on the face of the earth, a +reprobate and an outcast. + +The feminine portion of the community were honestly sorry for this +erring wanderer. Edward Godwin was young and handsome, and there +are young ladies who would pity Cain, and be ready to forgive that +unlucky blow with the club, if they were informed on good authority +that the first murderer was darkly splendid of aspect. + +Julia was devoted to her brother, and she pleaded his cause +everywhere; but she was very little wiser than the county gentry with +regard to the unhappy misunderstanding which had separated father and +son. + +She could only tell people that “poor Edward and papa couldn’t get +on together,” or that “they didn’t understand each other.” She could +only speak in tender deprecation of her brother’s “wild notions on +some subjects,” and conclude with the hope that the prodigal would +return and be forgiven. + + * * * * * + +Lionel had watched Julia from his window, and he knew in what +direction she had walked. Nothing, therefore, was more natural than +that he should meet her--accidentally. + +He entered one of the long shadowy alleys, which seemed to narrow to +a vanishing point, and his heart beat faster than its wont, as he +saw the graceful figure of Julia Godwin seated in an old-fashioned +bower, midway between him and the end of the walk. + +She was reading, but she looked up smiling and blushing as Lionel +drew near. + +He began to talk to her about her book, the last popular volume +of travels in the centre of Africa, and from that subject they +wandered on to other topics. Julia was very bright and animated. +She had spent a weary morning in the society of her companion, Mrs. +Melville, whose conversation was the very essence of dulness; and +she had fled to the gardens for a refuge from that monotonous drip, +drip, drip of meaningless babble. It is scarcely strange, therefore, +if she was more or less interested in Lionel’s conversation, when +it is considered that he talked his best, as if inspired by that +enthusiastic listener. + +It was easy for a clever woman to discover that the young man had +received the highest class of education which modern civilization can +afford. + +Julia perceived this; she saw that Lionel was a gentleman both by +birth and breeding; and she could not but wonder at the strange +position in which she had found him. + +All that was most generous in her nature was aroused in sympathy with +the stranger’s misfortunes. She would fain have known his history. +She had hoped to win his confidence; but she found this was no easy +task. The young man spoke freely of every subject--except of himself +and his antecedents. On these points he preserved a guarded silence. + +They sat talking together for nearly an hour--an hour whose sands ran +out as the sands only run when “Love takes up the glass of Time, and +turns it in his glowing hands.” + +At last Julia took a tiny watch from her belt, and glanced at the +dial. She blushed as she perceived the hour, for conscience told +her there must be some special reason for her forgetfulness of the +flight of time. What would her father have said to her, had he known +that she could waste an hour in conversation with a penniless young +artist, whose history was utterly unknown to her--whose only claim +upon her had been his destitution? + +“But whatever papa could say of him, he is a gentleman,” thought +Julia, “as highly educated as the best and brightest of papa’s +aristocratic friends.” + +She closed her book, and rose to leave the quaint old arbour of +clipped laurels. + +“Two o’clock!” she exclaimed. “How quickly the time slips away! I had +no idea that I had been out so long. I must wish you good morning, +Mr. Wilton.” + +A faint flush tinged Lionel’s face as he heard his false name +pronounced by those lovely lips. He could not stifle the feeling of +shame which the consciousness of his deception awoke in his mind. + +“You will allow me to accompany you to the house?” he said. + +“O, certainly,” Julia answered, “if you have nothing better to do.” + +Some complimentary speech rose to the young man’s lips, but he +repressed it. + +How could he dare to betray his admiration, his love, for Julia +Godwin? Even if she had not been the daughter of his mother’s enemy, +his own poverty would have been an insurmountable barrier, separating +him from her entirely. + +No; his love was hopeless. This girl, luxuriously nurtured, heiress +to an ample fortune, would, no doubt, have laughed to scorn the +devotion of a man whom she had rescued from a state of beggary, that +had been near akin to starvation. The story of King Cophetua and the +beggar maiden is the prettiest of poetic legends; but reverse the +positions of the lovers, and the poetry is gone. The king may lead +the beggar maiden up the steps of his throne, amid the acclamations +of an approving people; but the queen must not stoop from her high +estate to smile on low-born merit. This, at any rate, was Lionel +Westford’s reading of the old legend, and he felt that there was +something almost contemptible in his position in relation to Miss +Godwin. + +“Let my pride protect me,” he said to himself. “Let me remember how +we met, and let me hold my tongue, whatever effort it may cost me +to set a watch upon my lips. I can endure anything rather than her +contempt.” + +The two young people walked for some little time in silence. Then +Lionel spoke; but there was something of constraint in his tone. + +“You will, perhaps, like to hear an account of my morning’s work, +Miss Godwin,” he said. “I have been mounting the Snow piece and the +Alpine Sunset. They are both very good. Your brother has real genius, +wonderful freedom and vigour in his pencil, and a splendid eye for +colour. I only know one amateur artist at all equal to him.” + +“Indeed!--and who is he?” + +“A young man whom I met in Hampshire. Perhaps I ought not to call +him an amateur, for I believe he intended to make painting his +profession. Your brother’s style very much reminds me of his, though +he may have been, perhaps, a little further advanced in his art.” + +“And his name?” + +“His name was Stanmore--George Stanmore.” + +“And you met him in Hampshire?” + +“Yes.” + +“Long ago?” + +“Not very long. It is about a twelvemonth since I last saw him.” + +Julia was silent. A cloud seemed to spread itself over her bright +face. She was near the house now; and before the great stone porch +Lionel bowed, and left her. + +He had worked hard that day, and had risen early in the summer +morning in order to make rapid progress with the work which was for +him a labour of love, since it was to please _her_ he took so much +trouble in the mounting and touching-up of the drawings. What was he +but a salaried servant in that house, and how could he maintain the +smallest sense of independence except by hard work? + +He was in no humour to return to his solitary apartments. Julia +Godwin’s image filled his mind. He strolled back to the laurel grove +in which he had spent such pleasant hours. For a long time he paced +up and down the long alley between the clipped laurel edges, thinking +of the beautiful girl with whom he had been so besotted as to fall +in love. Then, scarcely knowing where he went, he wandered away from +the laurel alley, through an old-fashioned garden, in which there +were big, straggling yew-trees, which had once been the pride of +a gardener’s heart, in the shape of peacocks and lions, and stiff +little flower-beds of geometrical form, where the kitchen gardeners +grew savoury herbs, to give flavour and piquancy to the flesh-pots of +Wilmingdon Hall. + +After exploring this garden, Lionel went through an opening in a +close-cut hedge of yew, and found himself suddenly under the dark +walls of the northern wing. Those ancient walls seemed to cast a cold +and dismal shadow across the garden--a shadow that darkened the glory +of the summer day. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +ON THE THRESHOLD. + + +Lionel Westford looked up at the building before him with an +involuntary shudder; and yet there was nothing either strange or +terrible in its aspect. It was only old, worn, and grey. Long rows +of narrow Gothic windows extended from one end to the other of the +massive pile. Every one of these windows was closely shuttered +within; moss grew on the old grey walls, save where the ivy crept, +darksome and thick, to the very roof. + +“A dreary-looking building!” muttered Lionel, after one brief glance +at those dark shuttered windows, that damp-stained, moss-grown +wall--“a dismal, uncomfortable sort of place! I wonder the banker +doesn’t pull it down, and build something better upon its site. I +suppose he is something of an antiquarian, and respects this relic of +the days of the Plantagenets. Yet, in that case, one would think he’d +spend a little money on restoring the old building.” + +He was about to turn away and leave the neighbourhood of the northern +wing for some more cheerful part of the grounds, when he was startled +by the sound of a voice--the weak quavering voice of an old man. + +“Through the crack in the shutter,” said the voice, “I saw, I +saw!--through the crack in the shutter!” + +Lionel Westford turned in the direction whence the voice proceeded, +and saw the half-witted gardener, whose strange talk he had overheard +upon his first arrival at Wilmingdon Hall. The old man was crouching +close against one of the lower windows, and seemed as if peering +earnestly through a crack in the heavy oak shutter. + +There was something so strange in the action that it could scarcely +fail to inspire a sentiment of curiosity, even in the least +suspicious mind. + +Lionel lingered to listen to what more the old man might have to say. + +The weak-witted, white-haired pensioner, was strangely excited. He +clung to the stone ledge of the window; he pressed his face close +against the dingy glass, behind which the thick oak shutter looked +dark and impenetrable as the wall of a dungeon. + +For some moments he remained in the same attitude, still as death. +Then a change came over him, and he began to tremble violently, with +the manner of a man who watches some appalling scene. + +“Don’t, master! don’t!” he cried, in a half-stifled shriek. “Don’t +do it, master! For the love of heaven, don’t do it! O, the knife, +the dreadful knife! It’s murder--cruel, deadly, treacherous bloody +murder! Don’t, master! Don’t, don’t!” + +The old man recoiled from the window, exhausted by his own emotion, +and turned as if to rush from the place. As he turned he met the gaze +of Lionel Westford, who stood pale and breathless before him. + +With one savage bound the gardener flew at the young man’s throat. + +“Ha!” he shrieked; “it’s you, is it? You’ve been listening! you’ve +been spying again! I know you! You’re on the watch. You want to +find out the secret--the wicked secret, the bloody secret; but you +sha’n’t, you sha’n’t! I’m an old man, and I’m weak and foolish +sometimes; but I sha’n’t live long, and, come what may, I’ll keep +that secret till I die, for the sake of the master I’ve served so +long. Did I say much? Tell me, young man! Did I say much? Speak, or +I’ll throttle you.” + +The old gardener’s withered fingers grasped Lionel’s cravat. The +young man gently freed himself from that feeble grasp. + +“What did I say?” repeated the gardener; “whatever it was, it meant +nothing. My poor old wits wander sometimes, you see, and I fancy +I see things--such things!--knives, daggers--and murder--cruel, +treacherous murder; a man standing on the top of a flight of dark +steps, and another man stabbing him in the back, and throwing him +down into some black dreadful place underground. It’s only a dream, +you know, a horrid dream; but I dream it so often--O, so often!” + +No words can describe the look of horror upon the old man’s face as +he said this. He clung convulsively to Lionel’s arm, trembling from +head to foot, and with his eyes almost starting from their sockets. + +A death-like chill crept through the young man’s veins; a death-like +horror took possession of his breast. + +Something told him that in this old gardener’s wild talk there was +more than the raving of a disordered intellect. Something told him +that lurking in these hideous words there was the clue to some dark +and horrible secret--a secret in which Rupert Godwin was concerned. + +He struggled against the hideous conviction, the horrible dread +that filled his breast. Rupert Godwin had been the enemy of his own +family; but, then, was he not also Julia’s father? It would have +gone hard with young Romeo Montague, if he had found himself obliged +to think ill of the paternal Capulet. To think ill of the master of +Wilmingdon Hall was torture to Lionel Westford. And yet the young man +could not help feeling that he was on the threshold of some dreadful +mystery. + +Providence had, perhaps, sent him to that spot as the appointed +discoverer and avenger of some dark crime; some deed buried from the +light of day; some foul secret, the clue to which was hidden in the +bewildered brain of an imbecile old man. Come what might, Lionel felt +that it was his solemn duty to endeavour to fathom the mystery. It +was possible that the secret might not concern the present owner of +the Hall. This old man’s clouded brain might be haunted by the memory +of some deed done by a former master, in days when men held each +other’s and their own lives more cheaply than they hold them now; +in the days when duels were as common as dinner parties are to-day, +and when many a gentlemanly affray ended in horror and bloodshed. +Or it might even be that the tragic scene which tormented the old +gardener’s brain had no more substantial origin than some ghastly +legend of the old mansion told by the Christmas fire in the servants’ +hall, and fatally impressed upon the imbecile mind of age. + +Let its origin be what it might, however, Lionel felt that he ought +to make himself master of its real nature; and, in order to do this, +prudence and some dissimulation would be necessary. He could only +hope to succeed by lulling the old man’s fears to rest, and thus +winning his confidence. + +“Come,” he said gently, slipping his arm through that of the gardener +with a protecting gesture,--“come, my friend, calm yourself, I beg. +You are an old man, and these dreams and fancies wear you out. Let us +talk of something else. Let us leave this dismal-looking place.” + +“Yes, yes,” answered the gardener eagerly; “let us go away. I’ve no +business here; I don’t want to come here--but there’s something draws +me to the spot; there’s some devil, I think, that drags me here. +I don’t see him, but I feel his touch--I feel his burning fingers +dragging me, and then I come here in spite of myself, and I look +through the crack of the shutter, and I see it all again, as I saw it +that night.” + +The old man turned and pointed to the window as he spoke. Following +his skinny finger, Lionel fixed his eyes on that one particular +window, and then noted its position in the range of shattered +casements. + +It was the seventh window from the western angle of the wall. + +The young man took special note of this circumstance, and then led +his companion very slowly away. + +The gardener was very old--very feeble. At any time he might die, +and, if there were indeed a secret hidden beneath his wild talk, that +dark secret would perhaps die with him. + +“You are an old servant in this household?” Lionel said. + +“Yes, a very old servant, a faithful servant. I’ve served here, man +and boy, for the best part of a century. Is it likely I would turn +again them that has fed and clothed me? Is it likely I would turn +again one of my master’s race--my old master’s race? This one is dark +and cold and proud, and there’s something in his eyes that makes me +shudder when he looks at me. But the Godwin blood runs in his veins, +and old Caleb Wildred will never turned against him. It ain’t likely, +you see, after serving ’em, man and boy, for nigh upon a hundred +years--it ain’t likely.” + +For some time Lionel walked side by side with the old gardener. +Caleb Wildred talked a great deal; but his talk was all of the same +rambling order, and he always came round again to the same point. + +There was a secret--a secret which he would die sooner than betray. + +Lionel Westford lay down to rest that night with a terrible burden +upon his mind. All through the night he was alternately tossing +wakefully upon his pillow, or tormented by hideous dreams in which +Julia Godwin came to him, pale and tearful, imploring him to keep the +secret of her father’s crime. + +That hidden shapeless crime--which was as yet only a hideous shadow, +a frightful suspicion in the young man’s mind. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +MISS VANBERG IS MALICIOUS. + + +Rupert Godwin left Clara Westford with rage and vengeance burning in +his breast. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” says the poet; +but the mind of a bad man who finds himself despised by the woman he +loves is the habitation of that devil whose name is legion. There was +no vengeance too base, too cruel, for the banker. He determined to +heap the bitterest of all earthly sufferings upon the woman who had +defied him. + +He laughed aloud as he thought of the widow’s weakness. +Poverty-stricken, friendless--what could she do in the strife with +him, who had wealth and power on his side? + +Rupert Godwin had been an infidel from his very boyhood. His +philosophy was of the Garden, and not of the Porch. In his creed +a man had but one duty, and that was allegiance to himself. For +himself and for his own pleasure he had lived, and now that the +passions of youth had been sated by the pleasures of youth, a darker +and more stormy passion held the mastery of his mind. That passion +was revenge. His offended pride, his baffled love, his outraged +self-esteem, alike demanded the humiliation of Clara Westford. + +From the Waterloo-road he went straight to a West-end club, where he +had promised to meet the young Marquis. + +He had pledged himself to introduce Lord Roxleydale to Violet +Westford. But he had only done this in order that he might gain time +to mature his schemes. If Clara had yielded to the temptation of his +wealth, or the fear of his power, he would then have protected Violet +from the Marquis. + +But Clara had defied him, and he was now determined on a course which +must result in unspeakable misery for her. + +He found Lord Roxleydale waiting for him in the smoking-room of the +club. The apartment was almost deserted at this hour, and the young +Marquis had no better amusement than to lounge in one of the windows, +puffing laboriously at a gigantic regalia, with the air of a man who +has sworn to smoke himself into a galloping consumption within a +given period. + +For once in a way he had contrived to escape from the society of his +hanger-on and flatterer, Mr. Sempronius Sykemore; but he had only +done this at the cost of a fifty-pound note, which he had lent to the +needy Sempronius, who was always tormented by a kind of demon avenger +in the shape of a “little bill,” which required to be taken up with +money borrowed from Mr. Sykemore’s wealthy friends. “I should paste +a bit of calico behind that ‘little’ bill of yours, if I were you, +Sykemore,” remarked one of his victims. “It has been taken up so +many times that I am sure it can’t hold together much longer.” + +“Well, Godwin!” exclaimed Lord Roxleydale, turning eagerly to meet +the banker; “have you managed that business? Have you seen her, and +have you arranged matters for my introduction to her?” + +“Unluckily, no, my dear boy,” Mr. Godwin answered coolly. “I have +not forgotten you, but I find that I have made a slight mistake. I +have been making inquiries at the theatre this morning, and I have +discovered that Miss Watson, the girl who plays the Queen of Beauty, +is not the person I fancied.” + +“Then you can’t introduce me to her?” + +“Unhappily, my dear boy, I have not that privilege. But I am a man of +the world, and I think I can give you a few useful hints as to the +best way of getting an introduction.” + +Lord Roxleydale shrugged his shoulders with an impatient gesture. + +“Sempronius could do as much as that,” he said. + +“Sempronius is a cad,” answered the banker, “who ought not to be +trusted with any business requiring the smallest amount of tact. He’s +a very good sort of person to send on a message to your tailor, or to +get you long odds from the bookmen when you want to back anything. +He may be useful to us by-and-by; but for the present we are better +off without him. Do you know that girl--that handsome Jewish-looking +girl? Miss Vanberg, I think you called her.” + +“Yes, I know her.” + +“She is the person to be of use to us. She will be able to tell us +all about this Miss Watson. Suppose you were to call upon her, taking +me with you?” + +“It seems rather a roundabout way of doing business,” the Marquis +said contemptuously; “but I’m agreeable. My phaeton is waiting. I can +drive you to Miss Vanberg’s at once, if you like.” + +“I am ready,” answered the banker. “I want to see this Miss Vanberg.” + +He spoke carelessly, but in his face there was a lurking expression +in which a physiognomist might have perceived an almost feverish +anxiety. + +But the Marquis was by no means skilled in reading either the faces +or the minds of men. He had gone through the usual curriculum at Eton +and Oxford, and had done the usual Continental tour with a tutor +whose life he endangered at every available opportunity by upsetting +him on the highways and byways of Europe out of divers vehicles, +and had evinced altogether an exceptional capacity for remaining in +a state of primitive ignorance. His career at the University had +awakened him to the comprehension of the fact that those Latin +fellows who wrote stupid histories about each other’s wars and that +kind of thing were a confounded bore, and the Greek fellows a still +more confounded bore; that getting up early in the morning was +humbug; and that wine-parties were slow, because fellows had got +so doosid sober and so doosid intellectual, that they were always +chopping damm’ logic and talking damm’ crack-jaw stuff about Homer +and Æschylus and that kind of thing, instead of enjoying themselves +like gentlemen. + +This was Hector Augustus Front d’Airain, Baron of Hursley in +Staffordshire, Marquis of Roxleydale in Scotland,--a fair-haired, +yellow-whiskered, baby-faced young gentleman, with the morals of a +Rochester and the intellect of a Master Slender. He was the very last +of men whom Rupert Godwin would have chosen for a companion from any +but mercenary motives. + +The two men drove straight to Miss Vanberg’s house, which was a +_bijou_ mansion in Bolton-row. It was between four and five o’clock +in the afternoon by this time, and the young lady was at home. + +A man-servant ushered the two gentlemen up the richly-decorated +staircase, where nymphs and satyrs in Florentine bronze smirked +and capered in the recesses of the pale grey wall, relieved by +mouldings and medallions in unburnished gold. Everything in the +elegantly-appointed house betokened the presence of wealth. The Duke +of Harlingford’s purse had to pay very largely for the caprices of +the lovely Jewess, who honoured him by spending his money. + +The afternoon’s sun was shining between the leaves of the tropical +flowers that shaded the open window of Miss Vanberg’s drawing-room. +Near this window the Jewess was half-seated, half-reclining on a low +luxurious sofa covered with amber satin. + +Esther Vanberg wore a clear white muslin dress, high to the throat, +and fastened round her waist by a broad crimson sash tied in a loose +knot. A crimson ribbon secured the rich masses of her purple-black +hair. + +Her slender figure was half-buried in the amber satin pillows of the +sofa, whose brilliant hue contrasted marvellously with her dark hair +and flashing black eyes. + +Seated thus, Esther Vanberg might have been a worthy study for any +living painter. + +But in the broad summer sunlight the havoc which her reckless life +and evil temper had wrought in her constitution was only too plainly +visible. + +Rupert Godwin saw the feverish light in her eyes, the hectic flush +upon her cheek; and he knew that the beautiful Jewess was doomed to +make a speedy finish to her reckless career. + +She half rose as the two gentlemen entered the room. + +“Pray don’t disturb yourself, Miss Vanberg,” said the Marquis; “I’ve +only dropped in for a few minutes’ chat, with my friend here, Mr. +Godwin, the great banker. You must have heard of Godwin’s bank, eh? +That’s quite in your style, you know. You’ve got quite a genius for +getting rid of money, you know, and that kind of thing. You’re not +looking very well this afternoon. You’re tired, I daresay. Long +rehearsal, and so on. Fatiguing life, I should think, the drama, eh?” + +“Very fatiguing,” answered the Jewess, shrugging her shoulders +contemptuously, “especially when one’s ambition is blighted by the +senseless stupidity of one’s employers. I want to be an actress, not +a ballet-girl; but Mr. Maltravers will not allow me to open my lips; +and yet he has picked up some girl in the streets whom he has chosen +to place in the most conspicuous position in the great scene of our +new burlesque.” + +“You mean Miss Watson,” exclaimed the Marquis. “Well, I don’t wonder +Maltravers was knocked over when he saw her: she’s the loveliest +creature I ever beheld.” + +Esther Vanberg looked at the young nobleman with a frown which was +almost too much for the young man’s nerves. Rupert Godwin gave him a +warning glance at the same moment; and, dull as Lord Roxleydale was, +he saw that he had been imprudent in the undisguised utterance of his +admiration. + +“If you call that insipid flaxen-haired doll a beauty, you must be as +stupid as Maltravers himself,” said the Jewess unceremoniously. + +Mr. Godwin took this opportunity of striking in. + +“Well, for my part, I think she’s a pretty girl, in a very insipid +style, as you say, Miss Vanberg, and by no means my style of beauty. +I like something flashing, queen-like, Oriental--the Cleopatra type +of loveliness.” + +He looked at the Jewess as he spoke, and it was evident that her +offended vanity was somewhat appeased by the compliment implied in +his words. + +“However,” continued the banker, “insipid as the young lady is, a +friend of ours, a certain Mr. Sempronius Sykemore, a tuft-hunter and +vulgarian, has chosen to fall desperately in love with her. He is +pining for an introduction, and is ready to carry her off and make +her Mrs. Sempronius Sykemore at the shortest notice, if she will +accept him for a husband.” + +“He is rich, I suppose?” inquired Esther. + +“Not he. The fellow is a low-born adventurer, without a sixpence in +the world, beyond what he contrives to borrow from some obliging +friend.” + +“He is young, handsome, perhaps?” suggested Esther. + +“Neither. He is five-and-forty at the least, wears the most obvious +of wigs, and is strongly suspected of being guilty of false teeth.” + +Esther Vanberg’s face lighted up with a gracious smile. + +“And he wants to marry Miss Watson, the stage-manager’s favourite, +the Queen of Beauty?” + +“He does.” + +“And if she refuses to marry him?” + +“Well, my dear Miss Vanberg,” answered the banker, “that’s the +very thing the Marquis and I have been thinking of; and we want to +concoct a little plot--a pleasant little practical joke, you know, +by which we may have some innocent fun ourselves, and secure our +dear Sempronius a pretty wife. Now, unfortunately, Sykemore is so +confoundedly vulgar and ugly, and fat and conceited, that if he +were to ask Miss Watson to marry him she’d be sure to say No. So in +this case we want to plan an elopement. We shall try and arrange +some little _ruse_, by which Miss Watson will be lured into a +travelling carriage; post-horses will be ready on the road, and our +friend Sykemore shall carry the young lady off to a lonely place +in Essex, belonging to our friend Lord Roxleydale. Once there, the +Queen of Beauty, who is a very prudish, stuck-up young person, as I +understand, will feel that her reputation is compromised. Sempronius +will be ready with a special licence and a parson, the knot will +be tied, and Miss Watson will disappear into domestic life as Mrs. +Sykemore, and will thus leave the stage of the Circenses clear for +one infinitely more calculated to charm the public than her most +insipid self.” + +The Marquis of Roxleydale sat open-mouthed, listening to this speech. +He felt that some subtle plot was being concocted, but he was just +clever enough to know that he was stupid, and he trusted himself +entirely in the hands of his friend and adviser--the man of the world. + +To Esther Vanberg there was a terrible temptation in the proposition +made by the banker. + +She hated Violet Westford; hated her alike for her superior beauty, +the favour that had been shown her by Mr. Maltravers, and the +admiration that had been lavished on her by the press and the public. + +It had been whispered in the theatre that Violet would be permitted +to play some small part in a new piece that was about to be produced, +in order that the audience might see more of her fresh young beauty. + +This was a terrible mortification to the haughty girl, who so +earnestly aspired to be an actress, and who had never been allowed to +open her lips on the stage of the Circenses. + +For these reasons Esther Vanberg hated Violet. She hated her also +because of the girl’s quiet dignity, that calm and placid demeanour +which resisted insult more completely than any violence of temper +could have done. + +Thus it was that Esther Vanberg was tempted to join in a plot which +might remove Violet from her path, and the success of which would +humiliate her unconscious rival by uniting her to an unworthy husband. + +The temptation was a powerful one, and Esther had never been +accustomed to withstand temptation. + +“What do you want me to do in order to assist your scheme?” she +asked, after an interval of thought. + +“We only want you to introduce us to Miss Watson in such a manner as +to throw her off her guard. The Marquis can get admittance to the +green-room of the theatre for himself and any of his friends.” + +“Miss Watson is an ill-bred insolent creature,” exclaimed Esther +impatiently, “and she and I are scarcely on speaking terms. However, +if you will wait till Monday night I’ll try and arrange matters in +the mean time. I must be on tolerably friendly terms with this girl +before I can introduce you to her.” + +“To be sure,” answered the banker. “Monday night will do very well +indeed.” + +The Marquis of Roxleydale looked crestfallen. His weak mind was +entirely filled with the image of Violet, and he could not bear the +thought of delay. He was eager to see her, to give utterance to his +admiration--his worship. Left to himself, his love might have been a +generous affection: as it was, that love would speedily degenerate +into the base passion of a profligate, for he was under the influence +of a man of the world. + +“I should have liked to see--I mean, I should have liked Sempronius +to see her to-night,” he said; “Monday seems such a doosid long time +to wait.” + +Esther Vanberg shrugged her shoulders with the disdainful gesture +that was peculiar to her. + +“It can’t possibly be managed before Monday,” she said; “and as it +is, it will give me a great deal of trouble.” + +“For which you shall be recompensed, my dear Miss Vanberg,” answered +the Marquis eagerly; “if the handsomest diamond bracelet to be bought +at Harry Emanuel’s will content you.” + +Esther smiled. Revenge was sweet, but precious gems were also very +dear to the heart of the ballet-girl. Rupert Godwin watched her +keenly, and with a strange shadow of melancholy overspreading his +countenance. + +There was something very horrible in the idea of this girl, with +the doom of death stamped upon her face, but with her mind entirely +absorbed by schemes of vengeance and greed of gain. + +“Who is she, and whence does she come?” thought the banker. “There is +a strange coincidence in the likeness she bears to the dead. And then +that talk of the ancient Jews of Andalusia. Strange!--strange!” + +Rupert Godwin roused himself by an effort from the reverie into which +he had fallen, and rose to take his leave of Miss Vanberg. + +After some further discussion, a meeting in the green-room of the +Circenses was arranged for the following Monday evening. Lord +Roxleydale was hand-and-glove with the manager of the theatre, and +his influence was sufficiently powerful to procure the admission of +his friend. + +The two gentlemen left Miss Vanberg’s elegant little domicile and +drove back to the club, where the banker was to dine _tête-à-tête_ +with the Marquis. Of late Rupert Godwin had occupied a _pied-à-terre_ +in St. James’s, preferring to live anywhere rather than at Wilmingdon +Hall, though Julia complained bitterly of his desertion. + +“Now, Godwin,” exclaimed the Marquis, when the two men were seated +opposite to each other at the glittering little dinner-table in the +club-room, “tell me why you introduced Sempronius into this business.” + +“As a tool, my dear Marquis; and a very convenient one,” answered +the banker. “Couldn’t you see through that girl Vanberg’s jealousy? +She is envious of the other girl’s superior beauty. If she knew that +you admired Miss Watson, she would do all in her power to baulk your +schemes; for she would be afraid of helping her rival to become a +Marchioness. But, on the other hand, she will cordially assist in +a plot that will unite the girl she hates to a vulgar penniless +husband.” + +“I see. You’re a clever fellow, upon my word, Godwin. So far, so +good. And how about the rest of your plot?” + +“Nothing can be more simple. You have a place in Essex, called the +Moat?” + +“I have.” + +“What sort of a place is it?” + +“Well, I think It’s about the loneliest and dreariest old dungeon in +the civilized world.” + +“Have you many servants there?” + +“No; only two poor old creatures, who wither away among the cobwebs +and mildew of the place. They are a superannuated coachman and his +wife, who served my father, and were pensioned by him. They are both +of them as deaf as posts, and as blind as beetles.” + +“Nothing could be better--unless, indeed, they had been dumb into the +bargain,” answered Rupert Godwin, with a grim smile. “The very people +of all people; the very place of all places. I have my little schemes +all prepared, and before midnight on Monday, Vio--Miss Watson, the +Queen of Beauty, will be in a travelling carriage behind four horses +on her road to the Moat.” + +“With Sempronius Sykemore?” + +“No, my dear Roxleydale; with you.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +FALCON AND DOVE. + + +The Saturday evening which succeeded the interview in Miss Vanberg’s +drawing-room was almost a happy one for Violet Westford: for on this +evening Mr. Maltravers announced to her that he was so much pleased +with her graceful deportment in the burlesque that he had decided +upon intrusting her with a small speaking part in a new piece, which +was to be read aloud in the green-room on the following Monday +morning. + +This alone would have very little affected Violet, for she was too +unhappy in the thought of George Stanmore’s supposed desertion to be +ambitious of success upon the stage; but Mr. Maltravers also told her +that he meant to increase her salary to a guinea and a half a week, +and this sum seemed almost unheard-of wealth to the girl who had +toiled so laboriously in order to earn Mrs. Trevor’s pitiful stipend +of half-a-guinea. + +She thought of the increased comforts she could procure for her +mother; she remembered that now Lionel was earning money, and her own +salary was to be increased, the dear mother need no longer slave at +that tiresome Berlin-wool work, which was so poorly paid. + +She thought that now they could leave their close lodging in the dark +street near the Victoria Theatre; that they might find some better +home farther away, towards Camberwell or Kennington, where there were +trees and gardens and flowers. + +Such innocent thoughts as these filled Violet Westford’s mind as Mr. +Maltravers quitted her, after announcing her good fortune. + +No vain triumph, no feeling of gratified pride, swelled her breast. +She thought only of her mother, and the simple home comforts which +might be provided by her increased salary. + +She little knew the feelings of rage and envy that the +stage-manager’s announcement had kindled in the breast of her bitter +enemy, Esther Vanberg. + +That ambitious young aspirant for dramatic honours had happened to +be standing close at hand when Mr. Maltravers spoke to Violet. There +had been nothing of a private nature in his communication, and he +spoke quite openly. Miss Vanberg, therefore, had overheard every +syllable--his praises, his promises of advancement. + +If Esther Vanberg had wavered in her purpose, if she had hesitated +as to her share in Rupert Godwin’s foul plot against the unconscious +girl, this circumstance would have decided her. + +“What do I care what trouble or disgrace comes upon her, so long as +I can remove her from my pathway?” thought the ballet-girl bitterly; +for she felt as if Violet had done her an absolute injury, by +usurping the place which she herself had desired to fill. + +Under better circumstances, and in a purer atmosphere, the nature +of Esther Vanberg might not have been ignoble. She was impulsive, +passionate, and revengeful, and she had never learnt to school her +evil impulses, or to bridle her impetuous nature. She was a creature +of the moment, lavishly generous to her friends, savagely vindictive +in all dealings with her enemies. She was like some denizen of the +jungle--graceful, beautiful, and dangerous. There was something of +the Bohemian in her nature, and she had all the gipsy quickness of +perception, and the gipsy cunning, as well as the gipsy love of gauds +and gems, bright colours and fantastic raiment. She had shown no +special capacity for acting on the boards of the Circenses, but in +the dealings of every-day life she was a consummate actress. + +So it was on this occasion, though she felt almost stifled by the +envious rage that devoured her, she was yet able to suppress all +outward evidence of her emotion, and to appear utterly indifferent to +the conversation she had just overheard. + +She stood for a few moments at the side scene, watching the piece +that was being acted; and then, approaching Violet with a soft and +gliding footstep that was peculiar to her, laid her hand lightly and +with an almost caressing gesture upon the girl’s shoulder. + +Violet turned, startled from her reverie by that light touch, and +found herself face to face with Esther Vanberg. But to her surprise +the ballet-girl was smiling upon her. Instead of the insolent +and defiant frown which had always darkened her face when she +had addressed her rival, Esther’s countenance now wore its most +bewitching smile. + +That brilliant countenance had the power to assume any expression at +will. There were some people who fancied they knew Esther Vanberg; +but there were very few who had ever fathomed the depths of her +nature. + +“Come, Miss Watson,” she said softly, almost pleadingly, “let us be +friends. I daresay I have been very foolish, very childish, to feel +as I have done about such a trifling disappointment. I wanted to +fill your position in the burlesque; and when Mr. Maltravers refused +my request, and chose you for the best place in the tableau, I was +absurdly angry with you as well as with him. But to-night I am in a +better humour, I suppose, and I feel quite ashamed of myself when I +remember how silly I have been. Can you forgive me?” + +She stretched out her little hand--a little brown hand which Murillo +might have loved to paint. This pretty little brown hand was +glittering with diamonds. + +The young lady’s quarrels with her ducal admirer were of frequent +occurrence, but the return of the Duke’s presents was no part of the +programme. Miss Vanberg looked upon these costly offerings as a kind +of spoil taken from the enemy, rather than as those rich gifts which +“wax poor when givers prove unkind.” + +“I am sure you are not a revengeful person, Miss Watson,” she said +smiling. “Say that you forgive me.” + +“Most willingly,” answered Violet, with a confiding smile; “I do +not think I have much to forgive. I know you have spoken unkindly +about me; but we were strangers, and I had no right to expect your +friendship.” + +“Henceforward it is yours,” returned the Jewess. “And those who know +me best know what Esther Vanberg’s friendship or her hatred is worth. +But it is nearly time for us to dress. Are you going upstairs?” + +The two girls ascended the stairs together. The dressing-room of +a theatre is by no means an unpleasant place, when its atmosphere +is free from the poison of envy and malice. Half-a-dozen merry +light-hearted girls attiring themselves in their picturesque +costumes, and chatting gaily as they dress, form a very pleasant +party. + +Miss Vanberg was the queen of the dressing-room allotted to her and +half-a-dozen other girls of the same rank. Her beauty, her diabolical +temper, her lavish outlay of money, and the Duke of Harlington’s +notorious infatuation, which might at any time raise this girl to the +highest rank in the peerage, all combined to render her paramount +amongst the more ignorant and weak-minded of the young women with +whom she associated. + +Everyone took her tone from the Jewess; and now that Esther was +pleased to be civil to Violet Westford, her companions followed her +example, and had only the sweetest words to bestow upon the Queen of +Beauty. + +But this change had very little effect upon Violet. She was so +different a being from the girls amongst whom chance had thrown her, +that it was quite impossible she could have any sympathy with them. +Her gentle nature asserted itself alike in her dignified indifference +to insolence, and in her calm acceptance of affected friendliness. +Her heart was far away from that noisy chamber, and the talk and +laughter of her companions fell on unheeding ears. + +The Sunday which followed this evening was a pleasant one for Violet. +She spent that day alone with her mother, accompanying her to the +nearest church in the morning, and sitting all through the long +afternoon and evening talking with that beloved friend and confidante +of the happy days that were past--the pleasant hours that had been +buried with the dead. + +She told her mother of the good fortune which Mr. Maltravers had +announced to her on the previous evening. On that same evening a +letter had arrived from Lionel, containing a five-pound note, so the +mother and daughter felt themselves actually rich. + +“And Lionel is happy in his new employment, mamma?” asked Violet. + +“I imagine so, dear, from the tone of his letter, though he makes no +allusion to his employer, or his present mode of life. But he speaks +with rapture of the delights of country air and country scenery, +after this dingy quarter of London; and he begs me to find some +comfortable lodging in the suburbs, where we too may enjoy fresh air +and the sight of green trees and blooming gardens.” + +“Dear Lionel, how thoughtful he is!” murmured Violet. + +“He is, dear. But now, I want you to answer me a question, and +candidly, my darling, for it is a vital question for me. You have +now been some little time in the theatre--quite long enough to form +a judgment of your new life. Tell me, dear, have you found the +green-room of a theatre such a scene of danger as it has sometimes +been asserted that it is? Your youth and attractions might render +you the victim of many annoyances--I will not insult you by talking +about temptations. Trust me then, Violet, and trust me as fully as +a mother should be trusted. Tell me, what is your experience of the +side-scenes of a theatre?” + +“Very simple, dear mother. I have been almost as much at home at the +Circenses as in these lodgings, and I can assure you that the popular +idea of a green-room is quite a delusion. The people behind the +scenes of the Circenses seem as much occupied by the business they +have to do as if the theatre were a factory. Of course I was a little +nervous at appearing before a London audience, but no one behind the +scenes has in any way annoyed me; except, indeed--” + +“Except whom, dear girl?” + +“One of the girls employed in the burlesque--a Miss Vanberg--was at +first rather disagreeable in her manner towards me, but last night +she apologised for her rudeness, and we shall no doubt be very +comfortable in future. Mr. Maltravers is extremely kind; and, for the +rest, I go very quietly about my business--do what I have to do, and +no one interferes with me.” + +It was impossible to doubt Violet’s statement. Her manner was +frankness itself. + +The mother breathed a sigh of intense relief. + +“My darling, how completely you have relieved my mind!” she exclaimed +with delight. “I have heard so much about the dangers of a theatre; +but now I shall have no further fear. I ought not to have feared. I +ought to have remembered the story of Una and the Lion.” + +A thrill of triumph stirred Clara Westford’s heart as she spoke. In +spite of her defiance of him, the banker’s sinister threats had not +been without their effect upon her mind. She had trembled at the +thought of dangers that might assail her child--alone, inexperienced, +in an entirely new world, beautiful, helpless, innocent as an infant, +and utterly unprotected. + +But the mother’s fears were entirely set at rest by Violet’s candid +assurances. Clara Westford was now ready to smile at what she +believed to be the empty threats of her unscrupulous persecutor. + +A quiet peace, that was almost akin to happiness, reigned in the +breasts of both mother and daughter on that Sabbath-day. Not for +a moment could Violet Westford forget that secret grief which had +arisen out of her belief in George Stanmore’s falsehood. Not for a +moment could the fond and trusting girl forget that the dearest dream +of her life was broken. But there was no taint of selfishness in +Violet’s character, and no sorrow of her own could entirely absorb +her mind, or render her indifferent to the feelings of those she +loved. + +To-day she had seen a smile, a bright and peaceful smile, light up +her mother’s face for the first time since that never-to-be-forgotten +day when the tidings of the sailor’s death had fallen like a +thunderbolt on the quiet country home. To-day, for the first time +since that hour of despair, Clara Westford seemed almost happy; and +this in itself was happiness for her devoted daughter. + +Early the next morning Violet went to the Circenses to attend the +reading of the new piece in which she was to make her _début_ as an +actress. Esther Vanberg was at the theatre--“dressed to death,” as +her “intimate enemies” remarked to each other in confidence, after +having congratulated the young lady upon the perfection of her +costume with effusion. Miss Vanberg had no special business in the +green-room this morning; but she was very anxious to know whether +the part allotted to Violet in the new piece was only a few lines of +young lady-like inanity, or one of those lively little sketches of +character which might win applause for the young _débutante_. + +Miss Vanberg appeared to be in an unusually gracious humour upon +this particular morning, and she greeted Violet with the same warm +friendliness of manner which she had displayed upon the Saturday +night. + +Violet, unsuspecting as a child, accepted that spurious friendship +for the pure gold it represented. She had no reason to suspect +hypocrisy. What motive could the Jewess have for wishing to deceive +her? + +In consequence, therefore, of Esther Vanberg’s artful manœuvres the +two girls were on excellent terms on Monday night, and all was +prepared for the vile plot concocted by the banker. + +As for the Marquis, he was only a passive instrument in the hands +of his tempter. Rupert Godwin had planned everything; and Lord +Roxleydale was told that he had nothing to do except to act in +accordance with the directions of his friend. His friend! Alas for +ill-trained youth! these are the friends who lure their helpless +dupes into the uttermost depths of vice and folly. And when the ruin +is accomplished, when the poor weak-minded fool has parted alike +with the last sixpence of his fortune, the last impulse of truth and +honour that ever thrilled through his breast, then the so-called +friend laughs his deluded victim to scorn, and goes away to seek a +new dupe. + +Violet was dressed for her part in the burlesque. She was looking +her loveliest in her fantastic robe of silvery gauze, her draperies +of rose-coloured crape, her crown of stars and flowers. Her long +rippling golden hair fell upon her shoulders, long and thick as the +tresses of a modern Godiva. + +Under some artful pretence Esther Vanberg had lured her new friend +into the green-room, and the two girls were sitting side by side upon +a low ottoman, beneath the full light of a chandelier. + +The green-room was deserted at this time of the evening, for all the +actors were busy on the stage, or in their dressing-rooms. The two +girls were sitting alone; and seen thus they might have served as a +model for some artist’s rendering of a fallen angel and a spirit of +light. + +Esther Vanberg’s blue-black hair was drawn away from her low brow, +and confined with a narrow circlet of diamonds, one of the Duke of +Harlingford’s latest gifts, given at a time when he had intended to +make her his Duchess, in spite of every opposing influence. + +They had quarrelled since then; and Esther, with the pride of some +despotic Eastern queen, rather than a _figurante_ in a theatre, +had forbidden the young Duke to approach her, and had ordered her +servants to deny him admission to her house. + +Unluckily for the Duke’s prospects in life, such wild freaks as +these only rendered the shallow-brained young nobleman still more +infatuated, still more inclined to sacrifice the wishes of all his +best friends by uniting his fate to that of a woman whose only charm +was her almost demoniac beauty. + +The hour at which the Marquis and his two friends were to present +themselves in the green-room had been planned by Esther; and now, +while talking gaily to the unconscious Violet she glanced across the +girl’s shoulder and saw the three men upon the threshold of the door. + +Lord Roxleydale was really in love, after his own fashion; and he +was almost as nervous as some school-girl who enters a ball-room for +the first time. + +Not so the banker. He was perfectly self-possessed, quite able to +play out the base game that he had planned. + +He took care to address himself at first entirely to Esther Vanberg, +and scarcely appeared to be aware of Violet’s presence, though at the +same time he was surprised by the dazzling beauty of the girl whom he +had only seen in her simple mourning dress at Mrs. Trevor’s party. + +Presently, however, the introductions were made, and Miss Vanberg +presented Mr. Sempronius Sykemore to her dearest friend, Miss Watson. + +Violet, fully accustomed to society, was in no manner disturbed or +confused by this introduction, nor by the introduction of the Marquis +which immediately followed. + +But Lord Roxleydale hung sheepishly in the background, sheltering +himself behind his friend the banker, quite incapable of saying a +word for himself, so deeply was he smitten by Violet’s loveliness. +And beyond this, the young nobleman had been told to hold his tongue, +and to leave the management of the plot entirely to his wiser friends. + +He was silent therefore, and could only gaze in mute admiration upon +Violet, while Mr. Sempronius Sykemore paid all manner of extravagant +compliments to the two girls. Esther Vanberg was completely +hoodwinked by the story which Rupert Godwin had told her, and which +Mr. Sykemore’s manner seemed to confirm. With her face averted from +Violet, she smiled at the banker, a smile full of malicious meaning. + +Violet had no recollection of having seen Rupert Godwin before; for +he had quite escaped her notice amongst the crowd of guests at Mrs. +Trevor’s party. + +And yet there was something in his face, something in the vivid light +of his dark eyes, which seemed strangely familiar to her. + +Surely it must be the same look which had so puzzled her in Esther +Vanberg, the expression which bore a resemblance to that of George +Stanmore, her false and fickle lover. + +She could not help wondering about this, even while the two strange +gentlemen and Esther were chattering round her. She was abstracted in +the midst of their talk, and gave random answers to any observations +that were addressed to her. + +But presently the call-boy announced the last scene of the burlesque, +and the two girls rose to leave the green-room. + +Violet bowed to the gentlemen with an air of quiet dignity as she +quitted the apartment. From first to last she behaved to them as +she would have done had she met them in the drawing-room of an +acquaintance; and she had no idea that they could think badly of +her, simply because they found her earning her living in a theatre. + +“Well, my dear Roxleydale!” exclaimed the banker, as the three +friends were left alone in the green-room, “what do you think of your +golden-haired goddess now? Are you still bewitched?” + +“I’m completely annihilated,” answered the Marquis; “she’s an angel, +divinity, a--a nice girl, and that kind of thing.” + +“And are you prepared to go through fire and water to win her?” + +“Through an ocean--across a blazing prairie, and that kind of thing,” +exclaimed the young lord, who could venture to be poetical now that +the object of his adoration was safely out of hearing. + +“It is only fair to remind you that the enterprise of to-night will +be one of some danger,” said Rupert Godwin, looking earnestly at the +young man. + +“Danger!” cried Lord Roxleydale; “my people learned to laugh at +danger before the Normans conquered England.” + +“Yes, that’s all very grand,” answered the banker coolly; “but +nowadays there are legal penalties sometimes attaching to these +matters. Whatever happens, Marquis, you will stand the consequences +of this act yourself--you will not betray my share in the business?” + +“I am a gentleman, and a Roxleydale,” returned the young man, with +some touch of dignity; “and I only associate with those who can trust +me.” + +“Enough, Lord Roxleydale,” replied Rupert Godwin; “I will trust you +freely. As soon as Vio--as soon as the girl they call Miss Watson +returns to her dressing-room she will receive a message to the +effect that her mother has been seized with sudden illness, and +that a neighbouring doctor has sent his carriage for her. She will +be conducted in all haste and confusion to the carriage, which will +be standing in readiness in a quiet street between the Strand and +Covent-garden. I need scarcely tell you that the carriage in question +will be the vehicle provided to convey the yellow-haired goddess to +your place in Essex.” + +The Marquis did not look altogether delighted with this scheme. + +“Isn’t it rather too bad,” he said, “that dodge about her mother?” + +“My dear Roxleydale, need I remind you that all stratagems are fair +in love as well as in war?” + +The Marquis was too weak to resist his black-hearted tempter. The +three men returned to the private box, which Lord Roxleydale had +rented for the entire season. + +Rupert Godwin did not remain long in the box. He quitted the theatre +as the curtain fell upon the close of the burlesque, taking the +Marquis with him. + +All had been arranged with unfailing precision. The banker and Lord +Roxleydale walked together to the quiet street, where the carriage +was waiting, and paced slowly up and down the pavement, smoking their +cigars, and watching for the moment when the foul plot would be set +in action. + +Such men as Rupert Godwin select their servants to suit their own +purposes, and generally contrive to find willing tools in those they +employ. The banker’s confidential servant was a man whose principles +were about on a level with those of his master, and Mr. Godwin had no +fear of rebellion or discontent when he wanted help in some villanous +business. + +Violet had nearly finished dressing, when she was summoned to the +door of the apartment, where she found one of the men belonging to +the theatre waiting for her with a letter in his hand. + +The letter consisted of only a few words, written in pencil: + +“Miss Westford is requested to follow the bearer of this to Dr. +Maldon’s carriage. Dr. Maldon is now in attendance upon Mrs. +Westford, who has been taken seriously ill. Her daughter will do well +to lose no time in following the messenger.” + +Violet almost fainted under the terrible shock caused by these few +lines. Her mother ill--seriously ill; a physician in attendance, a +carriage sent for her, and an urgent request that no time should be +lost! The case must indeed be serious. + +The excited girl snatched her bonnet from the peg where it hung, +flung her shawl around her, and hurried back to the passage where she +had left the messenger. + +“Take me to him!” she cried impetuously, “the man who brought this +letter--where is he?” + +“In the hall, Miss. He begged me to say as you was to be very quick.” + +“Yes, yes,” gasped Violet, “not a minute is to be lost--not a moment!” + +She rushed past the astonished messenger, and ran down the stairs, +scarcely conscious of the ground upon which she trod. She forgot +everything, except that her mother was ill; and her heart throbbed +loud and fast with a terror that was almost too painful to bear. + +No thought of falsehood or imposture ever flashed across her mind. +How should it do so? How could this innocent girl imagine that there +lived a wretch so base as to betray his victim by practising on the +sacred love of a daughter for her mother? + +James Spence, the banker’s valet, was the person who had been +intrusted with the pretended physician’s note. He was just the sort +of man to assist in such a scheme. Silent, soft of foot and of voice, +false in every word and look, he was fully qualified to carry out the +plans his master confided to him; and he served the banker well, for +he knew that with few other masters could he have had so profitable +a place. No class of employers pay so liberally as the wicked. For +them fidelity is priceless. There must have been good times for the +servants in the house of Lucrezia Borgia, Princess of Ferrara! + +The banker’s valet assumed an expression of profound sympathy as +Violet approached him. He was a very respectable-looking man--grave, +middle-aged, dressed with a scrupulous neatness that was almost +Quaker-like; and he looked exactly the sort of man a physician’s +servant might be supposed to be. + +“O, pray let us lose no time!” Violet exclaimed. “You are the person +who brought this letter, are you not?” + +“I am, Miss.” + +“Then I am ready to come with you at once.” + +No more was said until they had left the theatre; then James Spence +addressed Violet in his most respectful tone. + +“If you would allow me to suggest that you should take my arm, Miss, +I think we should reach the carriage sooner,” he said, “for we may +have to pass through a crowd.” + +“Yes; you are very good; I will take your arm,” answered the excited +girl. “O, pray let us hurry to the carriage.” + +The valet lost no time in obeying this behest. He led Violet through +the busy streets at a rapid pace, and they reached the quiet +thoroughfare where the carriage was waiting, before the agonized and +trembling girl had been able to collect her thoughts, or recover from +the first effects of the shock she had so lately received. + +Had she been a little calmer, she must have wondered at the style of +carriage waiting to receive her, which bore little resemblance to +the kind of vehicle usually employed by a medical man. Had she been +calmer, she might have remarked the presence of a man enveloped in a +loose overcoat, who sat in the rumble of the carriage smoking a cigar. + +But as it was, Violet observed nothing. The carriage-door was opened +for her, she sprang into the vehicle, and sank half-fainting on the +seat. + +“Pray beg the coachman to drive quickly!” she cried in an imploring +voice as James Spence closed the door. + +“O yes, Miss, we’ll drive fast enough,” the valet answered, with a +sinister grin, as he stepped back upon the pavement, while the horses +hurried off in the direction of the Strand. + +The man wrapped in an overcoat, and seated in the rumble, was the +Marquis of Roxleydale. Another man, lounging at the corner of the +street, watched the departing vehicle. + +“So, Clara Westford,” he muttered between his set teeth, “I think +at last I am fairly revenged upon you for your insolence. You have +chosen to defy me. Be it my task to show you what a helpless creature +you are.” + +Helpless! Yes, Rupert Godwin; but the helpless are beneath the +special care of Providence--that Power which is strong enough to +triumph over even such schemers as you! + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +IN THE LABYRINTH. + + +A strange conflict went on in Lionel Westford’s mind after that scene +outside the northern wing of Wilmingdon Hall. At one moment the young +man’s brain was occupied by thoughts of Julia Godwin--her beauty, +the noble nature which was evinced in every word she uttered, the +amiable and yet impulsive temper, and all those charms and graces +of manner which made the banker’s daughter irresistible. But in the +next instant the remembrance of the old gardener’s dark hints would +flash upon Lionel Westford’s mind, and he would find it impossible to +enjoy a moment’s peace in a house that was haunted by a hideous yet +shapeless shadow. + +Yes, Wilmingdon Hall had become a haunted house in the imagination +of Lionel Westford. Do what he would, he could not banish from his +recollection the strange and terrible words that had been uttered by +the old gardener. + +Those words were for ever taking a more palpable form in Lionel’s +mind. They shaped themselves into the story of a murder--a foul +and deadly crime, which had been witnessed by the half-witted old +man through a chink in the shutter of the seventh window in that +long range of darkened casements belonging to the deserted wing of +Wilmingdon Hall. + +But who was the murderer? That was a fearful point. Lionel Westford +scarcely dared to whisper to himself the name of the man to whom his +suspicion pointed. + +That man was the same of whom his widowed mother had spoken with +unusual and apparently unreasonable bitterness; the man through whose +agency a family had been cast penniless upon the world. + +But the same man was also the father of Julia Godwin, and Lionel +Westford’s heart sank within him as he contemplated the possibility +of the banker’s guilt. + +What was he to do? To remain in that haunted house without taking +some active step in the matter was impossible. The very atmosphere of +the place seemed to oppress him. The cry of a dying creature seemed +perpetually ringing in his ears. + +His dreams were made hideous by shapeless visions. His brain grew +dazed and bewildered, and a fitful fever took possession of him. +His tremulous hands refused to do their work; and he found himself +sometimes sitting for an hour together, staring vacantly at the +drawing before him, while his mind dwelt upon that scene in the +deserted old garden before the northern wing. + +He felt that only action--prompt and decided action--could save him +from a serious illness. + +“My brain is beginning to be affected,” he thought; “at any moment +I may be seized with brain-fever. In my ravings I may reveal the +suspicion that fills my mind--reveal it, perhaps, to the ears of +guilt; and then--” + +He scarcely dared to follow out the thought, which was a very +horrible one. + +If in the delirium attendant upon brain-fever he revealed the secret +preying so fearfully upon his mind, and revealed it to the ears of +a murderer, what more likely than that some means would be taken to +prevent his ever leaving that house alive? A helpless and unconscious +creature, stricken by fever, could be very easily disposed of, and no +one would be likely to suspect any but a natural cause for his death. + +“I must act in this matter, and act promptly,” the young man thought. +“It is not because I have fallen desperately in love with Julia +Godwin that I can refrain from using my utmost endeavours to fathom +this mystery. Duty demands that I should investigate the old man’s +story. Heaven grant it may be only the delusion of a demented brain!” + +Having once resolved upon the course he should take, Lionel’s mind +grew much clearer. He worked quietly and calmly all that afternoon, +keeping to his own apartments; for he was determined henceforward to +avoid the dangerous fascination of Julia Godwin’s society. + +He saw Miss Godwin stroll out upon the lawn; and never had she seemed +lovelier to him than this afternoon, when stern duty kept him away +from her. He saw her walk slowly across the grass, book in hand, and +take the direction of that laurel avenue where they had so often +met--where they had passed so many happy hours. + +His heart beat quicker as his eyes followed that tall white-robed +figure, in which girlish elegance was mingled with a queen-like +grace. Lionel Westford was no coxcomb, and yet within the last week +of his residence at Wilmingdon Hall, vague but delicious hopes and +fancies had mingled themselves with the tortures that oppressed his +mind. + +He had been a great deal in Julia’s society within the last week, and +something--some subtle shade of tone and manner--told him that his +love was not altogether hopeless. In spite of the apparent difference +between their social positions, Julia’s manner innocently and +unconsciously revealed a tender interest in the man whom she had been +so anxious to save from destitution. + +And Lionel had to exclude this exquisite hope from his mind; and, +knowing that he was beloved, he yet felt himself called upon to +devote all the force of his intellect to the carrying out of an +investigation which might result in branding with a fearful crime the +father of the girl who loved him. The task was very terrible; but +Lionel Westford was inflexible in a matter in which he felt that duty +and honour alike called upon his firmness. + +“At the cost of my own happiness, at the sacrifice even of Julia’s +peace, I must fathom this horrible secret,” he thought, as he turned +away from the open window looking out upon the lawn. + +That evening he began his work. + +It was his habit to dine alone in his own apartment at seven o’clock, +the hour at which Miss Godwin and her stately companion, Mrs. +Melville, took their ceremonious meal. + +All the arrangements of the grand old mansion were perfect in their +style, and Lionel’s solitary dinner-table was served as carefully as +if he had been a distinguished guest. + +He had rarely spoken much to the man-servant who waited upon him; but +this evening he talked to the man with a purpose, for he felt that he +could do nothing in the task he had set himself until he had obtained +all the information which the members of Mr. Godwin’s household could +afford him. + +“I have been very much interested lately in an old man whom +I often see about the grounds,” Lionel began with assumed +carelessness,--“Caleb Wildred, I think you call him. Poor fellow, his +mind seems quite gone. How long has he been in his present state?” + +“Well, sir,” answered the servant, who was very glad of an +opportunity of talking, “Old Caleb has been queerish in his head, +off and on, for the last five or six years. But he had a bad illness +about a twelvemonth ago, and ever since he’s been a great deal worse +than he used to be--regular mad, as you must have seen, sir, talking +about blood being shed--and treachery--and daggers--and murder--and +all sorts of horrid things, till really it makes a man’s flesh creep +to hear him.” + +“Poor fellow! And this has come about since his illness! What sort of +an illness was it?” + +“Brain-fever, sir, and desperately bad he had it, poor chap! His life +was give over; but Mrs. Beckson, the housekeeper, she’s a very old +woman, she is, but not so old as Caleb, and as sharp as a needle, and +she and Caleb are cousins, you see, sir; so she nursed him all the +time, without troubling Mr. Godwin about the poor old chap’s illness, +and he was kept up in a garret at the top of the house, where nobody +could be disturbed by his raving and going on when the fever was at +its worst. But lor, sir, it was awful to hear the things that poor +weak-witted old fellow said.” + +“What kind of things did he say?” + +“Well, it was always the same story, sir, over and over and over +again. Murder and treachery, and a chink in a shutter, and goodness +knows what, but always the same; till it seemed to make your brain +go queer to hear him. That illness of his lasted for nigh upon two +months; and ever since that he’s been just as you see him now--able +to do his little bit of work well enough, and quiet and harmless, +but always going over the same ground, and yet somehow sensible and +rational in some things, for after raving out about the murder, and +the treachery, and so on, he’ll turn round the next minute and tell +you it all means nothing, it’s all nonsense, and you’re not to listen +to it. So, you see, the poor old fellow knows that he’s queer in his +head, sir; and that’s more than most of your lunatics do.” + +“Has Mr. Godwin ever heard of his wild talk?” + +“Never, sir, so far as I’m aware. Indeed, I may venture to say for +certain that he hasn’t, for that’s another strange part of the +business. Ever since that illness of his, old Caleb has seemed afraid +of his master; never will he go anywhere near Mr. Godwin; the very +sound of master’s voice will set him of a tremble from head to foot, +and he’ll turn as white as a ghost sometimes at the mere mention +of his name. But, lor bless me, sir, when once a man’s brain’s +turned, there’s no accounting for the fancies that get into it. I +had a cousin, sir, which he was barman at a tavern in Hertford, and +took to taking more liquor than was good for him, and had delirious +tremblings, I think the doctor called it; and, lor bless your heart, +sir, that poor fellow was always fancying things, and making grabs +at nothing, sir, thinking as how he was catching flies, mostly +blue-bottles; and if once a man gets a tile off, as the saying is, +it’s uncommon difficult to get the tile on again.” + +Lionel assented to this truism. He was not particularly interested +in the delirious fancies of the footman’s drunken cousin, but he was +deeply interested in the account he gave of old Caleb. Everything the +man said helped to strengthen the hideous suspicions that oppressed +him. Why should the superannuated gardener exhibit this unreasonable +terror of his master?--why, unless the shock which had dethroned his +reason had been caused by some act of that master’s? + +Lionel asked presently: + +“But how was poor old Wildred seized with this brain-fever? What +brought on the attack?” + +“Well, sir, that’s the queerest part of the story. You must know that +most of the servants in this house, the women servants especially, +will have it, foolish like, that the northern wing of the Hall is +haunted. It was built in the time of the Planpagennys, you see, sir, +and from all accounts it appears the Planpagennys were a queer lot. +There’s not one of the women servants will go near the place after +dark; and they all put down poor old Caleb’s fever to his having seen +some kind of a ghost.” + +“But why so?” + +“Because, you see, sir, this is how he was took. One night in +July,--or, let me see,” said the footman, checking himself abruptly, +with an air of intense conscientiousness, “don’t let me tell a +story--was it the beginning of July, as Caleb was took, or was it +the end of June? Well, I think it was the end of June, as it might +be somewheres between the twentieth and the thirtieth. Howsomdever, +as we was all a-sitting down to supper, the housekeeper she misses +Caleb; and being a relation, and attached to him for old times’ sake, +she was regular uneasy about him, and couldn’t go on with her supper +till she’d had him looked for. So she sends the under-gardener, +and he was gone above an hour, searching here and there about the +grounds. And it was nigh upon twelve o’clock at night when he found +poor old Caleb--where do you suppose, sir?” + +“I really can’t imagine.” + +“Lying in a swound, under one of the windows in the northern wing; +and our people will have it as he’d been peeping through the shutter, +and had seen a ghost.” + +“Strange!” exclaimed Lionel thoughtfully. + +He had lingered over his dinner, scarcely eating half-a-dozen +mouthfuls, so deeply interested was he in what the man had to tell +him. But he could not venture to prolong the meal any further, or to +ask any more questions, lest by so doing he should excite suspicion +in the mind of the servant. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +A DARK JOURNEY. + + +The carriage in which Violet was seated drove at a rapid pace along +the Strand; but, to the girl’s surprise and terror, it did not turn +aside to cross Waterloo Bridge. + +She was in an agony of excitement, thinking that the coachman, +through mere ignorance or stupidity, had taken the wrong road, and +that time, the precious time, would be lost. + +She pulled the check-string violently; but the driver took no +notice--he seemed to drive faster every minute. Already the +carriage had passed under Temple Bar, and was making its way along +Fleet-street at a rapid rate, for at this hour there were few +vehicles in the City. + +Violet strove to open the window, and with some difficulty succeeded +in doing so. She called to the coachman, but he paid no attention to +her cry. It might be that her voice was drowned by the noise of the +wheels. + +Rendered desperate by the thought of her mother’s illness, Violet +would have tried to spring from the carriage, even at the risk of her +life; but when she endeavoured to open the door, she found that it +was locked. + +She then beat violently with her hands against the front windows of +the carriage. This time the coachman must have heard her, but he did +not even turn his head; he took no notice whatever of her frantic +summons. + +By this time the carriage was crossing Smithfield. A few minutes +more and it was in Bishopsgate-street. Violet strained her eyes, +endeavouring to discover where she was; but the neighbourhood was +entirely strange to her. + +Then a feeling of utter despair came over her. The carriage dashed +on; the houses and street-lamps swam before her eyes; the tramp of +the horses’ hoofs seemed like the throbbing of her own brain. + +Presently the houses grew thinner; there were trees and a country +road--a road which seemed to go on for ever to the distracted girl, +who watched it from the open window of the carriage. + +She felt that she was the victim of some horrible conspiracy; but +she did not for a moment doubt the story of her mother’s illness. +Her brain was too much bewildered to enable her to think reasonably +of the night’s work. She fancied that her mother was really ill, and +that some wretches, out of fiendish cruelty, were carrying her away +from that beloved mother. + +So she sat, watching the long dark road, and praying for help from +Heaven in this hour of bewilderment and despair. + +After about two hours’ rapid travelling, the carriage stopped before +an old-fashioned-looking inn. + +It seemed as if the travellers were expected, for though it was long +past midnight, a man came out of the stables directly the vehicle +stopped. The doors and windows of the inn were all dark, and the +household had evidently retired to rest; but the stable-yard was +open, and a light was burning in one of the numerous buildings +within. There was no time lost in waiting, and while the ostler +removed the jaded and steaming animals from the carriage, a second +man came out of the stable-yard leading a pair of fresh horses. + +This only added to poor Violet’s bewilderment. All the occurrences of +the night seemed rather the incidents of a troubled dream than those +of reality. + +She put her head out of the carriage-window, and saw a tall, +slenderly-built man standing a little way from the carriage. + +“O, for pity’s sake!” she cried, “whoever you are, tell me the +meaning of this mystery! Why have I been brought here? Is there +any one in the world who can be so cruel as to wish to separate a +daughter from her dying mother?” + +The stranger approached the carriage-window. His face was shaded by +the brim of his hat, which he wore low on his forehead, and by a +cashmere shawl which enveloped his chin. The night was dark, though +fine, and Violet could not recognize the Marquis of Roxleydale, whom +she had only seen for the first time that evening, and of whom she +had taken very little notice. + +“Whoever you are, I implore you to have pity upon me!” she cried. “If +you have one touch of human feeling, have mercy upon me, and take me +back to London--take me to my mother!” + +“My dear young lady,” answered the Marquis, “pray don’t give way to +grief. I can make your mind quite easy as regards your mother. Her +illness was only a fiction. All stratagems, you know, are fair in +love and war, and that kind of thing. So far as I know, the maternal +par----your mother, is as well as ever she was.” + +“She is not ill! O, thank Heaven--thank Heaven for that! And that +letter--the doctor’s letter!” + +“The doctor’s letter was only part of an innocent little ruse, which +I am sure you will forgive when you know its motive. It mightn’t be +exactly the thing, you know, but it isn’t more ungentlemanly than the +conduct of that fellow who pretended he wasn’t going away, you know, +and got his ships ready on the quiet, and made a bolt of it. Dido and +Æneas, and that kind of thing, you know.” + +The fresh horses were harnessed by this time, and the driver was in +his seat. Before Violet could ask another question, the Marquis bowed +and retired. He returned to his seat in the rumble, the ostler gave +the horses their heads, and in the next moment they had started at a +gallant pace along the dark road. + +At first there was only one feeling in Violet’s breast, and that was +a profound sense of gratitude to Heaven. + +Her mother was not ill; her beloved mother was not in danger. + +The burden of anguish had been suddenly lifted from her breast; and +the relief was so intense that it was some time before she could even +attempt to contemplate her own position. But when she did at length +grow calm enough to consider the events of the night, her brain +seemed to give way beneath a sense of utter bewilderment. + +Think of it as she would, she could not imagine any possible motive +for this mysterious business. + +Had she been persecuted by the addresses of any dishonourable lover, +she might perhaps have realized at once the motive of this midnight +abduction; but she imagined herself entirely unknown and unnoticed. + +Who, then, could be interested in carrying her away from her home, +from the mother she idolized, the mother who would suffer unutterable +fear and suspense during her absence? + +She tried in vain to find an answer to this question, but her +bewilderment only increased as she tormented her brain by useless +speculations. And at last she sank back in a corner of the carriage, +completely worn out by the mental struggle she had undergone--weary, +too, of watching the long dark, road along which she was being +carried to her mysterious destination. + +At last, at about three o’clock in the morning, the carriage stopped +before high gates, with massive stone pillars, surmounted by +escutcheons festooned with ivy. + +A bell was rung,--a loud clanging bell, that gave out a strange +shrill peal in the stillness of the night. + +There was a pause, during which Violet had ample time to contemplate +the tall stone pillars, the massive iron gates, which had a weird and +ghostly look in the dim light; and then the bell was rung for the +second time. This time the summons was heard; for a man came out of +the lodge, carrying a lantern and a big bunch of keys. + +He unlocked the gates, which fell back upon their hinges with a +grating and scrooping noise, as if they were very rarely opened. The +carriage passed through into a long dark avenue--an avenue in which +the low gusty breath of the chill morning wind sounded almost like +the wailing of a ghost. + +At the end of the avenue, which seemed more than a mile long, the +carriage crossed a bridge, below which Violet saw a black stream of +water lying at the bottom of a wide stone moat. The carriage passed +under an archway after crossing this bridge, and then drew up before +a dreary-looking building with a castellated roof and circular towers +at each angle of the wall. + +Nothing could be more dispiriting than the appearance of this house, +even when shrouded by the darkness. In the past, it might have been +a feudal castle; in the present, it looked only like a madhouse, a +union, or a gaol. + +The Marquis of Roxleydale came to the carriage-door, unlocked it, and +assisted Violet to alight. + +The poor girl was utterly worn out in mind and body by the events of +the night. She dismounted from the vehicle with a tottering step, and +would have fallen on the slippery moss-grown stone if Lord Roxleydale +had not supported her. + +“Where am I?” she gasped; “and why am I brought here?” + +“Only be patient, dearest and loveliest of women,” answered the +Marquis in a tender whisper. “Rest quietly to-night, and ask no +questions. To-morrow morning you shall know all.” + +A stifled shriek escaped from Violet’s lips. There was something in +the speaker’s tone which chilled her to the heart. It was the tone +of a profligate who believed that his victim was in his power. + +Innocent, inexperienced in life’s perils as Violet was, her instinct +seemed to reveal to her the danger and misery of her position. But +gentle though she was, she had the spirit of a true woman--the spirit +which asserts itself in the hour of danger and difficulty. + +“Why am I brought here?” she demanded, drawing herself away from Lord +Roxleydale’s supporting arm; “and who are you who have been base +enough to carry out this vile plot against a helpless girl? To any +honourable man my friendlessness would have rendered me sacred.” + +“Dear Miss Watson,” pleaded the Marquis, who really was inclined to +feel very much ashamed of himself, but who was always trying to act +according to the base sentiments instilled into his weak mind by +those false friends who called themselves men of the world,--“dear +Miss Watson, if you knew the devoted admiration, the all-absorbing +love, and that kind of thing, which prompted this scheme, you would +pardon all. Believe this, and let me defer all explanations until +to-morrow. This lonely house shall be as safe a shelter for you as +the roof beneath which you slept last night.” + +This time there was an accent of truth in the young man’s words. +Violet was almost fainting, and was far too weak to make any further +struggle to extricate herself from the power of her persecutor. She +sank upon a carved oaken bench, in the great stone entrance-hall, +which was dimly lighted by one lamp, and the atmosphere of which +seemed cold and damp as that of a charnel-house. + +No wealthy young nobleman, possessor of numerous country seats in +pleasant neighbourhoods, would have cared to spend much of his life +at this dreary habitation amongst the flat swamps upon the Essex +coast. The Marquis of Roxleydale was the very last man in the world +to tolerate a dull abode; and the Moat had been almost deserted ever +since the death of his grandfather--an eccentric old misanthrope, who +had chosen to inhabit the dreariest house of all his possessions. + +An old woman had admitted the Marquis and his companion into the +hall. Lord Roxleydale committed Violet to her charge. + +“You received my letter?” he asked. + +He spoke in a very loud voice, but he had to repeat the question. + +“Yes, my lord. Yes, yes; I received the letter,” muttered the old +woman at last; “and all’s ready for the lady--the young lady. Yes, +and it’s a pretty face too, and a fair face, and a good face--eh, my +lord?” she said, looking at Violet, “but it’s paler than it should be +for a bride; it’s much too pale for a bride, I’ve seen a bonny bride +brought home to this house long ago--very long ago; but the place +seems to have gone to ruin since then.” + +“She’s a little weak in her head, I think, Miss Watson,” the Marquis +said apologetically; “but you won’t mind her, will you?” + +Violet shook her head, and stretched out her hand with a friendly +gesture towards the old woman. She was too ill to speak; her dry lips +refused to utter a sound. + +The old housekeeper led her charge towards the great oaken staircase; +the broad staircase up and down which gay-hearted people had trodden +lightly in the days that were gone. + +The Marquis had removed his hat on entering the hall; but even yet +Violet had not recognized him. She was too completely prostrated to +observe the face of her abductor. Only one thought held a place amid +the misty shadows that clouded her brain. That one thought related to +her desire to escape, to return to her mother, whose heart would be +wrung by all the torments of suspense and anxiety. + +She followed the housekeeper. There was something honest and friendly +in the old woman’s countenance; and Violet felt that with her she was +at least safe. + +The woman led her up the staircase and along a corridor, until they +came to a spacious room, where a pair of tall wax candles were +burning in antique silver candlesticks. A wood fire blazed upon the +broad stone hearth, within the great chimney; and, summer time though +it was, there was unspeakable comfort in the aspect of the red logs. + +The room was large and gloomy, and, like everything else in the old +house, seemed to belong to an age long gone by. The wainscoting was +of black oak; the ceiling was of the same sombre hue and massive +material, crossed by huge beams, with quaintly-carved pendants, which +threw weird shadows upon the walls, and looked like grinning faces +leering down at the inmates of the room. + +An immense four-post bedstead, surmounted by funereal-looking plumes, +stood at one end of the apartment. Near the fireplace there were two +old-fashioned easy-chairs, covered with faded tapestry, and a table +upon which the silver candlesticks were placed. + +Violet had scarcely strength to totter to the nearest chair. She sank +into it fainting and helpless. + +“Don’t leave me!” she gasped, clinging to the old woman’s withered +hands. “Pray don’t leave me!” + +The housekeeper seemed to understand the meaning of the helpless +girl’s look and gesture, though she could not possibly have +understood her words. + +“Ay, ay,” she muttered. “I’ll take care of you, my pretty--you +needn’t, be afraid. Old Nancy will take care of you.” + +Violet felt reassured by these words. Her eyelids sank over her +wearied eyes; her head fell back upon the cushion of the chair. +Presently she felt the housekeeper’s feeble hands tenderly removing +her outer garments, and then the old woman half carried, half led her +to the bed, on which she sank, completely overcome by fatigue and +excitement. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +THE HOUSEKEEPER’S STORY. + + +After his conversation with Mr. Godwin’s servant, Lionel Westford +felt more than ever that duty and honour alike urged him to an +immediate and most vigorous investigation of the mystery connected +with the deserted wing of Wilmingdon Hall. + +Had there been no such person as Julia Godwin in existence, had the +banker and the banker’s kindred been alike indifferent to him, the +young man would not for a moment have thought of acting on his own +responsibility. + +He would have gone at once to Scotland-yard, and would have placed +the whole matter in the hands of the detective police--laying before +them a full statement of the case, and relying on their skill in the +unravelment of such dark enigmas as that which cast its black shadow +on Wilmingdon Hall. Mr. Pollaky of Paddington-green, or some other +gentleman of Mr. Pollaky’s profession, would have been provided with +one of those mysterious cases which seem designed for the development +of detective genius, and all the complicated machinery of detection +would have been set in motion. + +But for Julia’s sake Lionel Westford refrained from doing this; for +her sake he determined not to make any communication to the police +until his dark suspicions became certainty, and duty compelled him to +denounce the father of the girl he loved. + +In the mean time he felt that his task of investigation would be very +difficult, and would demand all the subtlety of his intellect, all +the strength of his will. + +On thinking over what the servant had told him, he came to the +conclusion that old Caleb had indeed witnessed some appalling scene +in one of the rooms in the northern wing. + +But, granting this, what was the nature of that scene? + +The old gardener described a murder--a foul and treacherous murder. +Yet how could a murder have been committed in that deserted wing +without suspicion having been sooner or later aroused? + +The victim could scarcely have entered the building without the fact +of his presence there being known; and in that case, how had Rupert +Godwin been able to account for his disappearance? + +At present it was all a dark mystery, the clue to which Lionel +Westford could only hope to obtain by long and patient toiling in the +obscurity. It was a tangled skein, which could only be unravelled +inch by inch. + +He pondered much upon what the man-servant had told him, and +came to the conclusion that the person most likely to assist his +search--unconsciously, of course--was the old housekeeper, of whom +the man had spoken. + +This woman was a cousin of Caleb Wildred’s, and from her girlhood +had lived in the service of the Godwins, rising through all the +gradations of service, from under scullery-maid to housekeeper. + +Many secrets of the banker’s history were, in all probability, known +to this woman; and, if carefully sounded, she could scarcely fail to +give some clue to any mystery that might lurk behind the commonplace +story of his life. + +Lionel determined to seek the earliest opportunity of placing himself +in confidential relations with the housekeeper. Old servants are +generally garrulous and communicative, unless they have some special +motive for reserve. Lionel therefore hoped much from an interview +with Mrs. Beckson. + +A very little consideration suggested a means of approaching her. + +There were a great number of old pictures at Wilmingdon Hall--old +portraits of dead-and-gone grandees who had flourished there when +the original lords of the soil still held their own, before the days +when rich mercantile men had come to occupy the dwellings of the +noble. The hall and staircase, the billiard-room and music room, were +decorated with portraits of the departed Wilmingdons, painted by Sir +Peter Lely and Sir Godfrey Kneller, and let into the richly-carved +panelling of the rooms. These portraits formed, therefore, a part +of the walls they enriched, and had passed to the banker’s father +with the house itself. But these the elder Mr. Godwin had looked on +as so much furniture; and being a connoisseur of no mean powers, he +had amassed a large collection of old and modern pictures, to which +his son had added, bringing home many treasures from his continental +ramblings. + +Pictures of considerable value adorned almost every wall in the +house; and Lionel remembered having heard Julia say that there were +some very fine old Dutch paintings in the housekeeper’s room. + +“Papa is a believer in the modern school,” she had said; “and the +Jan Steens and Ostades have been banished from the dining-room, +to make way for Frith and Elmore, Leighton and Millais, whose +pictures please _me_ a great deal better than those perpetual brown +Dutchmen, who are always lighting their tiresome pipes in their +dingy tavern-parlours, or those wooden-faced Dutchwomen, who seem +to pass their existence between the brown little kitchen where they +peel vegetables, and the brown little parlour where they play upon a +queer-shaped organ.” + +What could better serve Lionel as an excuse for approaching the +housekeeper than his very natural wish to see these valuable old +pictures? + +He sent Mrs. Beckson a message by the servant who waited upon him, +requesting that he might be allowed to see the Dutch pictures in +her apartment, and received a prompt and most gracious reply, to +the effect that Mrs. Beckson would be delighted to see Mr. Wilton +at any time; but she would feel herself especially honoured if he +would condescend so far as to drink tea with her at five o’clock that +afternoon. + +Nothing could suit Lionel’s purpose better than this. He was, of +course, only on a level with the housekeeper in that establishment, +where he gave his services for a weekly stipend, and was content to +sink his status as a gentleman in order to earn a livelihood for +those he loved. + +He sent the servant back to Mrs. Beckson to say that he would be most +happy to avail himself of her kind invitation. + +“But you don’t dine till seven o’clock, sir. Mrs. Beckson has such +old-fashioned notions,” the man remonstrated. + +“I will go without my dinner to-day for the sake of a leisurely +inspection of Mrs. Beckson’s Dutch pictures,” Lionel answered. “Tell +her I accept her invitation with thanks.” + +The servant departed, wondering at what he called “the rum ways of +that artist chap, who’d sacrifice a good dinner for the sake of +looking at a lot of dingy old pictures, that seem every one of ’em as +if they’d been hung up a smoky chimney.” + +At five o’clock precisely Lionel Westford presented himself in the +housekeeper’s room. Mrs. Beckson had made quite a little festival of +the occasion, and had adorned her table with preserves and cakes, +an old-fashioned silver tea-and-coffee equipage, covered dishes of +buttered toast, and a stand of new-laid eggs, as if she had expected +a party. + +Lionel could scarcely refrain from a smile as he looked at the worthy +housekeeper’s preparations, and thought how utterly her dainties were +wasted on a guest whose mind was completely absorbed by one dark and +terrible subject. + +The old dame had dressed herself in her stateliest attire, her most +formidable head-gear and brownest and crispest wig. She received +Lionel with a sweeping curtsey that might have done honour to +an old-fashioned court in the days when the minuet was danced by +powdered beaux and belles. + +One by one she pointed out the old pictures which adorned her room, +telling all she knew of their history, and the value that had been +set upon them by connoisseurs whom Mr. Godwin had brought to look at +them. + +Lionel had no occasion to pretend an interest in these pictures. His +artistic taste was aroused at once by their merits, and he lingered +long before them, delighted and enthusiastic; so long indeed, that +he sorely tried the patience of the old housekeeper, who was anxious +to see him seated at her well-furnished tea-table, and was afflicted +by the fear that the toast would become leathery and the eggs hard, +while her visitor was dwelling on the details of a Jan Steen. + +At last, however, the inspection was finished, and he seated himself +opposite her, taking care to place himself with his back to the +window, so that the varying expressions of his own face would not +be seen, while, on the other hand, he would be able to perceive any +change in the countenance of his companion. + +The tea was poured out. Of course, there was a little preliminary +conversation as to its merits; and then Lionel set to work, very +cautiously and slowly. He began to speak of Mr. Godwin, and found the +housekeeper nothing loth to talk of her master. + +It was scarcely strange that the banker should form one of the chief +subjects of his servants’ discourse; for as they rarely passed +beyond the park-gates, they had little else to talk of besides the +habits and affairs of their master. People who cry out against the +gossiping propensities of servants should at least remember that in +many cases servants are kept close prisoners, very rarely seeing or +hearing anything of the outer world. Is it strange that, under such +circumstances, they should attach an undue importance to what they do +see and hear? + +“The present Mr. Godwin is a good master,” said Mrs. Beckson, +after some little discussion of general subjects; “he’s a liberal +paymaster, and his servants have nothing to complain of. But he’s not +like his father. He’s got a silent and gloomy way with him that’s +apt to set people against him--not strangers, for his manners to +strangers are generally considered very pleasing; but in his own +house he gives himself up to thought like, and doesn’t seem to take +either rest or pleasure. I never did see such a gentleman to think. +He’s always thinking, always brooding; and this last year, judging +by the little we’ve seen of him, I do believe he’s been worse than +ever--brooding, brooding, brooding, as if he’d got all the troubles +in this world upon his own mind. And if _that’s_ all the good riches +bring a body, give me poverty, say I.” + +“And you have not seen much of him lately?” + +“Very little indeed. I don’t know why it is, I suppose it’s +business--or it may be pleasure, for they do say Mr. Godwin leads +a very wild life in London; but somehow or other, ever since last +summer, counting from about the time my poor cousin Caleb was taken +ill with brain-fever, our master has kept away from this place, +almost as if it was haunted.” + +Lionel could not repress a slight start as Mrs. Beckson said this. +Every word that he heard seemed to point to the same conclusion, +every little circumstance so casually revealed led up to one terrible +fact--the crime that had been committed by Rupert Godwin in the +summer of the preceding year. + +“Your cousin Caleb and I have become very good friends, Mrs. +Beckson,” Lionel said, after a brief pause in which he reflected upon +what the housekeeper had told him; “we meet often in the garden, and +he always talks to me a little wildly at first, but he gets quite +rational afterwards.” + +“Yes, yes, to be sure; Caleb’s apt to be very wild, very wild +indeed, sir. It isn’t everybody that would have patience with him. +But I’m his own cousin, you see, sir, his own flesh and blood, and +we were boy and girl together. So I bear with all his vagaries. I +think there’s not many beside me could have nursed him through that +dreadful brain-fever.” + +“And that fever was the result of a sudden fright, I have heard?” +said Lionel. + +“Yes, sir; they do say poor Caleb was frightened; but, sir, there’s +no knowing; it might have been some delusion of his poor weak brain. +The women servants will have it that he saw a ghost in the northern +wing; but I don’t believe in any such nonsense, though I have heard +stories about those deserted old rooms that would make your blood run +cold, and it certainly isn’t every gentleman that would have as much +courage as our master.” + +“How so?” + +“Why, I mean that he’s not a bit afraid of being for hours and hours, +sometimes in the dead of the night, shut up alone in those dreary +rooms. He’s got an office in the northern wing, bless you, sir, and +they say he keeps all his most valuable documents and securities and +such-like locked in iron safes there, and up to last June twelvemonth +he used to work there once in a way, looking over his papers, and +such-like, I’ve heard Miss Godwin say.” + +“Up to last June twelvemonth? But not since that time?” asked Lionel. + +“Why, don’t I tell you, sir, that since last midsummer twelvemonth +Mr. Godwin has scarcely come home once in a month? He’s seemed to +shun the place somehow, and I can’t help thinking that he has some +kind of trouble on his mind, and that he tries to drown it in the +racketing and rioting of that rampageous London. You see, sir, he +and his only son didn’t agree well together, and young Mr. Godwin +left home two or three years ago, and it may be that preys on our Mr. +Godwin’s mind.” + +“But he used to work in an office in the northern wing?” + +“Yes; and that’s one of the reasons why I feel sure our poor Caleb +saw no ghost on the night he was taken ill.” + +“How is that?” + +“Why, you see, sir, the very night Caleb was taken, Mr. Godwin was in +his office; and it isn’t likely the most audacious ghosts would show +themselves when there were lights burning, and a city gentleman and +his friend in the office.” + +“His friend! Mr. Godwin was not alone then?” + +“No; there was a gentleman with him--a strange gentleman. I can +remember it all as if it had happened yesterday. I suppose it must +have been Caleb’s illness that impressed it upon my mind, you see, +sir. It was a very hot evening, and the house felt so oppressive +like, that me and my niece Susan, who is head-housemaid here, we took +a turn in the garden. It was quite dark when we went out, but it was +very pleasant for all that. Mr. Godwin’s confidential clerk, Jacob +Danielson, happened to be down here that evening, and was sitting in +the dining-room, when the strange gentleman came.” + +“Indeed! the stranger came late then?” + +“Yes; it must have been dark when he came. My niece and me were +sitting under one of the great cedars on the lawn, and the +dining-room windows being open and the lamps lighted, we could see +everything that was going on in the room. We saw the stranger walk +in through one of the windows, while master and his clerk were +sitting quietly over their wine; and the strange gentleman seemed +excited about something, as we could guess from his manner. But Mr. +Godwin, he was as quiet as a stone statue, and presently, after +Jacob Danielson had gone away in a dog-cart to catch the train from +Hertford, the stranger and master left the dining-room together, and +went to the library; for me and my niece could see the lights through +the great painted window, though we couldn’t see anything of what +was going on inside. But presently, through the open doors of the +hall--for, being such a hot, oppressive night, all the doors were +left wide open--we saw Mr. Godwin and the stranger going towards the +corridor leading to the northern wing, Mr. Godwin carrying a lamp.” + +The housekeeper paused to draw breath after this long speech. Lionel +Westford was terribly excited, and it was with difficulty that he +concealed the extent of his agitation. + +“And after this?” he said interrogatively. + +“After this me and my niece walked about a bit, first here, then +there, keeping out in the cool till supper-time; and we’d been +walking about nigh upon an hour, and were strolling along one of +the pathways close to the north garden, when who should come upon +us sudden like but Jacob Danielson, which we had thought to have +started by the train from Hertford! We couldn’t help being a little +startled by his coming upon us so sudden, and there was something in +his manner that seemed as if he’d been excited, or almost frightened +like; and this was something out of the way for him, for, generally +speaking, he’s more like a machine made out of cast iron than a human +being. ‘Where’s the gentleman?’ says he to me and my niece,--‘where’s +the strange gentleman? Have you seen him go away?’ ‘No,’ I replied; +‘Mr. Danielson, I have not.’ ‘O,’ says he, ‘I thought you might have +seen him; it’s of no consequence; good evening;’ and with that he +walks off very fast; and though there wasn’t much in what he said, +there was something in his manner that seemed to make me and my niece +turn all cold and shivery like, in spite of the sultry evening.” + +“And did you see the stranger after this?” + +“No; he left as quietly as he came. I daresay Mr. Godwin showed him +the short cut across the park, for none of us in the servants’ hall +saw him go away.” + +“Indeed! And this was the night upon which your cousin Caleb was +taken with the fever?” + +“It was, sir.” + +“Well; I can’t help feeling a sort of curiosity about this haunted +northern wing. I’m not exactly a believer in ghosts; but I’ve often +wondered whether there might not be some little truth in the numerous +stories so firmly believed by many sensible people. I should like +very much to explore those old rooms. Is there any way of getting +into that part of the building?” + +The housekeeper shook her head. + +“No, sir. Mr. Godwin keeps the keys locked up in his own library, and +wouldn’t let them out of his hands on any account.” + +“But he allows the servants to clean the rooms sometimes, I suppose?” + +“Not he, sir. He says he’d rather have the dust a foot deep than he’d +have his papers pried into or meddled with. But there is a way of +getting into those rooms for all that, Mr. Wilton, if anyone had the +courage to go that way.” + +“Indeed!” + +“Yes. This place is very old, you know, sir, hundreds of years old; +and they do say that there was all sorts of queer hiding-places made +in the days of the Lollards. However that may be, the cellars under +the northern wing are almost big enough for a regiment to hide in, +and there’s an underground passage leading from the cellars to a +grotto at one end of the laurel-walk.” + +“I know the grotto,” answered Lionel eagerly. “I noticed it some days +ago.” + +“It’s a regular ruinous place; but if you grope your way through the +archway at the back, you’ll find a flight of stone steps leading +down underground, and at the bottom of those steps there’s a passage +leading, as I’ve heard say long ago when I was a girl, to the +cellars. But, mind you, Mr. Wilton, I never knew anyone to go down +that underground passage, and goodness knows what state it may be in. +I don’t suppose Mr. Godwin so much as knows of its existence. So if +you go, Mr. Wilton, you know the risk you’ve got to run.” + +Lionel Westford laughed aloud at the old dame’s warning. Fortunately, +the housekeeper’s ear was not acute enough to discover the artificial +sound of that laughter. + +“You needn’t be afraid of my running any risk, my dear Mrs. Beckson,” +he said. “I should very much like to see a ghost, if I could meet +the gentleman or lady without putting myself to any very great +trouble. But I certainly have no inclination to tempt the perils +of an underground journey, even though I might be rewarded by an +introduction to all the phantoms in shadowland. No, no; I’m no +coward; but I have no wish to be entombed alive, and some of the old +brickwork of your passage might happen to give way, perhaps, and +bury me under its ruins.” This is what Lionel Westford said. What he +intended to do was something very different. + +“I must watch my opportunity,” he thought, “and pay a secret visit to +the northern wing when every member of this household is sleeping.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +“SHE WEPT, DELIVERED FROM HER DANGER.” + + +Violet awoke, feverish and unrefreshed, from the heavy slumber into +which she had fallen from sheer exhaustion. She awoke to see the +broad summer sunlight streaming through the old-fashioned windows of +her room. + +At first she looked about her, dazed and bewildered by the +strangeness of the place in which she found herself, and scarcely +knowing whether she were dreaming or waking. + +Then, with a terrible suddenness, the events of the previous night +flashed back upon her memory. She sprang hastily from her bed, and +ran to one of the windows; she wanted at least to know whither she +had been brought. + +But the prospect to be seen from the window told her very little. She +looked out upon a flat swampy expanse, across which stretched a long +avenue of poplars,--the weird, ghastly-looking trees which she had +seen in the chill morning light as she was driven up to the house. + +In the far distance she saw the river, widening to the sea. Violet +had spent her life so entirely in one neighbourhood that she had +little knowledge of the other parts of England. She had no idea that +the broad river was the Thames, and that the county in which she +found herself was Essex. Nor had she any idea of the distance which +she had been brought upon the previous night. In her bewilderment +and agitation she had lost all count of time. But her intense +anxiety about her mother had made the few hours during which she had +been travelling seem multiplied tenfold. She was utterly ignorant, +therefore, of the locality in which this dismal old house was +situated--as ignorant and helpless as a child. + +For some time she stood motionless before the window, staring at the +flat barren swamp with the vacant gaze of despair. Then she suddenly +clasped her hands and lifted her eyes in mute appeal to Providence. + +“Surely Heaven will not desert me,” she thought; “surely, if only for +my mother’s sake, I shall be spared!” + +This thought seemed to inspire the helpless girl with new courage. +She sank upon her knees before one of the old carved-oak chairs, and +remained for a long time in the same attitude, praying fervently. + +Then she rose and dressed herself neatly, with hands that had ceased +to tremble. The cold water with which she bathed her head and face +revived her considerably; and when her toilette was finished, she +looked almost as calm and self-possessed as if she had been in her +own home. + +She had to cope with unknown and mysterious persecutors; and she +knew that any weakness or cowardice would render her only the more +completely powerless to protect herself. + +What was the danger that assailed her?--and why had she been brought +to this lonely country-house? Again and again the unhappy girl asked +herself these two questions; but she could find no answer for them. + +Presently the deaf old housekeeper made her appearance, carrying a +tray, upon which a simple breakfast was neatly laid. Violet ran to +meet the old woman, and clasping her hands entreatingly, begged her +to speak--to explain the mystery. + +The poor girl repeated her questions again and again; but this time +it seemed as if the housekeeper either could not or would not hear a +word. Yet she nodded to Violet, with a friendly look on her withered +face; and to the helpless girl there was something reassuring even in +that slight action. + +The old woman set the tray upon the table, and then retired; but just +as she reached the door, she stopped, and looked back with a very +significant expression at Violet. + +“Don’t be down-hearted, poor child,” she said. “Keep up your +spirits, my pretty. There’s help nearer at hand than you think, +perhaps, my pet. Perhaps there is,--perhaps there is. There’s an +awful lot of wickedness in this world; but there’s goodness too, +praised be the Lord! so don’t be cast down.” + +With this she retired, leaving Violet very much at a loss to +determine whether there was any hopeful meaning in these oracular +utterances, or whether they were only the wandering expressions of a +half-demented brain. + +She went to the door and tried to open it; but it was locked. She +listened; but no sound broke the dismal silence, except the long +hoarse crow of some distant chanticleer, or the plaintive lowing of +the cattle in one of the flat meadows by the river. Mariana’s moated +grange could not have been more dreary than this unknown habitation +seemed to Violet Westford. + +After listening wearily for a long time, hoping for some sound that +would betray the neighbourhood of human life, Violet stationed +herself at the window. Here at least she fancied there was some +chance of help. Surely in the course of the day some human creature +must pass below that window. + +She opened the casement, and placed herself on the old-fashioned +window-seat, a living image of patience and resignation. But she +watched in vain. The hours crept by, insupportably slow in their +progress. The long summer day wore itself out; the sun sloped +westward; but still no living creature appeared upon the broad flat +below that open window. + +Violet’s heart sank with a dull feeling of despair. She had +taken one cup of tea out of the quaint little silver teapot and +old dragon-china cup and saucer on the tray brought her by the +housekeeper, but she had eaten nothing. Her dry lips were burning +with fever, and she was sick and faint from exhaustion. + +During almost every moment of that weary day her mother’s image +had been present with her. She had pictured Mrs. Westford’s +feelings--her suspense, her terror, her anguish; and sometimes she +could scarcely endure to remain in that silent room, knowing as +she did the sufferings that would be caused to that devoted mother +by her mysterious absence. There were times when she felt inclined +to leap from the window, even at the risk of her life: there were +moments when she felt that she must escape or perish. But a sense of +religion, the pure spirit of faith and love that had been instilled +long ago into her mind, supported her now under this most bitter +trial. When she suffered most, she clasped her hands and prayed +silently for help and deliverance. + +The sunlight made a slanting track of crimson glory on the broad +river in the misty distance. Already the evening shadows were +gathering in the gloomy wainscoted apartment. + +Violet began to think with terror that another dreary night of +suspense lay before her, when she heard a key turned in the lock. +The door was opened, and a gentleman entered the room. + +This time she recognized the Marquis of Roxleydale, to whom she had +been introduced in the Circenses green-room on the previous evening. +The young nobleman had been dining with his tempter and accomplice, +Rupert Godwin, and had been drinking somewhat deeply. + +The banker had driven to the Moat from the nearest railway station +early in the afternoon. He knew the weakness of his tool and dupe, +and he feared that his diabolical scheme would not be fully carried +out unless he was himself near to pull the strings of his puppet, and +direct the dark windings of the plot. + +The old Essex mansion was large and rambling. Lord Roxleydale and +the banker had dined in a tolerably comfortable room at a remote +end of the building; where no sound of their voices, no echo of the +servants’ footsteps, could reach the wing in which Violet watched and +waited through that weary day. + +At sunset the young Marquis presented himself before his victim, +flushed with wine, and duly instructed in the dark plot concocted by +Rupert Godwin. + +That plot was one which could scarcely have failed to ensnare a weak +or ambitious woman; and Rupert Godwin, who thought meanly of all +womankind, fancied that Violet Westford would be utterly unable to +resist the temptation offered to her. + +The Marquis was to affect only honourable intentions. He was to +make her a formal offer of his hand; but he was also to propose an +elopement and a secret marriage, as the only means by which he could +dare to make Violet his wife; pleading his minority as the reason for +this course. + +Violet, ignorant of the world, eager, no doubt, to seize the golden +chance of becoming Marchioness of Roxleydale, would of course +speedily accept this proposal. + +This is how the man of the world argued. It needed but the simplicity +of an innocent girl to overthrow all his carefully-laid plans. + +Lord Roxleydale’s yacht, the _Norse King_, was lying at anchor in +the estuary of the Thames. If Violet consented to the clandestine +marriage proposed by the Marquis, she was to be induced to go on +board the yacht, under the pretence of crossing the Channel, in order +that the marriage might be performed in France, where secrecy would +be more easily ensured. + +Once on board the _Norse King_, the Marquis could take her +whithersoever he pleased. He was the possessor of a charming little +villa on an island near Naples; and it was thither that Rupert Godwin +advised him to convey his helpless victim. + +Violet once away, the banker felt that his scheme of vengeance upon +a hapless wife and mother would be complete. Then, and then only, +would he see Clara Westford’s proud head bowed to the dust; then, and +then only, would he feel that he had avenged the wrong inflicted on +him by the woman he had loved. + +The Marquis approached Violet as she stood near the open window, pale +but self-possessed, with the last rays of the declining sunlight +gilding her hair. + +“My dear Miss Watson,” he said, “I come to you this evening as the +humblest suppliant who ever sued for pardon. Can you forgive me?” + +“My forgiveness will be easily won, Lord Roxleydale,” Violet +answered quietly; “and may Heaven forgive you also for the cruel +and purposeless wrong you have inflicted upon one who never injured +you; to whom, indeed, you are so complete a stranger that I am still +utterly at a loss to comprehend the motive of your extraordinary +conduct. I could very easily pardon you the pain you have inflicted +upon _me_; but it is much more difficult for me to excuse your +conduct when I think of the anguish it must have caused my mother. +She is a widow, my lord; and her life lately has been full of +trouble. She did not need this new trial.” + +The Marquis blushed crimson at this reproach. He was very young--too +young to be altogether base or shameless; and he felt the reproof +conveyed in Violet’s quiet words. + +But he had his tempter’s lesson by heart; and those better feelings +were only transient. + +“My dear Miss Watson--my dear Violet, for I have been told that sweet +name belongs to you; and what other name could so well harmonize with +your loveliness?--my own sweet Violet, your mother’s anxiety can be +speedily set at rest. A few lines in your handwriting will assure her +of your safety. It is not yet too late for the London mail. Write, +and your letter shall be immediately sent to the post-town.” + +“And it will reach London--” + +“Early to-morrow morning.” + +Violet reflected that it was scarcely likely that she herself could +reach London sooner than the following morning, under the most +favourable circumstances. And was it not terribly probable that she +might be kept for days a prisoner in that hateful house? It would be +madness to reject any chance of giving at least some relief to her +mother’s fears and anxieties. The Marquis seemed to be sincere, and +she was so completely in his power that he could have little motive +for deceiving her. + +“I will write,” she said, moving towards a table upon which there was +an inkstand and portfolio. “O, Lord Roxleydale, if you ever loved +your own mother, have pity upon mine, and on me!” + +This appeal galled a hidden wound that lay deep in the young man’s +heart. The time had been when he had dearly loved the most tender and +indulgent of mothers; and that is an affection which never wholly +dies out, even in the breast of a hardened sinner. Lord Roxleydale +knew that he had been of late years a bad and neglectful son, and +Violet’s simple words stung him to the quick. + +“Do not talk of my mother,” he said; “there are some subjects that +will not bear speaking of. Write your letter, Violet, and I will see +that it is posted.” + +He walked to the window, and stood looking out at the dusky prospect. +The darkness was gathering rapidly; and one long line of crimson +light defined the low horizon. + +Violet wrote only a few cautious lines. How could she have written +at any length, when she was utterly uncertain as to her own +fate--surrounded, perhaps, by dangers? She wrote the following brief +note intended to reassure her mother:-- + +“DEAREST MOTHER,--I am safe and well. At present I can tell you no +more than this. Believe this, and be at rest till you hear from me +again, or see me. You will not doubt that I shall return to you as +speedily as possible. You will not doubt that I am only kept away +from you by the sternest necessity. + + “Ever and ever your own + “VIOLET.” + +She folded her letter, placed it in an envelope, and directed it. The +Marquis took it from her. + +“Dearest Violet,” he exclaimed, “I only leave you to get this +conveyed to the post; when I return I will explain my conduct--I will +endeavour to win your forgiveness.” + +He left the room, and Violet heard the key turned in the lock. +That one simple action filled her with terror. This man, under all +outward appearance of respect and consideration, was her enemy, her +most dangerous enemy, since he took advantage of her helplessness +to approach her in the character of a lover. She was a prisoner in +that lonely house--a close prisoner, in that unknown and solitary +building, where the only creature in the least friendly to her was a +deaf and perhaps imbecile old woman. + +What position could be more terrible to this girl, who, amidst all +her sorrow, had never before known danger? “O, my Heavenly Father!” +she cried, leaning in a half-fainting state against the oaken +wainscot, “Thou, who art a Father to the fatherless, hear my prayers, +have pity upon my helplessness, and raise up some friend in this +bitter hour of need!” + +She had scarcely spoken the words when the oaken panelling behind her +was pushed suddenly on one side; and she felt herself supported by a +slender arm--an arm that felt like that of a woman. + +It seemed as if Heaven had heard her prayers. It seemed almost as if +a miracle had been performed in her behalf. A cry of joyful surprise +half escaped her lips; but in the next moment it was stifled by a +hand, a soft feminine hand, pressed against her mouth. + +“Hush!” murmured a low voice; “not a cry--not a whisper!” + +Then the mysterious friend half drew, half lifted Violet through the +opening in the wall. + +The helpless girl, so suddenly, so miraculously rescued, fainted +in the arms of her preserver. But she was not long unconscious. +Presently she felt cool perfumed water sprinkled upon her forehead; +a pungent aromatic odour revived her senses; and the evening breeze +blew in upon her from an open window, by which her unknown friend had +placed her. + +She raised her heavy eyelids and looked up, clinging to her preserver. + +She looked up, and saw a gentle, careworn face bending over her--a +beautiful face, with regularly chiselled features, and a tenderly +gracious smile. A face that was framed in bands of silvered hair, and +upon which the traces of suffering were only too evident. + +The owner of this face was tall and slender. She looked, perhaps, +somewhat taller than she really was on account of her dress, which +was of black silk, very rich and costly, but made with an extreme +simplicity. A small cap of the most exquisite Honiton lace shrouded +her silvery hair. + +“O madam!” exclaimed Violet, “you will not leave me? You will not +send me away from you?” + +“No, child, not till I can place you in the care of your own +friends,” answered the lady. “Poor girl, you are still trembling.” + +“I have suffered so much,” murmured Violet, in a low tremulous voice; +“and it has all seemed like some dreadful dream. Ah, madam, it seems +to me as if Heaven raised you up to befriend me in answer to my +prayers. Where did you come from? How did you know that I wanted your +help?” + +“My presence in this house is indeed providential,” replied the lady. +“I only arrived at ten o’clock last night; but a few hours before you +yourself were brought here. Thank heaven I arrived in time to save +you, and to hinder my wretched son from the commission of any deeper +wrong than that of which he has already been guilty!” + +“Your son, madam?” + +“Yes, my poor child. I am Lord Roxleydale’s most unhappy mother. A +letter from an old friend informed me of my son’s latest follies, +and urged upon me the necessity of making one more attempt to +withdraw him from the set in which he has involved himself. I have +made many efforts on his behalf, and have begun almost to despair of +his reformation. But my friend told me that Albert was looking ill, +and--well, I suppose--I suppose I am still weak enough to love him +better than he deserves. I left Yorkshire, and came here, intending +to spend the autumn in this house, which is within easy reach of +town, and from which I could visit my son as often as I pleased. I +little thought that my coming would happen so fortunately.” + +“But the Marquis--he will follow me here!” + +“No! He does not yet know of my presence in this house. He is quite +ignorant of the secret of that sliding panel, which I happened to +remember having heard of when I was first married, and spent a summer +in this house. Nancy Gibson, the old housekeeper, told me of your +arrival, and it is in consequence of the information afforded me by +her that I have been enabled to watch over you. You are as safe here, +and in the rooms adjoining, as if you were a hundred miles away from +your foolish and wicked persecutor.” + +The Marchioness led the way to an adjacent apartment--a handsome +room, with ponderous old-fashioned furniture. The shutters were +closed, the heavy curtains drawn, and a pair of tall wax candles +lighted a comfortably-arranged tea-table. + +“Come, my poor child,” exclaimed Lady Roxleydale, “a cup of tea will +restore new strength to your nerves. Sit down by me, and tell me how +it was you were brought here last night. Be candid, and confide in +me.” + +“Willingly, dear madam. Believe me, the events of last night are as +great a mystery to me as they can be to you.” + +Violet felt a sense of unspeakable gratitude towards the gentle lady +who had rescued her. She told the whole story of her adventures, +with a simple candour which made a most favourable impression on +Lady Roxleydale, whose strict education and somewhat old-fashioned +prejudices had by no means inclined her to look very indulgently +upon a _figurante_ from the Circenses. The girl would fain have left +the Moat that night, in her anxiety to return to her mother; but the +Dowager told her the journey to town would be impossible until the +next morning, and that she herself would undertake to convey her +safely back to that anxious mother early the next day. + +So that night Violet slept in peace, safe under the protection of her +new friend, comparatively happy in the thought that the morning’s +post would convey her letter to Clara Westford. + +The poor girl little dreamt how false that hope was. Lord Roxleydale +had met Rupert Godwin in the hall as he was about to despatch +Violet’s letter to the post; and the banker, seeing the envelope in +his hand, had easily gained from him the history of its contents. + +It is scarcely necessary to say that Rupert Godwin interfered to stop +the posting of the letter. He had a packet for the post himself, he +said, taking the missive from Lord Roxleydale’s hand, and he would +see that Violet’s letter was posted with his own. A carriage was +waiting to convey him back to the railway station. He had schooled +his protégé carefully in the part he was to play, and, having +done this was eager to get back to town. He was well aware of the +penalties attending the abduction he had planned, and had no wish +that his own hand should appear in any part of the work. + +He took Violet’s letter, bade the Marquis a hasty good-night, and got +into the hired fly that had been ordered to fetch him. + +Lord Roxleydale was only too glad to return to the apartment where he +had left his beautiful prisoner, and where he naturally expected to +find her. + +His mortification was extreme when he found the bird flown from the +trap so artfully set, so heartlessly baited; and it was with profound +humiliation that he heard, by-and-by, of his mother’s presence in the +old house. + +Had Rupert Godwin been near to sustain him, or to shame him into +a display of hardihood, Lord Roxleydale might have tried to carry +matters with a high hand. As it was, he left the Moat, and went +quietly back to town, very much ashamed of the transaction he had +been engaged in, and fully resolved, that whatever follies or +escapades might vary the monotony of his future life, he would never +again try his hand at an abduction. + +“It may be all very well in a novel or a play,” he said to himself as +he sat smoking in the solitary _coupé_, which a judiciously invested +half-crown had secured for him; “but it doesn’t answer in real life; +and it makes a man feel uncommonly small when he’s trying it on.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + +UNDERGROUND. + + +Lionel Westford was resolved to lose no time in putting into +execution the plan which had been suggested to him by his interview +with the housekeeper. + +He determined to explore the secret passages and cellars, and the +deserted chambers of the northern wing, in the dead of the night, +while the household at Wilmingdon Hall was wrapped in slumber. + +It was a bold determination; for it needs a stout heart to brave the +unknown and mysterious. The perils of a cavalry charge seem little +to many a young Englishman, when compared to the mystic terrors of a +haunted mansion. + +But, once convinced that duty called for prompt action, Lionel +Westford was the very last to flinch from any trial that lay +before him. He had much of his father’s spirit--the spirit of the +true-hearted sailor, who is the first to face death and danger, the +last to succumb to failure or defeat. + +Lionel left Mrs. Beckson’s apartment at eight o’clock, after +gratifying the old housekeeper by his friendly interest in her +conversation. + +Eight o’clock; and he knew the habits of the household well enough to +be aware that at eleven every member of the family would have retired +to rest. + +He returned to his own apartment. A pair of wax candles, newly +lighted, were burning on the table. One of these he extinguished. He +would have need of light during his examination of the northern wing, +and he did not know what length of time that examination might occupy. + +He seated himself by the table, drew the one lighted candle towards +him, and took up a book; but he found it quite impossible to +concentrate his attention upon the page before him. His mind was +haunted, his whole being was possessed by the thought of the work he +had to do. + +The task was, indeed, a terrible one. Alone, in the dead of the +night, he was to explore a long range of deserted chambers, in search +of some evidence of a foul and mysterious deed which he believed to +have been committed in the northern wing of Wilmingdon Hall. + +The longer he deliberated upon all he had heard, the more conclusive +appeared the evidence which pointed to the banker’s guilt. + +A stranger had come to the Hall on that oppressive summer evening, +more than a twelvemonth ago, and had never been seen to leave the +house or grounds. + +This much was clearly to be inferred from the housekeeper’s account +of the matter. It was just possible that this stranger might have +left the house unseen; but in so large a household the chances were +very much against his departure being unobserved. + +Then there had been something in the manner of the clerk, Jacob +Danielson, peculiarly calculated to excite suspicion. + +Had he been the witness of a crime, or the accomplice of a criminal? +His conduct had been, at any rate, a part of the mystery which was +dimly revealed in Caleb Wildred’s wandering talk. + +Lionel Westford sat musing thus, with the book in his hand, through +the long tedious hours between eight o’clock and midnight. + +And ever and anon, when his reverie was darkest; when the shadow of +an assassin, with vengeful countenance and arm lifted to strike, +loomed before his mental sight, a second image--the image of a +beautiful woman--would arise, as if to mock the dark horror of his +thoughts. + +He was in love, honestly and truly in love, with Julia Godwin; and a +dull despair gnawed at his heart as he reflected that the work he +was now engaged in might bring misery and shame upon her. + +And yet honour forbade that he should abandon his task. Come what +might, he must go on to the last, even though the performance of that +work of duty should entail upon him a lifetime of misery. + +At last the great stable-clock struck twelve. One by one the +solemn-sounding strokes tolled out upon the stillness of the summer +night. Lionel Westford opened the window and looked out. + +There was no vestige of light from any other window in the long range +of rooms. The household had evidently retired for the night. + +“I will wait half an hour longer before I venture to leave this +room,” the young man thought. + +He feared to run the smallest risk of interruption. He had carefully +thought out his plans, and his only dread was the hazard of his +footsteps being overheard by any light sleeper as he made his way +through the inhabited portion of the house. + +Once in the grounds, he feared nothing. Not all the terrors of the +northern wing could stir his breast with one coward thrill, now that +his course of action was fixed. The dauntless spirit of the sailor’s +son was aroused; and Lionel Westford was worthy of the true-hearted +father whose noblest pride had centered itself in his children. + +At half-past twelve the watcher flung aside his book--that book which +had served so little to distract him from his own cares--he took the +unlighted candle, put on his hat, and went out of his room. + +With slow and cautious footsteps he made his way along the corridor, +descended the stairs, crossed the hall, and entered the dining-room. + +He knew that the great hall-door was locked every night by the old +butler, who made quite a state ceremony of the business, and who +always carried the keys to his own apartment. + +Lionel’s only mode of exit from the house was by one of the +dining-room windows. These were secured by massive shutters and heavy +iron bars; but the bars might be removed by strong and skilful hands. + +To remove them silently was a critical task; but Lionel succeeded in +accomplishing it, and stepped out upon the broad gravel walk before +the windows. + +The cool night air blowing upon his fevered brow gave him fresh +vigour. He crossed the lawn with rapid footsteps, and entered one of +those long laurel-avenues so familiar and so dear to him; for it was +in those dark and gloomy alleys he had been wont to meet Julia Godwin. + +The moon was young as yet, and there was only a faint glimmer of +wan silvery light; very different from the mellow radiance which +sometimes glorifies the midnight landscape. + +In the laurel-walk there reigned impenetrable darkness. Lionel groped +his way to the end of the arcade, and entered the grotto. He found +the archway described by the housekeeper, and, feeling with the point +of his foot, discovered the topmost step of the narrow stairs leading +to the cellars. Before he commenced his descent he took a fusee-box +from his waistcoat-pocket, and lighted the candle he had brought with +him. + +He was not far from the house; but he was at the back of the northern +wing, and he knew that no restless watcher was likely to see the +glimmer of that light. + +Slowly and cautiously he descended the slippery stone steps, stooping +all the while, for the arched roof was too low to admit of his +remaining upright. + +On every side he saw the evidence that this hidden staircase had +been disused for years: spiders’ webs brushed against his face, and +scared reptiles started under his foot and crawled away from before +him as he advanced. With every step he took he seemed to disturb +some living creature that had lain in its nook unmolested hitherto. +A palæontologist might here have discovered extinct races--forgotten +tribes of newt and adder, spider and toad, and divers curious +specimens of the genus rat. + +Withered and rotten leaves of many bygone summers strewed the broken +and crumbling steps; the moss grew green upon the roof and walls; +and it was with difficulty that Lionel preserved his footing on the +slippery stones beneath his feet. + +The housekeeper had not misled him. He found the secret passage, and +groped his way along it until he came to an arched doorway. The door +was studded with great iron-headed nails, and was deeply set in the +solid masonry. This door Lionel knew must be the entrance to the +first of the cellars. + +But here he felt that his task would most likely come to an abrupt +termination. What was more probable than that the cellar-door would +be securely locked against him? + +He pulled a rusty iron handle, and to his surprise the door yielded. +He forced it open with an effort that required all his strength, so +stiffly did the hinges move from long disuse and entered the first +cellar under the northern wing. + +He knew that he now stood beneath the first room at the western angle +of the deserted wing. The seventh window from this western angle was +the one to which Caleb had pointed when he talked of the foul deed +that he had witnessed within. + +Lionel had ascertained that there were two windows in every room on +this lower floor, and only two. The seventh window must therefore +belong to the fourth room, counting always from the western angle of +the building. + +Pausing, with the candle raised above his head, to look round the +first cellar, Lionel Westford saw nothing but a black and empty +vault, festooned with cobwebs, and littered with fragments of wood +that had once been stored there. + +The door between this cellar and the next stood open. The second +cellar was as empty as the first; but the walls were lined with stone +bins which had once held wine, and the floor was thickly covered with +damp, mouldy-smelling sawdust. + +The third door was shut, but not locked. Lionel pushed it open, and +entered the third cellar. + +He was now drawing very near to the room with the seventh window. + +The third cellar was different from the two others. There was a +massive iron safe in one angle of the wall; and a narrow stone +staircase in an opposite angle wound upwards. + +The cellar was to all appearance empty. + +Lionel Westford ascended the winding staircase, and found himself +upon a small square cupboard-like landing, with a narrow door. He +felt tolerably certain that this door must lead into the fourth +room--the room with the seventh window. + +But here, where he was most eager to examine further, his +investigation was brought to a sudden stop; for when he tried the +door he found it firmly locked against him. He paused; baffled and +bewildered by the small result of his labours. + +He had taken infinite trouble to procure his information; and in the +dead of the night had braved the ghostly terrors of the northern wing. + +And what had he found? Only three empty cellars, and a door locked +against him. + +“Thank Heaven that I have found no more!” he thought. “My best hope +is that the old gardener’s horrible fancies may have been no more +real than a feverish dream.” + +He was standing on the topmost of the stone steps as he mused thus, +and was about to turn away from the locked door, when his eye was +caught by a fragment of stuff which hung from a jagged nail in the +edge of the panel. + +He extricated the fragment from the nail, and examined it by the +light of his solitary candle. It was a piece of bluish cloth, torn +from a man’s coat--a narrow strip some six inches long. But the +bluish colour was partly obscured by a dark stain. Some dark liquid +had dyed that torn fragment of cloth, which felt stiff between +Lionel’s fingers. + +A thrill of horror ran through his veins. Something whispered to him +that the black stain upon the cloth was the stain of human blood. He +put the torn fragment in his breast-pocket, and then began carefully +and minutely to examine the stone steps on which he was standing. + +It was not the scrap of blue cloth alone that had been disfigured +by that hideous stain. Dark splotches appeared on every one of the +stone steps--black and terrible blots, which made themselves plainly +visible, even on the damp-stained stone. + +At the bottom of the steps a great pool of blood had soaked into the +worm-eaten wood which formed the flooring of the cellar. + +Caleb was no idle dreamer. There was little doubt that he had watched +through the chink of the shutter, and had indeed witnessed the +commission of some most horrible deed. + +A murder had been committed. The blood of the victim remained--a dark +and damning stain, a fatal and overwhelming evidence against his +murderer. + +Lionel’s heart sank within him with a dull sense of despair. Julia +Godwin’s father was an assassin, and Providence had appointed him as +the instrument of that assassin’s detection. + +“How she will hate me!” thought the young man; “how she will curse +the day on which the purest feelings of her nature prompted her to +interest herself in my fate! But it is my duty to denounce this +wretch--even though he is her father.” + +The examination of the cellar was not yet completed. Lionel Westford +paused to think, endeavouring to penetrate the mystery of the place. + +The torn coat-sleeve steeped in blood, the traces of blood on +every step, the great black pool on the floor--all pointed to one +conclusion. + +Rupert Godwin’s unknown victim had been hurled down the stairs after +the commission of the murder. The body had lain bleeding at the foot +of the stairs, and must have remained for some time in the same +position, for there were no traces of blood in any other part of the +cellar. + +But when and where had the body been removed? + +Doubtless in the dead of the night, by that secret passage, the +murderer had returned to the scene of his guilt, and had dragged away +the corpse of his victim. + +To conceal it----where? In a grave dug stealthily in some remote and +desolate corner of the grounds. + +“But the murdered victim will not rest in his hidden grave,” thought +Lionel; “the Hand that has led me to the scene of the crime will lead +me to the grave of the dead. The Hand that has pointed to this cellar +will point further yet upon the dark road I have been appointed to +tread. Providence is stronger than man, and I, who of all others +would wish to think well of Julia Godwin’s father, am destined to be +the discoverer and denouncer of his guilt. The Eumenides, who forced +their direful work of retribution upon Orestes, are only typical of +the Providence which appoints the task of the Christian avenger.” + +The young man did not leave the cellar until he had found a new +evidence of the banker’s crime. The light of the candle revealed +some dark object lying in a corner of the cellar. Lionel stooped and +picked up a glove--a glove of tanned leather. + +He put this in his pocket with the fragment of cloth. By this time +he had been nearly an hour in the cellar, and his search had been a +most minute one. There was nothing more for him to do but to return +by the way he had come to the inhabited part of the Hall, only too +terribly convinced that the father of the woman he loved was one of +the vilest of mankind. He went back through the cellars and along +the subterranean passage, looking right and left as he went, and +awe-stricken by the thought that he might at any moment come suddenly +upon some trace of the corpse that must be hidden somewhere within +the precincts of Wilmingdon Hall. + +But no such evidence of the banker’s crime met his eyes. He returned +to the grotto, and emerged once more into the gardens. The pure +breath of the night-air was strangely welcome after the charnel-like +atmosphere of the cellars below the northern wing,--those cellars +which, from the moment of his finding the dark stain upon the scrap +of cloth, had seemed to Lionel to be tainted with the odour of blood. + +He crossed the lawn, where the night-dew lay thick and heavy, entered +the dining-room, and barred the shutters. Then with a stealthy +footstep he ascended the staircase, and returned unheard to his own +apartments. As he stole upward in the darkness, he could not but +picture to himself the assassin creeping thus stealthily through the +silent house to remove the body of his victim, and to deposit that +most fatal evidence of his crime in some secure hiding-place. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + +ON THE TRACK. + + +The feelings of Clara Westford on that night upon which Violet +was lured away from the theatre may be more easily imagined than +described. + +She arrived at the stage-door of the Circenses only ten minutes after +Violet had left the theatre with Rupert Godwin’s servant. + +Mrs. Westford had by this time become well known to the people +employed at the stage-entrance to the theatre, as she had come every +night to wait for her daughter and accompany her home. She was not +allowed to go behind the scenes, nor had she any wish to penetrate +those mysterious regions; but she was always accommodated with a +seat in a quiet corner of the hall. To-night, however, instead of +his usual civil “Good-evening, ma’am,” the tall-porter greeted Mrs. +Westford with a stare expressive of intense astonishment. + +The widow was quite at a loss to understand the meaning of the man’s +gaze. But she walked quietly to her accustomed seat in the most +retired corner of the hall. + +“Why, ma’am,” exclaimed the porter at last, “when you walked in just +now anyone might have knocked me down with a feather. I thought you +was ill--very ill.” + +“No, indeed, my good friend. What should have put such an idea into +your head?” asked Mrs. Westford, smiling at the man’s earnestness. + +“Well, I’m blest! But there must be some mistake, ma’am, for your +daughter was fetched away just now all in a hurry, by a man who said +he was a doctor’s servant, and had brought his master’s carriage to +fetch her; and I never did see a poor young lady in such a state of +agitation. She was as pale as death, she was, and trembling like a +hasping leaf.” + +“My daughter! You must be mistaken! It must have been some one else.” + +“O no, indeed, ma’am. I knows your daughter very well, and a sweet +pretty-spoken young lady she is too. The doctor’s servant had brought +a note, he had, to say as Miss Watson’s mother was took very ill, +and she was to go home directly minute. He told me so while he was +waitin’ for your daughter to come down stairs.” + +“And Violet, my daughter, went away with this man?” + +“She did, ma’am. She hadn’t been gone above ten minutes when you came +in.” + +Clara Westford lifted her hand to her forehead with a gesture +expressive of bewilderment. Her face had grown ashy pale. She +felt that some great calamity was close at hand; but as yet she +was too entirely bewildered to understand the full import of the +communication that had startled her. + +“Only ten minutes!” she murmured, echoing the porter’s words. “I must +go in search of her. She cannot be gone far.” + +“It must be twenty minutes by this time, ma’am,” said the man; “for +it’s full ten since you came in. And as for lookin’ for the young +lady in such a neighbourhood as this, you might us well expect to +find a needle in a bundle of hay. The best thing that you can do is +to go quietly home. Of course, as soon as your daughter finds she’s +been fetched away by mistake for somebody else, as she must have +been, she’ll go home, and perhaps will get there before you can.” + +“But if it should not have been a mistake! If it should have been a +plot--some villanous scheme to get my daughter into the power of a +scoundrel!” + +Clara Westford said this to herself, rather than to the man. She was +thinking of Rupert Godwin’s threats--his dark hints at dangers to +which her daughter was exposed in that theatre. + +She had defied him, secure in the belief that Providence would have +pity upon her helplessness, and would shield her from the power of +her persecutor. + +She had defied the sworn enemy who had cast so black a shadow upon +her youth. She had dared to defy him, and already he had asserted his +power; already she felt how feeble a creature she was to cope against +his vengeful machinations. + +“I ought to have remembered how often the wicked are permitted to +triumph upon this earth,” she thought. “O heaven! if the blow had +fallen upon me only, I could have borne it; but my daughter--my +innocent darling! I cannot bear that she should suffer. Welcome any +misery to me, if my suffering could preserve that bright blossom from +being trampled in the dust!” + +Thought flits through the brain almost as rapidly as summer lightning +flashes across the face of heaven. These thoughts passed through +Clara Westford’s mind as she leant half-fainting against the back of +the chair from which she had risen. + +The porter’s compassion was excited by her evident distress. + +“You just go quietly home, ma’am,” he said, in a consoling tone; “and +I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you was to find your daughter had +got there before you.” + +Clara shook her head despairingly. + +“You don’t know what reason I have to be terrified by this business,” +she said. “I will trust you, my good man, for I can see that you pity +me. You are well acquainted with the dangers of a theatre. I daresay +you know everything that goes on in this place?” + +“Well, ma’am, I hear pretty nigh all that is to be heard, I daresay,” +answered the porter. + +“My daughter was very young--very inexperienced. She was much +admired, perhaps; and I know that unprincipled men are sometimes +admitted behind the scenes of a theatre. Tell me, my good man, did +you ever hear that my daughter was persecuted by the attentions of +any of these men?” + +“Never,” answered the man heartily; “there ain’t so many as ever +come behind the scenes in this house. People as don’t know no better +talk a great deal of nonsense about theatres, and think that my +Lord This and Sir Harry That are always lolling about behind the +scenes. But, bless your heart, ma’am, oftener than not you’d find our +green-room as quiet as a church; though I don’t say but what one or +two particular patrons do get let in once in a way. And as for your +daughter, I have heard say from them as have took notice of her, that +she was one of those modest quiet young ladies as the wildest of +young men going would never dare to insult.” + +In the intensity of her gratitude for these comforting assurances +Clara Westford stretched out her hand, and grasped the grimy paw of +the stage-doorkeeper. + +“My good friend,” she exclaimed, “you have spoken the pleasantest +words that I have heard for long from any stranger’s lips. I will go +home. I will try to think that this business has been only a mistake, +and that my daughter will return to me in safety. But stay; let me +ask you one question. You heard the name of the doctor who sent for +my daughter?” + +“No, ma’am; the servant may have mentioned the name; but I can’t say +I caught it, if he did.” + +“Nor the address?” + +“No, ma’am; unfortunately, I didn’t hear that either.” + +“Then I have no clue,” murmured Clara despairingly. + +She bade the porter good-night, and left the theatre. She walked +rapidly through those crowded streets, in which she could not count +a single friend. But quickly as she made her way homewards, the time +seemed cruelly long, so eager was she to reach her lodging, where it +was just possible that she might find Violet safe. + +But, alas, only heart-sickening disappointment awaited her. All +was dark in the window of the little sitting-room. Violet had not +returned. Clara Westford tottered with feeble footsteps up the +narrow staircase, and entered the empty room. Hitherto she had +been supported by hope. Now despair came upon her: all at once +her strength seemed to forsake her. She threw herself upon the +old-fashioned rickety sofa, and gave way to a paroxysm of grief. + +For a long time she was completely overwhelmed by that convulsive +outburst of despair. But at last she grew calm, with the dull +calmness of misery. + +“I must save her! I must save her!” she thought,--“even at the peril +of my own soul!” + +She did not kindle any light, but sat in the darkness, with her head +resting on the arm of the sofa, and her forehead tightly pressed in +her two hands. + +The unhappy woman was trying to think of a friend--some +long-forgotten friend, who might help her in this bitter hour of +calamity. + +But the poor have few friends on earth. Clara Westford had been +long-forgotten by those aristocratic relations who had believed in +the disgrace of Sir John Ponsonby’s beautiful daughter. She had +disappeared from the world as completely as if the grave had hidden +her. She had scrupulously avoided all possibility of any meeting with +those who had known her before her marriage with the merchant captain. + +Now, therefore, she could only count those friends whom she had +known in Hampshire during her happy married life--simple, well-to-do +country people, unversed in the ways of the world, who would be quite +incompetent to help her in this crisis of her life, even if they had +been within call, and their friendship of that sterling metal which +resists the biting influence of adversity. + +Clara had known them only during the summer of her existence. Their +friendship had been very pleasant to her; but she had found no +opportunity of testing its quality or measuring its force. She had +dined with her friends, and her friends had dined with her. They had +killed the fatted calf to do her honour; but while doing it they had +been perfectly aware that she had fatted calves of her own in the +homestead. It was not to such untried friendship as this that Mrs. +Westford could appeal in a desperate crisis. + +“It is to my direst enemy I must appeal,” she thought. “Rupert Godwin +has triumphed, and he alone on earth can help me to recover my lost +child.” + +Early the next morning Mrs. Westford walked to a quiet street near +St. James’s-square. On his visit to her lodging the banker had left +his card on her table, inscribed with the address of his London abode. + +But even this desperate step resulted in disappointment. At the +banker’s lodgings Mrs. Westford only found James Spence, the valet, +who informed her that his master was out of town, and was not likely +to return until the following day. + +“If Mr. Godwin is at his country-house, I will go down there to +see him,” Clara said to the valet. “My business is most important; +indeed, it is a matter of life and death.” + +“Unfortunately, madam, Mr. Godwin is not at Wilmingdon Hall,” the man +answered very politely; “and I am sorry to say I cannot inform you +where he is. He told me nothing, except that he was going into the +country, and would return to-morrow morning.” + +“To-morrow! Then I will call here again,” said Clara, with a sigh of +real despair. + +She turned away, sick at heart, to retrace her steps to the dreary +lodging, now so utterly desolate. + +She walked slowly, for her feeble limbs could scarcely drag +themselves along. She had money in her purse; but she never thought +of hailing any vehicle. The dull stupor of her brain seemed to render +her almost unconscious of physical suffering. The sunlit streets, +gay with busy people hastening hither and thither, lively with that +bustling activity which looks like happiness, swam before her weary +eyes, worn and dim with long weeping: yet she walked on, wending her +steps mechanically towards her joyless home. She was in the busiest +part of the Strand, when she suddenly heard her name spoken, in a +voice that sounded strangely familiar--a voice that was associated +with the happy past. + +She started like a creature newly awakened from some hideous dream, +and a taint flush passed over her wan face. + +A hand was laid gently upon her arm. A young man, with a frank, manly +countenance, bronzed to an almost Indian hue by exposure to sun and +wind, was looking earnestly in her face. + +“Mrs. Westford!” he exclaimed, “dear Mrs. Westford! Is it really you? +I am so surprised to meet you thus--in London, and alone.” + +Clara Westford looked at the speaker with a dreamy bewildered +gaze. The bronzed face seemed at first strange to her; but the +well-remembered voice brought back the past. + +She looked at the stranger for some moments in silence; then her lips +parted, and she gasped the familiar name-- + +“Gilbert Thornleigh!” + +Yes; this bronzed stranger was no other than Gilbert Thornleigh, the +first mate of the _Lily Queen_. + +“Gilbert!” said Clara Westford; “can it indeed be you?” + +“Yes, dear Mrs. Westford; myself, and no other. I have survived all +the perils of shipwreck--the dangers and privations of a difficult +journey in the wildest part of the coast of Africa--and have set foot +once more on British ground. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see +the old streets, the familiar faces, and to hear my mother tongue +spoken on every side of me. Need I tell you the delight I feel in +seeing you? And yet, dear Mrs. Westford,” exclaimed the young man, +changing his tone suddenly, and looking anxiously at Clara’s face, “I +confess that I am sorry to see you looking so pale and careworn, so +sadly altered since I saw you in Hampshire. And your dress--You are +in deep mourning. Great heavens! Violet! she is not dead?” + +The sailor’s bronzed check changed to an almost livid line as he +asked that terrible question. + +“Not dead! No, no; not dead!” Mrs. Westford answered in a strange, +half-bewildered way. + +“But I am sure that some calamity has happened to you,” exclaimed +Gilbert Thornleigh. “There are traces of sorrow in your face. You are +ill. I am sure you are ill.” + +“I am ill,” answered Clara; “the street in which we stand spins round +me. I cannot understand what has happened. I meet you here--you whom +I thought dead. You were saved, then? You were rescued from the wreck +of the _Lily Queen_?” + +“Yes; I and three of the crew contrived to swim ashore. We had a +hard fight for it, I can tell you, for it was no common squall that +sent the _Lily Queen_ against the rock that shattered her brave old +timbers as you’d shatter a wine-glass if you were to dash it against +the curbstone yonder. We had nothing but our life-belts and our +strong arms to rely upon, and we had to swim against a terrific sea; +but somehow or other we did reach the land. The poor fellows who +trusted to the boats went down to the bottom, every one of them; and +the ship herself was ground to powder.” + +“And my husband--Harley? He was no doubt the last to abandon the +sinking vessel? I know his brave true heart. You were saved, but +Harley perished.” + +Gilbert Thornleigh stared at his companion in utter bewilderment. + +“Dear Mrs. Westford,” he exclaimed, “you are surely trying to mystify +me. Your husband was not on board when the ship was lost. Captain +Westford did not sail with us in the _Lily Queen_.” + +“He did not sail in the _Lily Queen_!” + +Clara Westford repeated the sailor’s words almost mechanically, +looking at him with wild dilated eyes. + +“He did not sail? He was not with you when you were wrecked?” she +exclaimed. + +“No, most decidedly not. He intrusted the ship’s papers to me, and +I sailed as his deputy. I was at this very moment on my way to +the Waterloo Terminus, where I meant to have taken the train to +Winchester, fully expecting to find yourself and Captain Westford at +the Grange.” + +“Gilbert Thornleigh,” exclaimed Clara, “I must be mad--surely I must +be mad! You say my husband did not sail in the _Lily Queen_? Yet this +black dress has been worn for him, and for him alone. From the hour +in which he left the Grange to sail for China on the 27th of last +June, I have never seen my husband’s face, nor have I received the +faintest token of his existence.” + +“You have not seen him? You believed that he had sailed last June?” + +“Most firmly.” + +“Great heavens!” cried Gilbert Thornleigh, “there must be some +terrible mystery here. Some calamity must have happened to the +Captain.” + +“Yes,” answered Clara, with the dull accent of utter hopelessness, +“nothing but death could separate Harley from his wife and children.” + +The sailor had offered her his arm, and she had taken it almost +unconsciously. He led her out of the bustle and confusion of the +Strand into one of those quiet streets that lead down to the river. +Here they were undisturbed; here they could talk freely of the +strange mystery that surrounded the fate of Harley Westford. + +“I cannot understand it,” murmured Clara, with a dreary despair in +her tone. “It’s all a bewildering dream.” + +Little by little Gilbert Thornleigh contrived to subdue Mrs. +Westford’s agitation, while he told her, slowly and deliberately, +the story of the last day before the sailing of the _Lily Queen_. + +He told her how Harley Westford had quitted the ship, declaring that +he would recover his money from Rupert Godwin’s hands at any hazard. +He told her how the vessel had waited in the dock, not only until +the following morning, as Harley Westford had ordered, but until the +following sunset, the young man deferring departure to the very last, +in the hope that the Captain would rejoin his ship. + +Then a lurid light broke upon Clara Westford’s mind. + +In this calamity, as in every other, she saw the one dark figure +always between her and happiness--Rupert Godwin, always Rupert +Godwin, her implacable enemy, her relentless persecutor. + +And now a hideous fear took possession of her. Rupert Godwin had +destroyed her husband! + +Yes; with his own desperate hand, or by the hand of some hired +assassin, Rupert Godwin had murdered his fortunate rival. + +By slow degrees this conviction shaped itself in Clara Westford’s +mind. + +“I can understand it all now,” she said. “There was good reason for +my dark forebodings, my gloomy presentiments. When Harley left me on +that bright summer morning, he left me to go to his death.” + +“Dear Mrs. Westford, let us hope for the best,” murmured the sailor; +but there was little hopefulness in his tone. + +“Tell me one thing,” said Clara: “are you positive that my husband +lodged the sum of twenty thousand pounds in Rupert Godwin’s hands? +Are you sure that Harley did not owe money to the banker?” + +“As certain as I am of my own name. Your husband had been a very +fortunate man, and the twenty thousand pounds were the savings of his +life.” + +“Then the document by which my children were made penniless and +homeless was a forgery,” exclaimed Clara. + +She told Gilbert Thornleigh the story of Rupert Godwin’s seizure +of the Grange and all its contents. But she could not speak or +dwell long on this subject; she could only think of one thing--the +mysterious disappearance of her husband. + +“He has been murdered, Gilbert,” she said; “my heart tells me that it +is so. He has fallen a victim to the relentless Rupert Godwin.” + +Gilbert Thornleigh shook his head incredulously. + +“Impossible, dear Mrs. Westford!” he exclaimed. “Rupert Godwin has +a high position in the world. He would never be guilty of such a +crime--a crime which must ultimately be discovered, and for which he +could have no adequate motive.” + +“I tell you, Gilbert, there is no infamy--no deed, however dark--of +which Rupert Godwin is not capable. I know him. I know the cruelty +of his heart. He is a man without conscience and without mercy. Why +should such a man hesitate to commit murder?” + +The sailor was still incredulous. It is so difficult for a generous +nature to believe in the possibility of crime. + +“Some accident may have happened to the Captain,” he said. “He may +never have reached the bank.” + +“If any accident had happened, I should have been almost sure to hear +of it,” Clara Westford replied decisively. “Gilbert Thornleigh, I +think you loved my husband?” + +“I did, as truly as ever a son loved his father; and I had good +reason to love him. No father was ever kinder to his son than the +Captain was to me.” + +“Give me a proof of your devotion,” said Clara, with passionate +energy; “aid me to discover my husband’s fate.” + +“I will,” replied the young man; “my life is at your service. I will +shrink from neither trouble nor peril in the performance of the duty +I owe to my Captain.” + +“Then let us begin our work immediately. O, Gilbert, I can neither +know peace nor rest till this dark enigma has been solved.” + +The young man was silent for some moments, thinking deeply. He was +trying to form some plan of action. + +“When Captain Westford left me on board the _Lily Queen_, I know that +he was going straight to Mr. Godwin’s banking-house,” he said at +last. “The first fact we have to ascertain is whether he ever reached +that place. We can at least attempt to settle that question by making +inquiries of the clerks at the bank.” + +“I have not much faith in any of Rupert Godwin’s creatures; but let +us lose no time in questioning them. Providence may give us help in +an attempt to fathom the mystery of this man’s crime. Let us go at +once to the bank.” + +Gilbert Thornleigh was almost as earnest as Mrs. Westford. He called +a cab, and told the man to drive to Lombard-street. They alighted +before the door of the banking-house. Gilbert went into the principal +office, followed by Mrs. Westford. + +An old man, with a queer, almost humpbacked, figure and a wizen face, +was seated at one of the desks, bending over a ledger. He looked +up as Gilbert and his companion entered the office. He cast at the +sailor only a brief and careless glance of indifference; but the +whole aspect of his face changed as he looked at Clara Westford. + +The eyes were fixed in a long earnest gaze, and the lips trembled. It +was evident that some sudden and violent emotion shook the man to his +inmost soul. + +This man was no other than Rupert Godwin’s confidential clerk, Jacob +Danielson. + +“I have come to ask a question relating to an event that happened +more than a year ago,” said the mate of the _Lily Queen_. “Can you +call to mind the dealings of this house during last June twelvemonth?” + +“Perhaps I can,” answered the clerk, not looking at Gilbert +Thornleigh, but keeping his small deep-set eyes fixed intently upon +Clara Westford, who stood a little way behind the sailor. “It depends +very much upon the nature of those dealings. What is it that you want +me to remember?” + +“A captain in the merchant service, named Harley Westford, lodged +a sum of money in the hands of your principal during that month, +a large sum for a single deposit--twenty thousand pounds. Do you +remember the circumstances?” + +“I do.” + +“He returned the same day to withdraw the money, or he intended to do +so?” + +“He did return: and not finding Mr. Godwin here, he followed him to +his country seat, Wilmingdon Hall, in Hertfordshire. I was there when +he arrived.” + +“And he claimed the return of his money?” + +“He did.” + +“Were his claims acceded to?” + +“Mr. Godwin told me as much.” + +“The money was returned?” + +“I repeat that Mr. Godwin told me so. I left Wilmingdon Hall to catch +the ten-o’clock train from Hertford. When I left, Captain Westford +was still with Mr. Godwin. I was so unlucky as to lose the train. I +returned to the Hall. When I returned the Captain had left, no doubt +carrying his twenty thousand pounds with him. Mr. Godwin told me that +he had restored the money that evening, as the Captain was obliged to +rejoin his ship by daybreak; otherwise she would have sailed without +him.” + +“She did sail without him,” answered Gilbert Thornleigh; “from that +hour to this, the Captain has never been seen by his friends. He +disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened to swallow him +up.” + +“Strange!” murmured the clerk thoughtfully. + +“Very strange,” replied the sailor; “there has been foul play +somewhere. I should not care to be in Rupert Godwin’s position. +Harley Westford was last seen in his house. Harley Westford’s fortune +was lodged in his hands. There are two questions that I must have +answered, somehow or other; the first is, was that fortune ever +restored to its rightful owner? The second is one of even darker +meaning: Did Harley Westford ever leave Wilmingdon Hall alive?” + +Jacob Danielson looked at the speaker with a strange expression. + +“Bah!” he exclaimed. “Do you suppose such a man as Rupert Godwin +would lie in wait to murder one of his customers for the sake of +twenty thousand pounds? Mr. Godwin is a millionaire, and that which +seemed a wonderful fortune to the merchant captain would have been +only a trifle to him.” + +“Mr. Godwin may be a millionaire to-day,” answered Gilbert +Thornleigh; “but if the tongue of common report spoke truly, he was +no millionaire last June twelvemonth. He had just made great losses, +and there was a rumour that he was likely to become bankrupt.” + +“The tongue of common report is a lying tongue,” replied Jacob +Danielson. “Come, young man, this talk is madness. Rich men, such as +Rupert Godwin, do not commit crimes. Seek for your captain elsewhere; +we are not responsible for his safety.” + +“Perhaps not,” answered Gilbert; “but the law may ask you and your +employer some strange questions about that meeting at Wilmingdon +Hall. My first task shall be to put the case in the hands of the +police; they may be able to discover whether Harley Westford ever +left that place alive.” + +“Perhaps so,” responded the clerk coolly. “The police are very +clever, no doubt; but they are sometimes baffled. They have made two +or three rather notable _fiascos_ lately. Good morning. Stay! In +spite of your insolent insinuations, I should really be glad to be of +service to you. If I should obtain any information likely to aid you +in your search for the missing Captain, I will send it to you. Where +shall I address my letter?” + +He looked at Clara Westford as he spoke, and it was she who answered +him. + +“You can address your letter to me, Harley Westford’s wife, at No. 4, +Little Vincent-street, Lambeth,” she said eagerly. + +Jacob Danielson started at the sound of her low earnest voice, but +neither Clara nor her companion observed his emotion. They were too +deeply engrossed by their own anxiety. + +They left the bank immediately after this. The young man put his +companion into a cab, and then parted from her, promising to go +at once to the proper quarter, where he might place the matter of +Harley Westford’s disappearance in the hands of the detective police, +and promising also to call upon her early the next day, in order +to tell her the result of his interview with the chief official at +Scotland-yard. + +Before she took off her bonnet and shawl Clara Westford seated +herself at her desk and wrote a letter to her son, telling him of the +return of Gilbert Thornleigh, and of the mysterious disappearance of +the Captain, and imploring him to exert himself to the utmost in his +endeavours to fathom the mystery. + +“By a providential chance you happen to be in the near neighbourhood +of Wilmingdon Hall,” wrote Clara Westford, “which I am told is +within a few miles of Hertford. For Heaven’s sake, my dear Lionel, +make a good use of that chance, and try by every means to discover +whether your unhappy father left Rupert Godwin’s house alive on the +night of the 27th of June.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + +ESTHER VANBERG HAS HER WAY. + + +Esther Vanberg thought very little more of Violet after the base +scheme, in which she had assisted, had been successfully carried out. + +Her lovely rival was gone; that was all she cared about. The stage +was now clear for herself. Mr. Maltravers was in a dilemma, and was +glad to allow the handsome and dashing Esther to appear in the very +part he had intended for Violet. Most complete, therefore, was the +triumph of the Jewess. + +She had but little dramatic ability, or she would long ago have been +elevated to a more important position in the theatre--in the days +when her beauty had been fresher than it was now. But she managed to +speak the few lines allotted to her without breaking down, and she +looked superb. + +The character she had to perform was that of a woman of rank; which +gave her an opportunity of displaying some of the jewels which had +been presented to her by the wealthy and generous young Duke of +Harlingford. + +Her dress was a triumph of art from a court milliner in +Clarges-street--a satin train of the softest pink almost covered by +a tunic of Malines lace. The delicate hue of the dress contrasted +exquisitely with the girl’s pale-olive skin; and she looked as +perilously lovely as that “Serpent of old Nile,” whose fatal eyes +cost Antony a world. + +A diamond bracelet encircled one of her slim wrists; a massive band +of yellow lustreless gold clasped with a large ruby star adorned the +other. Her purple-black hair was drawn off from her proud clearly-cut +face, coiled in a heavy knot at the back of her head, and secured by +a diamond comb. + +Attired thus, Esther Vanberg looked indeed worthy of the rank and +title of duchess. + +There were many that night in the crowded theatre who thought as +much; but there was one young man sitting alone in a private box, who +would gladly, ay even proudly, have bestowed upon her that rank and +title. + +This solitary young man, whose handsome face brightened as he watched +the beautiful actress, was no other than the Duke of Harlingford, +Esther Vanberg’s doting admirer. + +The haughty girl had quarrelled with him about some absurd trifle, +and had dismissed him from her drawing-room as coolly as a sovereign +would banish an offending courtier. During three or four weeks the +infatuated young nobleman had in vain sought for admission to the +pretty little house in Mayfair. Every day he received the same kind +of answer--Miss Vanberg was not at home; or Miss Vanberg was engaged. + +The Grand Monarque himself, in the plenitude of his power, could +scarcely have treated his subjects with more supreme hauteur than the +Duke had to endure from this friendless, nameless ballet-girl. + +But unfortunately opposition only increased the young man’s +infatuation. The worse Esther Vanberg behaved to him, the more +ardently he worshipped her. + +Every night found him at his post in the private box, which he had +hired for the season, content to gaze at his idol, who did not even +condescend to glance towards the spot where he sat. + +He had the privilege of entering the green-room of the Circenses +whenever he pleased; but when last he was there, Esther Vanberg had +passed him by with a look of superb disdain. He had spoken to her; +but she had not deigned to reply to him. So that now the weak-minded +young man had not the courage to intrude in that charmed circle. + +But to-night, to the Duke’s surprise and delight, the lovely Jewess +was pleased to be gracious. She looked towards his box with the most +bewitching smile of recognition. The enraptured young nobleman saw +that he was forgiven. He hurried round to the stage-door directly +the piece was over, and made his way to the green-room. There were +several members of the company assembled there, engaged in discussing +the merits of the new piece, and amongst them the Duke beheld the +object of his adoration. + +Esther Vanberg was seated on a sofa, fanning herself with an Indian +fan of gaudy feathers and exquisitely carved wood. She beckoned the +Duke to her side with a wave of her fan. + +He was only too glad to obey the summons. In a moment he was by her +side, bending over her in an attitude of respectful devotion. + +Strange as it may seem, the Duke respected this capricious, +self-willed woman. Her despotic temper, her insolence and pride, kept +him at her feet. + +She gave him her slender jewelled hand with a gesture of superb +condescension. + +“Come, Vincent,” she said, “let us be friends once more. I am tired +of seeing your gloomy face in that stage box. Who were those people +that used to place a death’s-head upon their banquet-table, to +remind them of their mortality? I’m sure you would make a very good +substitute for the skeleton head, if that sort of thing were the +fashion nowadays. You look absolutely funereal.” + +“My dear Esther, when a fellow calls at your house a dozen times, and +is told every time that you are out, though he hears you strumming--” + +“What?” + +“I beg your pardon, playing the piano.” + +“Well, say no more,” replied Miss Vanberg graciously; “I daresay +I have behaved rather badly to you during the last fortnight. But +I’m sure I must have had awful provocation--though I can’t exactly +remember what it was. However, you may consider yourself forgiven.” + +“My darling Esther--” exclaimed the enraptured Duke. + +“Stay!” cried the young lady, with an imperious wave of her fan; “you +are only forgiven conditionally. I want you to do me a favour.” + +“My adorable angel, is there anything you could ask that I would +refuse to do?” + +“Of course not,” answered Esther with the air of an empress: “you +will not refuse to do anything that you _can_ do. But in this case +the question is, whether you can or not.” + +“My dearest Esther, if it is possible, consider it done; if it is +impossible, be assured that it shall be done.” + +“O, it’s the simplest thing in the world, if you only go to +work about it cleverly. You know how fond I am of riding, and +how anxiously I look forward to the hunting-season, when I mean +to go down to Berkshire, and enjoy the delight of a run across +country. Well, a few evenings ago, Captain Angus Harding was in the +green-room, and was talking most rapturously about a crack hunter +that was to be sold at Tattersall’s the following day at two o’clock. +A magnificent creature, he said; a chestnut, without a white hair +about him; a perfect flyer, with only one defect, and that the common +fault of chestnut horses--ahem!--and dark-haired women--rather a +queer temper. The animal is called Devilshoof, and has been ridden by +the great steeplechaser Mr. Palgrave Norton. Captain Harding declared +that he would have given a thousand pounds for such a horse, if he +could possibly have afforded the money.” + +“Poor _dayvil_!” drawled the Duke. “Angus Harding is always hard-up. +He ought to be called Angus Hardup, by Jove!” added the young +nobleman, delighted with his feeble attempt at wit. + +Miss Vanberg laughed heartily. She was in a charming humour to-night. + +“Well,” she continued, “of course you may imagine that after hearing +such an account of this horse, I was seized with a desire to have +him. I kept my own counsel but determined to send my groom to +Tattersall’s to bid any money for Devilshoof. I gave him my orders +early the next day, and my man was in Tattersall’s yard at a quarter +before two; but--would you believe it?--that abominable Harding had +misled me as to the hour of the sale. Devilshoof had been sold for +seven hundred guineas at half-past one. Imagine my annoyance.” + +“Yes; it was provoking,” answered the Duke; “but as the horse is a +queer temper, I call it rather a lucky escape.” + +“Temper!” exclaimed Esther Vanberg, with a scornful laugh. “Do you +think I should have been afraid of the animal’s temper? I like a +spirited horse. I like my temper to be at war with the animal I ride, +for I know I shall conquer, and I feel a thrill of pride and triumph +in the sense of power. I hate a quiet horse. I would just as soon +stay at home and sit on the sofa, as go jogging up and down the Row +on one of your placid animals which are warranted ‘quiet for a lady.’ +Now, my dear Harlingford, what I have to say to you is this: when I +set my heart upon a thing, I am not accustomed to be disappointed. I +_have_ set my heart upon this horse; so you must get him for me.” + +“But, my dearest Esther, you say that he was sold.” + +“What of that? He can be bought again, I suppose? The man who bought +him may be induced to sell him for a higher price?” + +“That depends upon the character of the purchaser. Who is he?” + +“Lord Bothwell Wallace.” + +“Then I’m afraid the matter is quite impossible,” replied the Duke. +“Bothwell Wallace is a great man in the shires, and will scarcely +care to part with a horse he fancies.” + +Miss Vanberg tossed her head disdainfully, while her brilliant eyes +flashed angrily upon the Duke. + +“O, very well,” she exclaimed; “let it be just as you please. I shall +know how to estimate the worth of your pretended affection, when you +cannot even gratify me in a little whim like this.” + +Now, this was a cruel speech, and a very unjust one into the bargain; +for the Duke had already spent a fortune upon the gratification of +Esther Vanberg’s little whims, never having been in the habit of +denying her anything, from Marie Antoinette’s own writing-table, in +tortoise-shell and Sèvres, to the title-deeds of the prettiest villa +on the banks of the Thames. But the weak young man was ready to do +anything, however foolish, rather than incur one angry glance from +the bright eyes of his idol. + +“Well, my darling,” he said, almost piteously, “I will exert myself +to the utmost to accomplish what you want. But Wallace is awfully +rich; and I really don’t see how I am to induce him to part with a +horse he likes. However, I’ll do my best.” + +“Pray do,” answered Esther, rising languidly, and drawing a costly +Indian shawl about her shoulders, “and don’t come near me until +you can tell me that Devilshoof is mine. Never presume to approach +me again if you fail in getting him, for the sight of you will be +actually obnoxious to me. Good-night.” + +She held out her hand once more. The Duke kissed the jewelled +fingers, and accepted his sentence of banishment as meekly as if +Esther Vanberg had been the Emperor of all the Russias. + +He wrote on the following day to Lord Bothwell Wallace, offering that +nobleman a thousand guineas for the horse which had been bought at +Tattersall’s for seven hundred. He informed Lord Wallace that the +horse was wanted for a lady who had set her heart upon possessing him. + +The Duke fully expected a decided refusal to this offer; but the +letter which he received did not contain an actual refusal. Lord +Wallace wrote: + +“MY DEAR HARLINGFORD,--I shall be very glad to get rid of Devilshoof +for the sum which I paid for him; but I will _not_ sell him to a +lady. I and my grooms have tried him, and we find him one of the +worst-tempered brutes it was ever our bad fortune to encounter. +You’ve been in my harness-room at the Caravansera, and you know +I’m rather great in the invention of teasers in the shape of bits. +I’ve tried all my latest discoveries on Devilshoof without effect. +The brute is an incorrigible bolter; and whatever good there ever +was in him has been taken out of him by gentleman jocks. He is so +bad a temper that I don’t care to keep him in my stud, in spite of +his good looks. I shall send him back to Tattersall’s, and have him +sold for whatever he will fetch. But no lady shall ride him with my +concurrence. + + “Yours faithfully, + “WALLACE.” + +The Duke of Harlingford imagined that this letter would perfectly +satisfy Esther Vanberg. She would, of course, not care to possess a +horse which a hunting-man like Bothwell Wallace refused to ride. The +Duke put the letter in his pocket, ordered his cab, and drove at once +to the coquettish little mansion in Mayfair. + +Esther was at home, fluttering about her drawing-room in an exquisite +morning-dress of muslin and lace. She was arranging the hot-house +flowers in her vases, and looked up with a cry of delight as the +Duke entered the room. Looking up thus, in her dainty summer dress, +with her hands full of flowers, and all the colour and brightness of +her sunlit drawing-room for a background, she made a picture which a +Meissonier might have been pleased to paint. + +“I triumph!” she exclaimed. “Devilshoof is mine!” + +“No, my dearest Esther; but----” + +“But what?” interrupted the Jewess. “I will have no such word as +‘but’ uttered in _my_ house. I thought I told you not to come near me +until that horse was mine?” + +“Precisely, my darling,” answered the Duke, handing Lord Wallace’s +letter to the angry beauty; “but if you will only read that, you will +understand why I have not bought him.” + +Esther Vanberg read the letter, and then tossed it from her with a +gesture of disdain. + +“Well!” she exclaimed; “of course you wrote to say that you would buy +the horse?” + +“My dear Esther!--after receiving such an account of him?” + +“Bah!” cried the Jewess contemptuously. “What cowards you men are, in +spite of all your pretended love of manly sports! A horse is a little +hot-tempered, and you are actually afraid to ride him. I should +despise myself for such cowardice! Write to Lord Wallace immediately, +and tell him that you will give him his own price for Devilshoof.” + +“But, my darling Esther, you would never be so rash as to ride him? +It would be sheer madness.” + +“Never mind what it would be; sit down and write.” + +The Jewess pointed imperiously to the Marie Antoinette writing-table. + +For some time the Duke resisted; but Esther Vanberg’s power over him +was boundless, and in the end she triumphed. + +He wrote to Lord Wallace, telling him that the lady had set her heart +on the horse, and would have him at any price. + +It was with great unwillingness that the weak-minded young man wrote +this letter; for the thought of danger to his beloved Esther inspired +him with utter dismay; but he had not firmness enough to oppose any +fancy of the woman he so tenderly loved. + +He received a reply from Lord Wallace in a few hours. + +It ran thus: + +“DEAR HARLINGFORD,--If the lady whom you wish to gratify has set her +heart on _committing suicide_, she may as well do so in one way as +in another. I can only tell you once more, that Devilshoof is unsafe +for a lady to ride. He requires to be ridden by a man with a wrist of +iron, and a temper as determined as his own. + + “Always yours, + “WALLACE.” + +The Duke hurried off to Mayfair with this second letter. Esther +Vanberg received it eagerly, and laughed gaily after reading it. + +“A wrist of iron, and a temper as determined as his own!” she +exclaimed, repeating the Viscount’s words. “Well, well; I don’t know +about the wrist of iron; but I know that no horse that ever was +foaled can have a more determined temper than I have. We will see +which is the stronger Devilshoof or I.” + +“You mean to ride the horse then, in spite of Wallace’s warning?” + +“Mean to ride him?--of course I do!” cried the Jewess, who was +walking up and down the room in the highest spirits. “How gloomily +you look at me! Poor Harlingford! one would suppose I was going to +jump over a precipice, or to do something or other that would be +certain death. You men are all cowards. I’ll show you that a horse +can be conquered. Send Lord Wallace a cheque for a thousand pounds, +and tell him to send Devilshoof to my stables.” + +Again the Duke remonstrated, entreated, implored; but again Esther +triumphed, and the foolish young man acceded to her request. Had +she ordered him to jump out of her drawing-room window into the +street below, his compliance with her command would have only been a +question of time. + +The cheque was sent; and early next morning Esther went round to her +stables to look at the animal. + +It was a pouring-wet day, and the Jewess could have found it in +her heart to quarrel with the very elements, so great was her +disappointment. She wanted to have ridden Devilshoof that morning. + +“I suppose to-morrow will be fine,” she said. “Mind, Harlingford, you +hold yourself disengaged, to ride with me at eleven in the morning. I +shall ride as far as Richmond Park or Wimbledon Common, for the sake +of a gallop on the turf.” + +“I shall be ready, Esther,” answered the Duke gravely; “but I wish +you would ride any other horse than Devilshoof. You used to be so +fond of your mare Waterwitch.” + +“Yes; but that is ages ago. I’m tired of her now: she’s almost as fat +as one of those horrible animals you took me to see at Islington; and +I mean to ride this chestnut beauty.” + +She laid her little white hand on the animal’s arching neck, and he +looked at her with his large brown eyes, which had something almost +demoniac in their fiery brightness. The appearance of the horse fully +justified his name of Devilshoof. + +“I don’t know how it is,” exclaimed the Duke. “I suppose Wallace’s +letter has made a coward of me. But I give you my honour, Esther, I +would gladly sacrifice every penny I possess if you would promise me +never to ride that horse.” + +“My dear Harlingford,” cried the Jewess gaily, “you shall not be +allowed to give way to such foolish fancies. I never felt in better +spirits than I do to-day; and I anticipate a most delightful ride +to-morrow.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + +THE EVIDENCE OF THE MINIATURE. + + +After his secret visit to the vaults below the northern wing, a +perpetual fever of mind possessed Lionel Westford. He shrank from +every chance of meeting with Julia Godwin. He brooded continually +upon the circumstantial evidence of the blood-stained shred of cloth, +the black pool of blood, the leather glove, which he had found in the +cellar. + +A man had come to Wilmingdon one evening in the June of the past +year, and had never been seen to go away. + +The ravings of the old gardener were not the result of a disordered +mind; they were the offspring of an intellect which even in its decay +retained the memory of a dreadful scene. + +Lionel Westford’s mind was tortured by conflicting feelings. He knew +that, having fallen upon the clue to a crime that had escaped the eye +of justice, it was his sacred duty to place that clue in the hands +of the police, in order that the secret of Wilmingdon Hall might be +dragged to light, and that justice might overtake the criminal. + +But that criminal was Julia Godwin’s father. The image of the woman +he loved, pale, agonized, grief-stricken, rose before him; and he +felt that he _could not_ be the means of bringing her father to the +gallows. + +Then he tried to believe that no murder had been committed on that +June evening. He tried to think that Rupert Godwin was not guilty +of the worst crime which man can commit. It was all one great +mystification, probably the result of a sequence of accidents. The +blood-stained fragment of a coat, the glove, the ravings of Caleb +Wildred might all be explained perhaps in quite a different manner +from that in which Lionel had been inclined to read them. + +“Why should Rupert Godwin murder this stranger?” thought the young +man. “What motive could he have had? Pshaw! I have been a madman +to suspect him of such a deed--as mad and foolish as that poor +half-witted gardener, whose ravings, after all, may be utterly +meaningless.” + +It was thus that Lionel Westford reasoned with himself,--so anxious +was he to believe in the innocence of his mother’s enemy. But, argue +with himself as he would, the dark and terrible truth was perpetually +thrusting its hideous image before his eyes. + +It was quite in vain that he tried to think lightly of the mystery. A +dreadful weight oppressed his mind. He remembered the strange feeling +which had come over him on the day when he for the first time entered +Wilmingdon Hall. + +“It is useless to struggle against the truth!” he exclaimed one day, +after a long period of mental conflict. “The shadow of crime darkens +this place. The foul taint of blood poisons the very atmosphere. +Murder has been done here; and, come what may, I must do my +duty--yes, even at the cost of Julia Godwin’s peace.” + +The long struggle had come to an end at last. Lionel Westford +resolved to lose no more time, but to leave Wilmingdon Hall that +very day, and seek an interview with one of the chief members of the +detective police immediately he reached London. + +Under these circumstances he sat down to write to Julia Godwin, his +employer, his patroness. + +He had only occasion to tell her that particular business obliged him +to go to London, and that he was therefore compelled to relinquish +his employment without a more formal notice. + +He had only to tell her this, and to thank her for her goodness--to +express his appreciation of the benevolent feelings that had prompted +her to employ him. + +But, simple though the matter of the letter was, he found it very +difficult to write. He knew that the task he was about to undertake +was one which might bring despair and anguish upon the woman whose +generosity had rescued him from starvation--the woman whom he fondly +loved. + +His letter was very cold, very formal. He dared not trust himself to +reveal one spark of real feeling. + +He sealed and directed it. He then set in order the drawings upon +which he had been employed; and next hastily gathered together his +few possessions. + +These he packed in his portmanteau; but he resolved on leaving the +portmanteau behind him until he should be able to send for it. He +wanted to quit the house unnoticed; he wished his departure to be +undiscovered till he was far from Wilmingdon Hall. He wished, above +all things, to escape the chance of meeting with Julia Godwin. Such a +meeting would have been fatal; for the young man felt that he should +have failed in the endeavour to conceal his feelings. + +He descended the stairs, crossed the hall, and went out upon the +lawn. The drawing-room windows were open, and he could hear Julia +Godwin singing. The song was very familiar to him, for he had often +sat in the summer twilight listening dreamily to the melody. The rich +tones of the singer went to his heart. He was leaving her--perhaps +forever. Or if they ever met again, would she not look upon him as +her worst and bitterest foe? + +He could not quit the Hall without stealing one last glance at the +face which had bewitched him. + +The long French windows were open to their utmost extent. Lionel +stole softly across the pathway, and stood for some moments gazing +silently at the face of the singer. + +Julia Godwin was very pensive. There was a look of profound thought, +or it might be of profound sadness, in her large dark eyes. The tones +of her voice were tremulous, and her hands moved slowly over the keys +of the piano. + +For but a few moments Lionel Westford lingered. He dared not trust +himself to stay longer, lest Julia should glance upward, and see +him standing by the open window. There was nothing he more dreaded +than an interview with Rupert Godwin’s daughter, and yet it was very +difficult to turn away from that window. + +He did turn, however, and stole off unnoticed. He made his way across +the park, and walked to Hertford--no public vehicle plying on the +country road. + +He was going straight to the railway station, when he suddenly +remembered that there might possibly be a letter from his mother or +sister waiting for him at the post-office. + +He accordingly turned back, and went to the office. There was a +letter--a letter addressed to him in his mother’s handwriting; but +the writing seemed strangely tremulous. + +“O Heaven!” he thought; “I hope my mother is not ill.” + +He tore open the envelope hastily, and read the letter as he walked +towards the railway station. It was the letter which Clara Westford +had written after her interview with Gilbert Thornleigh. + +No words can tell the horror of the young man as he read that +communication. + +His father, his beloved father, had been known to start for +Wilmingdon Hall on a night in the June of the previous year, and +had never been seen since. Twenty thousand pounds had been paid +into the hands of Rupert Godwin--of that very Rupert Godwin who had +represented Harley Westford as deeply indebted to him, and who had +driven the Captain’s wife and children away from the home that had so +long been their own. + +The people walking that day in the High-street of Hertford must have +been startled by the white face of Lionel Westford as he sauntered +along, brooding on the contents of his mother’s letter. Could it be +that his father had fallen a victim to the murderous hand of Rupert +Godwin? Could it have been the blood of his own father which he had +traced down the cellar-steps below the northern wing? + +By what means was he to fathom the truth? + +Should he go on to London, and place the whole case in the hands of +the police? Or should he return to Wilmingdon Hall, and endeavour +himself to discover whether the visitor whom Rupert Godwin had taken +into the northern wing was indeed Harley Westford? + +He decided on returning to the Hall. He fancied that he had hit upon +a plan by which he might at least settle the question of his father’s +identity with the stranger who had been seen by the housekeeper to +enter the northern wing in company with Rupert Godwin. + +The sun was setting behind the noble elms and beeches of Wilmingdon +Park when Lionel Westford once more walked along the avenue leading +to the Hall. + +Half-way between the lodge-gates and the house he turned aside into +the winding path which he had been directed to take on his first +coming to Wilmingdon. + +As he proceeded slowly along this shadowy pathway he took a small +object from his waistcoat-pocket and looked at it intently. It was a +gold locket, attached to a chain of soft golden-brown hair. That soft +brown hair had been cut from Clara Westford’s head. The chain had +been a birthday gift from the mother to her son. The locket contained +a carefully painted and faithful likeness of Harley Westford, +taken shortly before that luckless midsummer which had been the +commencement of so many sorrows. + +Lionel had a purpose in choosing this shadowy path through the thick +shrubbery. He was going to the fernery, the spot where he had first +seen Caleb Wildred. + +He knew that the fernery was a favourite retreat with old Caleb, and +that the half-witted gardener would often spend whole days there, +brooding over his dark fancies, mumbling and muttering to himself. + +Lionel was not disappointed. Caleb was there this evening, sitting on +a fragment of the rockwork, his elbows on his knees, his chin in the +palms of his hands, in the attitude of a person who is thinking very +deeply. + +He started as Lionel’s footfall sounded on some newly-fallen leaves, +the first of the fading summer. A moment afterwards he looked up with +a half-imbecile smile. + +“Ah!” he muttered, “a stranger--a stranger! a young man who talks +to old Caleb sometimes. I’m not afraid or you. No, no. You are kind +to me, and I’m not afraid of you. But you won’t try to find out the +secret, will you? You won’t ask me to betray my master? I’ve lived +in this place so long, so long--man and boy, man and boy; and you +can’t surely ask me to bring a Godwin to the gallows--not to the +gallows!--no, no. They used to hang ’em in chains when I was a boy; +and I’ve heard the dry bones rattle and the rusty irons creak on the +old coach-road between Hertford and London. You wouldn’t ask me to +hang one of the Godwin’s--one of the old stock!” + +Lionel Westford seated himself upon the rockwork beside the old man. +He laid his hand gently on Caleb’s wrist, and tried to soothe him. + +“Come, Mr. Wildred,” he said, “let us talk seriously. You have +allowed your mind to dwell too much upon this business. I want you +to help me; I want you to give me your aid in a very serious matter. +Look at this picture, and tell me if you ever saw the face before?” + +Lionel Westford opened the locket which contained his father’s +miniature, and held the picture before the old man. + +For a few moments Caleb Wildred stared at it with the blank gaze +of imbecility. Then a sudden change came over his face; his eyes +dilated, his lips trembled convulsively. + +“Great God of Heaven!” he cried, “the secret--the secret! Where did +you get that picture?” + +“Never mind that,” answered Lionel, who could scarcely control his +agitation; “look at the face, and tell me if you ever saw it before?” + +“If I ever saw it before!” cried the old gardener, in a voice that +rose almost to a shriek of agony; “he asks me if I ever saw that face +before! Why, it haunts me by day and by night--it follows me wherever +I go! If I look into the deep dark water, I see it looking at me from +the bottom, calm and smiling, as it looked that night; if I shut +myself up in the darkness, I can see it still, with a light of its +own about it. Wherever I go, it follows me, and tortures me, because +I keep that wicked secret--that horrid secret of my master’s guilt. +Take the picture away, young man, unless you want to drive me raving +mad. It is the face of the man who was murdered in the northern wing!” + +Lionel Westford uttered one long cry of despair, and fell to the +ground, with his father’s miniature still clasped in his hand. + +When consciousness slowly returned, the young man found himself +alone, lying face downwards on the grass. + +The sky was dark, save for the faint and silvery glimmer of distant +stars high in the vault of heaven. It was late, and the dew had +fallen. Lionel Westford felt a deadly chill creeping through his +bones. + +There was a heavy feeling in his brain--a dull drowsiness which was +almost stupor; and yet the memory of what had happened still held its +place in his mind. + +The image of his father, slain by Rupert Godwin’s murderous hand, was +vividly impressed upon his imagination; he saw it before him, almost +as palpable as the giant trunks of oaks and elms looming darkly +through the night. + +He tried to rise, but found that his limbs were stiff and aching. It +was only with a powerful effort that at length he staggered to his +feet. + +When he looked about him, the scene around seemed to swim before his +eyes, the ground to reel beneath his feet. + +“O God!” he exclaimed, “am I going to be ill? Is my hand to be +rendered powerless at this moment, when I have such need to use it as +the avenger of my father’s death?” + +Slowly, and with tottering footsteps, Lionel Westford made his way +across the lawn, and approached the Hall. He knew that the principal +doors leading into the great entrance-hall were never locked until +late at night. He would be able to open them, and enter the house +unnoticed. + +He had changed his mind with regard to his plan of action. He wanted +to make the most of the strange chance which had placed him beneath +the banker’s roof--he wanted to obtain still further proof of Rupert +Godwin’s guilt. + +An alarming sense of helplessness was upon him as he approached the +mansion--a feeling of stupor and dizziness, which increased with +every moment. + +He opened the door, and entered the hall. None of the servants +happened to be about, and he was able to ascend the staircase and +reach his own apartments entirely unnoticed. There were no candles +burning on the table of the sitting-room, but in the semi-darkness of +the August night he could see that the letter he addressed to Julia +had been removed. There was no white spot upon the dark ground of the +table-cover. + +With weary, heavy steps he tottered into the adjoining room, and +flung himself upon the bed. It seemed as if he could not have gone a +step farther, even though his life had been at stake. Many-coloured +lights flashed before his dazzled eyes, a singing noise sounded in +his ears, and little by little the image of his murdered father +faded and melted away as Lionel Westford lapsed into a state of +unconsciousness. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + +FEVER-STRICKEN. + + +When the servant who had been in the habit of waiting upon Lionel +Westford entered the young man’s bedroom late at night, in order to +close the shutters of the apartment, he found Lionel lying on the +bed in the state of unconsciousness into which he had fallen. The +astonishment of the servant was very great. Several hours had passed +since he had entered Lionel’s sitting-room in order to prepare the +table for dinner. He had then found the apartment empty, and the +letter addressed to Miss Godwin lying on the table. He had taken +that letter to Julia, and had been told by her that Mr. Wilton had +left the Hall for an indefinite period, and that his services would +therefore be no longer needed in the chintz-rooms at the end of the +corridor. + +But now he found Lionel Westford lying on the bed, dressed in his +walking clothes, and his hair damp and dishevelled. + +Lionel’s face was turned towards the wall, and it never occurred to +the man that he might possibly be ill. Only one idea entered his +mind; and that was, that the artist had been drinking somewhere +during his absence from the Hall, and had returned intoxicated to +fling himself dressed upon his bed. + +“If a servant did such a thing, he’d lose his situation,” thought the +man; “but I suppose your artist chaps can do what they please. Miss +Godwin seems to have an uncommon fancy for this one, but I don’t know +what she’ll say when she hears of his goings-on.” + +He left Lionel’s room, and descended to the lower part of the +house. Julia Godwin was seated in the drawing-room; but she was +not alone. Mrs. Melville was on guard as usual, with her eternal +embroidery-frame before her, the very pattern of primness and +propriety. + +She had watched Julia narrowly since the coming of Lionel Westford, +and she by no means approved that young lady’s evident liking for the +artist. + +The man-servant entered the drawing-room and told the two ladies of +Mr. Wilton’s return. + +Nothing could exceed Mrs. Melville’s indignation. + +“Returned!” she exclaimed; “returned to the Hall without giving +any notice of his return, or offering any explanation of his +conduct, after writing a formal letter to Miss Godwin announcing his +departure! I really never heard of such impertinence. What can he +mean by such conduct?” + +Julia said nothing. She had been cruelly wounded by the receipt of +Lionel’s cold-worded letter telling her of his departure, and she had +been very silent throughout the afternoon and evening. She bent over +her book so as to keep her face concealed from Mrs. Melville and the +servant, and made no remark whatever. + +“Julia, my dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Melville, “did you ever hear of such +mingled audacity and ingratitude? I am really quite distressed upon +your account, as this person is a kind of _protégé_ of yours. Are you +not surprised, my love, and are you not indignant at such insolence?” + +Poor Julia was obliged to look up as she answered these energetic +questions. + +“There may be some reason for his conduct, perhaps, Mrs. Melville,” +she said gently. “He may have changed his mind, and may have decided +on returning to the Hall. He knew how much I wanted those pictures +finished, and he may have been anxious to complete them.” + +“But, my dearest Julia, to return in such a manner, and to lie down +in his clothes, just like some horrid intoxicated member of the +working-classes! O, it’s really dreadful!” + +“That’s about it, I think, mum,” answered the servant, with an +ill-concealed grin. “I fancy as how Mr. Wilton has took a little more +than is good for him, and finding hisself queer, he come back here to +sleep instead of going up to London by rail.” + +“Intoxicated!” shrieked Mrs. Melville; “an intoxicated man has dared +to enter this house! Go to Mrs. Beckson immediately Thomas, and +tell her to go to Mr. Wilton’s apartment and order him to leave the +Hall without a moment’s delay. Not for an instant will I suffer an +intoxicated person to pollute this house by his odious presence.” + +“Stop, Mrs. Melville,” said Julia; “we do not know that Mr. Wilton +is intoxicated; and I should think from what I have seen of his +habits that such a thing is most unlikely. In any case, he must +not be turned out of this house to-night. It is just possible that +he may be ill. To-morrow morning will be quite soon enough for any +investigation that you may wish to make; and unless I am very much +mistaken, Mr. Wilton will be able to give a satisfactory explanation +of his conduct.” + +“But, my darling Julia, I cannot really suffer an intoxicated person +to--” + +“This is my father’s house, Mrs. Melville; and on this point I must +beg to have my own way.” + +Mrs. Melville gave a dubious kind of cough. She felt that she was +treading on dangerous ground. Julia Godwin was a spoiled child, +and the banker might be very apt to resent any offence against his +darling. + +“Well, my sweetest Julia,” murmured the widow meekly, “if you really +wish an intoxicated person to remain in the house--” + +“I merely wish to hear Mr. Wilton’s own explanation of his conduct +to-morrow morning,” Julia answered quietly. “You can go, Thomas,” she +added, turning to the servant, who had lingered to see the result of +this little battle between the two ladies. + +No more was said that night upon the subject of Lionel’s return, +but there was some little restraint between the two ladies all the +evening. Julia occupied herself with her book, which she affected +to find intensely interesting; but Mrs. Melville could see by the +subdued light of the reading-lamp that her face was very pale. + +“There is no doubt as to the state of her feelings,” thought the +widow; “the silly girl has fallen in love with this handsome young +adventurer. I must enlighten Mr. Godwin upon the subject the first +time he comes to Wilmingdon.” + +Early the next morning the two ladies were seated at breakfast in a +prettily-furnished room opening into the garden. Julia was still pale +and thoughtful; the widow was still watchful of her charge--fearing +that she might be blamed for any foolish attachment formed by the +banker’s daughter, and might perhaps forfeit a most profitable and +agreeable position. She tried to win Julia to talk in her usual +cheerful and animated manner; but the girl was evidently preoccupied, +and Mrs. Melville was obliged to abandon the attempt to sustain any +conversation. + +They were still seated at the breakfast-table when a knock sounded on +the door, which was opened the next moment to give admittance to the +portly form of Mrs. Beckson, the housekeeper, who entered, curtseying +with profound respect. + +“I am sure, ladies, I am very sorry to intrude upon you in the midst +of your breakfasts, especially being the bearer of unpleasant news, +as one may say, for of course illness is not pleasant, even when +relating to a stranger, thank Providence, and not a member of the +family, but still a remarkably civil-spoken and genteel young man, +who has no doubt seen better days, which is the case with so many of +us, only it isn’t our place to rebel against the ways of Providence; +and I’m sure, Miss Godwin, and you too, Mrs. Melville, ma’am----” + +Julia had risen, deathly pale, and trembling violently. She did not +even make any attempt to conceal her agitation. + +“For pity’s sake, tell us what is the matter, Mrs. Beckson!” she +exclaimed, interrupting the rapid flow of the housekeeper’s speech. +“Is Mr. Wil----is any one ill?” + +“Yes; it is Mr. Wilton, Miss,” answered Mrs. Beckson. “And I think I +never, in the whole course of my life, see any one in such a raging +fever.” + +Mrs. Melville turned uneasily towards Julia; she expected that the +girl would faint. But there was no weakness in Julia Godwin’s nature; +she had all a woman’s tenderness, but more than a woman’s courage and +endurance. + +She resumed her seat, and betrayed no further emotion, except such +anxiety as any woman might reasonably feel for a person residing +beneath her father’s roof. + +“Have you sent for the doctor, Mrs. Beckson?” she asked very quietly. + +“O yes, Miss! I sent off immediately. William Jones, one of the +stablemen, has ridden off to Hertford as fast as he can gallop; but, +go as quick as he may, it must be some time before he can get back +with Doctor Granger; and in the meantime I’ve told Thomas to get +the poor young man into a nice warm bed, and to bathe his head with +vinegar and water.” + +“He is very ill, then?” said Julia. + +“Awful bad, miss! Since my poor cousin Caleb was took with the +brain-fever that night last June twelvemonth, I never see any one +half so bad--and this poor young man seems even worse than Caleb. +When our Thomas went into the room this morning, he found Mr. +Wilton sitting at the open window shivering just as if he’d shake +to pieces, and yet in a burning fever all the time. And what’s the +strangest part of the whole business, he was raving about murder, and +treachery, and stabbing, and such-like, just for all the world like +our Caleb.” + +“Strange!” murmured Julia. + +It was strange. A kind of horror filled the girl’s breast as she +thought that this was the second person who had been stricken with +sudden illness--with illness which reduced them from sanity to raving +madness; and that the minds of both should dwell on the same dark and +hideous subjects. + +“It is enough to make one superstitious,” she exclaimed, with a +shudder; “it is enough to make one believe that there is really some +truth in the ghastly stories the servants tell of those empty rooms +in the northern wing.” + +That morning was a sad one for Julia Godwin. She wandered from room +to room, trying to occupy herself, trying to distract her mind from +the one subject upon which it unceasingly brooded, but trying in vain. + +She could only think of the artist whom she knew as Lewis Wilton. He +was ill--suffering; in danger, perhaps. + +For the first time she discovered that this man, whom she had sought +to benefit from an impulse of pure womanly compassion, had now +become dearer to her than any other creature in the universe, except +her father. A blush of shame dyed her face as the truth gradually +revealed itself to her. + +To love one who had never sought her love--to love a stranger, whose +station was in the eyes of the world infinitely beneath her own--a +stranger with whom she had become acquainted under such peculiar +circumstances! What would the world say, should it ever know that +Miss Godwin’s charity had ended by her falling in love with the +object of her compassion? + +Then, after some minutes of bitter and humiliating reflection, +Julia’s mind wandered back to those long afternoons in which she had +wasted hours talking to the artist in the laurel-walk or beneath the +solemn darkness of the spreading cedars. + +She remembered the low tones of his voice, the noble sentiments which +had dropped, as if unconsciously spoken, from his lips. + +“The world might despise him because of his poverty,” she thought; +“but whatever his present position may be, I feel sure that he is a +gentleman by birth and education.” + +There was some comfort in this thought. There is no such torture for +the heart of a proud woman as the idea that she has wasted her love +upon one who is unworthy of her respect. + +“I am not so mean a wretch as to remember his poverty,” thought +Julia. “I know that he is noble-minded, generous-hearted, +intellectual. What more can be needed to render him worthy of any +woman’s affection?” + +And then Julia Godwin bent her head with a modest gesture, and a +tender smile illumined her countenance, as some good fairy’s voice +seemed to whisper gently in her ear, “Ah, Julia, and you know, too, +that he loves you.” + +Even at such a time as this Julia Godwin could not repress the thrill +of happiness that stirred her breast as the conviction that she was +beloved by the young artist stole gradually upon her. But in the +next moment the thought of his illness sent an icy chill through her +heart. He was in danger; he might die. + +Men, as young and bright as he, had often been snatched suddenly away +in the very morning of life. He might die. + +Julia threw down the book which she had been vainly trying to read, +and went out through the French window on to the broad gravel walk in +front of the house. + +Along this walk the doctor must come. Julia paced slowly up and down, +waiting for his coming with extreme anxiety. Several times, almost +in spite of herself, her eyes wandered upwards to the windows of the +room in which she knew Lewis Wilton must be lying. + +The Venetian shutters were closed; all was still. Mrs. Melville +came out of the breakfast-room, and joined the anxious girl in her +promenade up and down the gravel walk. + +Her presence tortured Julia, who found herself compelled to reply to +all manner of commonplace observations at a time when her mind was +distracted by secret anxiety. But the widow was not a person to be +easily shaken off. She talked perpetually, and seemed as if she would +not allow Julia to escape from her sight. + +At last the doctor’s gig drove up to the door of the Hall. Julia +hurried forward to receive him. + +“My dear Mr. Granger,” she said, “I wish you to tell me the exact +truth with regard to the patient you are about to visit: for if there +is any danger, I must write at once to my father.” + +Her manner was so calm and collected that the surgeon was quite +unable to guess the real state of her feelings. + +“My dear young lady, you are perfectly right,” he replied; “if there +is any danger, it will be better for you to write at once to Mr. +Godwin. In any case you shall hear the truth directly I have seen +this young man.” + +He entered the house. Julia remained without, still accompanied by +Mrs. Melville. An agony of suspense tortured the proud girl’s heart +during the interval that elapsed before the doctor returned. + +He was not long absent, yet the time seemed intolerably tedious. +Every moment Julia fancied she heard the surgeon’s step in the hall; +every moment she expected him to emerge from the door. + +At last he came. He looked very grave, and Julia could see at the +first glance that Mrs. Beckson had not exaggerated Lewis Wilton’s +illness. + +“He is very ill?” she said interrogatively. + +“Yes, my dear Miss Godwin; I am sorry to say the case is very +serious. It seems to be rather a complicated case. There is rheumatic +fever, evidently the result of exposure to cold and damp; and there +seems to be some very great disorder of the brain, which must have +been caused by mental excitement. I cannot imagine what has so upset +the young man’s mind; but the delirium is of an aggravated kind. I +am afraid the servants must have frightened him with some of their +stories about the haunted rooms in the northern wing, for his +ravings all seem to relate to some story of a murder in one of the +cellars under the deserted rooms.” + +“That is very strange!” exclaimed Julia. “I should have fancied Mr. +Wilton was far too highly educated to be affected by any such foolish +stories.” + +“There is no accounting for this sort of thing. Superstition is not +always to be controlled by education.” + +“And you think there is danger, and that I ought to write to papa?” + +“I do indeed, Miss Godwin.” + +“You will require further medical help, perhaps,” said Julia. “Shall +I ask papa to bring a physician from London?” + +“No, Miss Godwin; I think there is no necessity for that. There +is danger; but the case is not beyond the skill of an ordinary +practitioner. If there should be any change in the aspect of the +fever, I will ask for aid; as it is, care and watchfulness can alone +help our patient.” + +“Who is watching him now?” + +“Mrs. Beckson, and the servant, Thomas Morrison. He will need very +careful watching; for in those fevers in which the brain is affected +there is sometimes danger of the patient doing himself some desperate +injury. A man has been known to cut his throat--to jump out of a +window. There is always a risk of some terrible catastrophe.” + +Julia’s face grew ashy white to the very lips. + +“For shame, Mr. Granger!” cried Mrs. Melville indignantly; “you have +quite unnerved my sweetest Julia.” + +“Pray pardon me!” exclaimed the penitent doctor. “I should have +remembered that I was talking to a sensitive young lady, and not to a +brother surgeon. I hope you will forgive me, Miss Godwin.” + +“You have no need of my forgiveness,” Julia answered. “I asked you to +tell me the truth, and I am very glad that you have done so. I will +write to papa immediately.” + +She had quite recovered herself by this time, and was able to speak +with perfect composure. The surgeon took his leave, after promising +to call again before dusk. + +Julia despatched a servant to the station at Hertford, with a message +which was to be telegraphed to Mr. Godwin’s London lodgings. + +The telegram was duly delivered; and at five o’clock that afternoon +Rupert Godwin entered his daughter’s morning-room. + +“Well, my dearest girl,” he exclaimed, “what is all this melancholy +business? Your artistic protégé seized with brain-fever, and you +as much concerned about the matter as if your pet Skye terrier’s +valuable life was in danger. What is it, my darling?” + +He took his daughter in his arms and embraced her tenderly. + +Infamous as this man’s life had been--hard, cruel, and remorseless +though his nature was, he was at least sincere in his love for +his beautiful daughter. And yet it was a selfish affection, after +all--such a love as a Sultan might feel for his favourite slave. She +was a part of himself, an element of happiness in his life. + +Julia told her father the circumstances of the artist’s departure +from Wilmingdon, and his mysterious return the same evening. She told +him all that had happened that day, and the opinion of the Hertford +surgeon. + +“It is such a strange business altogether, papa,” she said. “Mr. +Granger fancies that Mr. Wilton’s mind has been affected by some of +the servants’ stories about the northern wing. He has done nothing +but rave about a murder committed in one of the cellars. Papa, +papa!--what is the matter?” + +Julia Godwin had ample cause for this exclamation, for the banker had +started from her as suddenly as if a thunderbolt had fallen between +him. What bolt from heaven could have been more appalling than the +words just uttered by his daughter’s innocent lips? + +The father and daughter had been standing together near the open +window. The afternoon twilight shone full on Rupert Godwin’s face. + +When Julia looked at him, she saw that great beads of perspiration +had started to his forehead. His face was livid; a convulsive +trembling shook him in every limb. + +“Papa!” cried Julia, “for pity’s sake speak to me! What is the +matter?” + +For some moments Rupert Godwin struggled to speak; but his tongue +clove to the roof of his mouth. + +At last, with a terrible effort he spoke; but even then the words had +a strange, confused sound, like those of a man only just recovering +from a fit. + +“It is nothing,” he said, “only a physical affection. It is a kind of +nervous fit that comes upon me suddenly now and then.” + +“But, papa, it is very dreadful. You ought to consult a physician.” + +“Pshaw, child! I tell you it is nothing!” exclaimed the banker +impatiently. “I will go upstairs and see this ailing protégé of +yours.” + +There was an attempt at carelessness in the tone, but the banker’s +face had not lost its livid hue. He hurried from the room, and Julia +stood in the doorway looking after him, inexpressibly shocked and +terrified by his manner. + +“Is it really a haunted house?” she thought; “and does some dark +shadow fall upon every one who enters it?” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + +AN ALARMING DISCOVERY. + + +Rupert Godwin’s livid face was terrible to look upon, as he ascended +the broad oak staircase that summer afternoon; but by a most powerful +effort of his iron will he contrived to control his countenance and +assume a perfectly placid expression by the time he reached the end +of the long corridor, out of which Lionel Westford’s apartments +opened. + +He stopped for a few moments outside the door of the bedroom, with +his hand upon his breast. He was trying to still the tumultuous +throbbings of his heart. + +“This man knows my secret,” he thought; “but how, how has he made the +discovery? _He_--a stranger, utterly uninterested in ferreting out +the truth? The fiends of hell must have meddled in the business. The +doors were all locked and double-locked in the northern wing; it is +impossible, therefore--quite impossible, that he can have penetrated +to the cellar where--” + +Rupert Godwin did not finish the thought. He shuddered faintly, as +if the end of that unspoken sentence were too hideous to be endured, +even by his stony nature. + +“He cannot know,” thought the banker. “It must be some old story, +which happens by a strange chance to be like the ghastly truth.” + +His countenance was quite composed by this time. For many years, for +the larger half of this man’s lifetime, his face had been seldom +other than a mask, beneath which he concealed his real feelings. + +He entered the sick-chamber. Thomas Morrison, the footman, was +sitting near the window reading a newspaper; Mrs. Beckson was dozing +in a comfortable arm-chair. The sick man was lying on a bed exactly +opposite Rupert Godwin, as he entered the room. + +Never before had the banker, to his knowledge, seen his daughter’s +protégé. Yet that white face lying on the pillow seemed strangely +familiar to him. + +He tried in vain to think when and where he had seen a look which was +now recalled to him by the expression of those pallid features. + +There was something very ghastly in the young man’s appearance, for +his head was bound with damp linen cloths, which entirely concealed +his hair. + +Every now and then that weary head rolled restlessly round upon the +pillow, and the pale parched lips muttered some indistinct words. + +Mrs. Beckson rose and curtsied respectfully to her employer. She +offered him the easy-chair, from which she had risen, and the banker +seated himself by the side of the bed. + +“Is your patient still delirious?” he asked anxiously. + +“O yes, sir; just as bad as ever, as far as that goes; but more quiet +like. His raving and going on was quite dreadful a few hours ago, but +he’s worn himself out at last, poor dear young gentleman, and now +he’s been lying there for an hour and more, just as you see, rolling +his poor head about and muttering to himself.” + +“What is it that he says in his delirium?” asked the banker. + +His face was almost as fixed as a mask carved out of granite while he +waited for an answer to his question. + +“Always the same thing--always the same thing, sir,” said the +housekeeper. “Something about a murder, and blood-stains in the +cellars under the northern wing.” + +“Have the servants been telling him any foolish ghost-story?” + +“O no, sir; that’s next to impossible; for there is no story of a +murder, nor anything whatever, connected with the cellars. They do +say the northern wing is haunted; but the story they tell is only +about the ghost of a young lady who died of a broken heart, on +account of her lover being killed in the civil wars; and they do say +she walks in the passages of the northern wing every new-year’s eve +at twelve o’clock precisely.” + +“Humph!” muttered the banker; “there is no accounting for the queer +ideas that get into the brain of a delirious man. I suppose this +young man has been reading a novel, and has mixed up the story with +his knowledge of this house. He’ll have some other fancy to-morrow, +I daresay. You can leave him for the present, Mrs. Beckson; and you +too, Morrison. I heard the bell ringing for tea in the servants’ hall +just as I came upstairs. I’ll keep watch over your invalid.” + +“You’re very kind, sir; but I’m afraid you’ll find it dreadfully +wearing to hear him going on, always the same thing over and over +again.” + +Lionel Westford turned his head upon the pillow, and looked full at +the banker, with bloodshot and dilated eyes. + +“Rupert Godwin!” he said, in low, distinct tones,--“Rupert +Godwin--the murderer of--” + +He paused for a moment, and then, with a long moan of anguish, he +cried: + +“Oh, it is too hideous--too horrible! I cannot believe it!” + +“Now, isn’t it dreadful to hear him, sir?” exclaimed the housekeeper. +“He’s been going on in that foolish way for the last hour, mixing up +your name with his mad fancies.” + +“There is nothing strange in that,” answered the banker coolly. +“Delirious people always have these absurd fancies. This is not the +first case of fever that I have seen.” + +“And it isn’t the first that I’ve seen either,” returned Mrs. +Beckson. “There was my cousin, Caleb Wildred, who was taken ill +last year--last June twelvemonth; just after that strange gentleman +came to the Hall; the night that Mr. Danielson was with you, as +you may remember, sir. Caleb was just for all the world like this +young gentleman; and what’s the strangest part of the business is, +that Caleb said exactly the same things. His talk was all about a +murder, and a body thrown down the steps of one of the cellars in the +northern wing.” + +Once more, as in the drawing-room half an hour before, the banker +was taken completely off his guard; once again that iron nature was +shaken; the big drops of perspiration started to the livid brow; the +strong limbs were seized with a sudden trembling. + +“Caleb said that?” he gasped. “Caleb Wildred?” + +“Yes, sir; he was always telling the same story; his talk was exactly +like this gentleman’s talk--the same words, as far as I can remember.” + +“Where is he?” cried Rupert Godwin. “Speak, woman!--where is he?” + +He rose as if he would have rushed to find the old gardener that very +moment; but in the next instant he recovered himself, and sat down +again quietly by the side of the sick-bed. + +“Bah!” he exclaimed; “I was almost beginning to think that there +must be some meaning in these mad ravings, and that some dark deed +had really been committed beneath my roof. But it is all nonsense. +These two men must have heard the same story--some lying tradition of +the past, no doubt. You may go, Mrs. Beckson; I will remain with the +invalid for half an hour, while you take your tea.” + +The man-servant had already departed. Mrs. Beckson curtsied, +and retired; but there was a puzzled expression on her honest +countenance. She was surprised and bewildered by the banker’s unusual +conduct. + +For some time after the housekeeper’s departure Rupert Godwin sat +quite motionless, watching the pallid face of the sick man, and +listening to those muttered words which were every now and then +repeated in the same accents: + +“Rupert Godwin--the murderer--blood-stains on the stairs--blood in +the cellar--cruel--treacherous!” + +Always the same words--the same broken sentences--again and again, +again and again. + +The bloodshot eyes gazed at vacancy; but there was a fixed look +of horror in them, as if the eyeballs had been struck with sudden +rigidity while beholding some hideous sight. + +At last the banker rose from beside the bed, where he had seemed +fixed as if by some unholy spell. + +Lionel Westford’s clothes lay on a chair near the bed, and on the +dressing-table were scattered a handkerchief, a bunch of keys, some +letters and papers which had been taken from his pockets. + +The banker went over to the dressing-table, and examined the +different objects lying there. + +His hand struck against a hard substance lying under a cambric +handkerchief. + +He removed the handkerchief, and saw a gold locket attached to a +chain of soft auburn hair. He opened the locket, and a frank manly +face looked out at him with a confiding smile. + +It was the face of the brave, generous-hearted sea-captain, Harley +Westford. + +It was the face of the man whom Rupert Godwin had stabbed on the +threshold of the cellar-steps. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + +DISCOMFITED. + + +For some minutes Rupert Godwin stood with the open miniature in his +hand, gazing at the face of his victim. + +At first a kind of stupor seemed to obscure his senses, and he +could only stand motionless, staring blankly at that frank handsome +countenance. + +His senses were confused by the suddenness of the shock. It was some +time before he could reason calmly about what had happened. + +How had Harley Westford’s miniature come to be lying there? How +had the sea-captain’s likeness fallen into the possession of Julia +Godwin’s protégé? + +For some little time he stood with the picture still in his hand, +wondering at the extraordinary chance which had brought it there. +Then he set to work to examine the letters and papers, in the hope +that they might give him some clue to the mystery. + +The first letter which he took up revealed the entire truth. It had +been lying seal upwards, or Rupert Godwin could scarcely have failed +to recognize the handwriting. + +It was the letter addressed to Lionel at the Post-office, Hertford, +under his initials only. It was the letter which Clara Westford +had written to her son, telling him of her meeting with Gilbert +Thornleigh, and setting him upon the track of his missing father. + +Rupert Godwin sank into the nearest chair, that terrible letter +clenched tightly in his hand. + +“They are on my track,” he muttered in a thick voice, for the muscles +of his throat seemed paralyzed by agitation; “they are on my track. +How am I to avoid them?” + +He looked towards the bed. Never, perhaps, had a darker or more +threatening face glowered above a helpless and unconscious invalid. + +“Only by wading deeper in crime,” he said, this time with slow +deliberate accents; “only by wading deeper.” + +He thrust the letter into his breast-pocket, and then sat brooding, +with his face hidden in his hands. + +When he at last uncovered it, there was a strange look of +determination in that ashen face. He walked to the side of the bed, +and stood for some moments looking down at the sick man. + +“_His_ son!” he muttered; “_his_ son! That was the likeness which +sent a chill through my breast. But it is all a mystery still. How +did he discover the secret of the cellar? Did he come here on purpose +to find out the truth? No, that can scarcely be; for his mother’s +letter is dated only two days back, and when she wrote that letter +her suspicions were only just aroused. No matter; I dare not bewilder +my brain by trying to solve these questions. I must act; they are on +my track, and action alone can save me. Shall I fly? No, not while +there is one inch of safe ground to fight for, amidst an ocean of +peril. Flight is the first resource of the coward; it is the last +hope of the bold criminal. This young man knows my secret, somehow or +other. What matters how, since he does know it? He and Caleb Wildred +have discovered the truth; but as yet they have not denounced me, +except in the ravings of delirium. Their tongues must be stopped.” + +The housekeeper returned while Mr. Godwin was absorbed in these +meditations. + +“You can resume your seat by the side of your patient, Mrs. Beckson,” +he said; “there has been no change. I shall remain at the Hall until +this young man is out of danger; and I shall look into his room now +and then, to see how he is going on. You need never be surprised by +my coming. I am a light sleeper, and I daresay I shall look in once +or twice in the course of the night.” + +“I’m sure it’s very kind of you, sir, to take such an interest in the +poor young gentleman.” + +“I think it’s only natural that I should feel an interest in a sick +man; common humanity demands as much,” answered the banker coolly. +“By the bye, you will be watching for a very long time. I hope you +are wakeful?” + +“O yes, sir, pretty wakeful.” + +“You take something to keep you awake, I hope?” + +“Well, sir, thank you, I’ve just taken a cup of strong tea, and I may +take another in the course of the evening.” + +“Tea is not the thing. You should try coffee.” + +“Is coffee better than tea, sir?” + +“Infinitely better. I’ll send you a strong cup of coffee by-and-by. I +always take coffee after dinner.” + +“To be sure, sir. Well, I will take a cup, if you’ll be so very kind +as to send it.” + +The banker went to his room, changed his dress, which was dusty with +travelling, and bathed his head and face in cold water. + +Then he descended to the dining-room, where he found Julia waiting +for him. + +He dined with his daughter and her duenna. Julia was too entirely +preoccupied by her own emotion to perceive the silence of her father; +it seemed only natural to her that an air of gloom should pervade +everything, while the man she loved lay suffering upstairs. But Mrs. +Melville remarked the banker’s abstracted manner, and wondered at +it; she thought that he had perhaps discovered the secret of his +daughter’s affection for a penniless stranger. + +After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing-room, while Rupert +Godwin remained seated at the foot of the long dinner-table. + +Here his coffee was brought to him, about twenty minutes after the +ladies had left him. The servant placed the salver by his master’s +side, and immediately quitted the room. The coffee was served in a +small antique silver coffee-pot. There was only one cup and saucer, +of Sèvres china, on the salver. Rupert Godwin rang the bell, and told +the servant to bring a second cup and saucer. + +“I want a cup of my own coffee to be taken to Mrs. Beckson,” he said. +“Strong coffee is the best thing in the world to keep any one awake.” + +But when the man returned with the cup and saucer, Mr. Godwin said: + +“You need not wait. I will take the coffee myself to Mrs. Beckson. I +am going to the sick-room.” + +It seemed strange that so proud a man as Rupert Godwin should +trouble himself to take a cup of coffee to his housekeeper, and the +man-servant thought as much. + +He might, perhaps, have thought Rupert Godwin’s conduct stranger +still, had he seen him take a small vial from his waistcoat-pocket, +and pour about a teaspoonful of a thick dark fluid into one of the +coffee-cups. + +That little vial was one which the banker had taken from his +dressing-case before descending to the dining-room that evening. The +dark fluid was opium. + +The coffee, made as strong as a Turkish potentate might have taken +it, and very much sweetened, almost entirely disguised the bitter +flavour of the opium. The banker tasted half a spoonful of the +mixture. + +“No,” he muttered; “I don’t think Mrs. Beckson will discover anything +queer in the taste of that coffee.” + +He took the cup and saucer, and carried them to the sick-room. + +“There, my good Beckson,” he said, “I don’t think you are very likely +to fall asleep after taking this.” + +He handed her the coffee. The old woman had been nodding and blinking +in her easy-chair when he entered the room, but she opened her eyes +and endeavoured to appear very wakeful, as she took the cup of coffee +from her master’s hand. Rupert Godwin left her, and returned to the +lower part of the house. His private apartment, the room specially +sacred to him, was the library. It was there that he kept the keys of +the northern wing in a small iron safe, the key of which he carried +always in his pocket. + +The keys of the doors in the northern wing could only be obtained, +therefore, by the breaking open of this small iron safe, of the use +of a false key. + +But the locks were not of a kind to be easily opened by a false key. +It was, indeed, supposed to be quite impossible for any false key to +open them. + +The banker examined the safe. The keys of the northern wing hung in +their usual place; the dust which had accumulated during the last +twelvemonth was thick upon them. + +Rupert Godwin was utterly unable to understand Lionel Westford’s +discovery of his crime. + +“How did he find out my ghastly secret?” he thought. “By what devilry +did he stumble upon the truth?” + +The banker dared not dwell upon this question. His brain, even _his_ +clear and powerful intellect, seemed to grow dull and confused, as he +tried to solve the dark riddle. + +He went to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Melville and Julia were +seated. The widow was occupied, as usual, with the embroidery-frame. +Miss Godwin was sitting with an open book before her--a book whose +pages might quite as well have been blank paper. + +“Julia,” said the banker, “I feel tired after my journey down here, +and considerably upset by this vexatious affair of your protégé’s +illness. I shall go to bed at once, and I should advise you to retire +early; for you too have been worried by this affair.” + +“Yes, papa,” answered Julia, without looking up from her book; “I +shall go to bed very early.” + +“Good-night, my love.” + +“Good-night, dear papa.” + +Julia rose from her seat, and the banker pressed his lips to her +forehead. He wished Mrs. Melville good-night, and then left the room. + +In less than ten minutes afterwards Julia flung down her book with a +weary sigh. + +“I _am_ very tired,” she said. “Good-night, dear Mrs. Melville.” + +“Good-night, sweet child. You are pale, my love; this tiresome +business has quite upset you.” + +Julia was glad to escape from the widow’s sympathy. She retired +to her own apartments, which were at some distance from the rooms +occupied by Lionel Westford. + +She dismissed her maid, and exchanged her silk dress for a loose +white dressing-gown. In spite of what she had said to Mrs. Melville, +she had no inclination for sleep; on the contrary, she felt more than +usually wakeful. Every nerve was strung to its utmost tension--all +her senses seemed intensified. + +She went to the window and flung it open; but even the chilly night +air failed to cool her burning brow. The anxiety of the day, the +emotions which she had been compelled to repress, had affected +her very acutely. Now that she was alone, free to give way to her +agitation, she leant her head against the sash of the window, and +sobbed convulsively. + +“I love him so dearly,” she murmured; “and yet I cannot save him from +suffering. I dare not even inquire whether he is better or worse.” + +For a long time Julia stood at the open window, gazing out into the +obscurity of the summer night. + +Then she seated herself near a pretty little reading-table loaded +with new books, and tried to read. + +She sat for more than an hour with a volume in her hand. Her eyes +travelled along the lines, her hand turned the leaves, but she +paid little attention to the contents of the book. Her mind dwelt +perpetually upon Lionel’s danger. She remembered what the doctor +had said about his delirium. If he were not watched, he might do +some desperate act; in fevers, such as his, men had been known to +commit suicide. No words can express the horror with which this idea +inspired her. + +In the loneliness and silence of the night this feeling of horror +increased every moment. + +What if those who watched the sick man should fail in their +watchfulness? Mrs. Beckson was an old woman, and so not unlikely to +give way to drowsiness. Thomas Morrison might desert his post. + +The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven--half-past eleven--then +twelve; and still Julia sat brooding over this one agonizing fear. + +The sick man’s attendants would neglect him, to the peril of his life. + +Hideous images arose before her. She saw Lionel blood-stained, dying, +with a ghastly wound across his throat. Every moment she expected to +hear a maniac shriek ring through the silent house. + +At last the agony of this one thought became almost too intense for +endurance. Julia flung aside her book, and began to pace up and down +the room. + +By this time it was a quarter-past twelve. + +“I will not endure this suspense any longer,” Julia exclaimed at +last. “At any hazard, I _will_ know if he is safe. One peep into his +room will tell me if Mrs. Beckson is awake. If I only know that he +is carefully watched, I can resign myself to the knowledge of his +suffering.” + +She opened the door and looked out into the corridor. All was dark +and silent. There could be little doubt that the whole household was +sleeping, except the two servants who watched the sick man. + +Julia wrapped a dark shawl about her head and shoulders, and then, +with light and cautious footsteps, crept along the corridor. + +She opened the door of Lionel’s apartment. The handle turned almost +noiselessly in her cautious hand. She looked into the room, and one +glance told her that her anxious fears had not been groundless. + +Mrs. Beckson’s head lay back upon the cushions of her easy-chair, and +her heavy breathing was that of a person in a profound slumber. + +There was no other attendant in the room. + +The invalid was asleep. He lay quite motionless, his pale face turned +towards the door by which Julia had entered. The voluminous chintz +curtains were drawn on the other side of the old-fashioned four-post +bedstead. + +Julia advanced into the room with the intention of awakening Mrs. +Beckson; but just as she was approaching the housekeeper’s chair, she +was startled by the sound of footsteps in the corridor. + +Her first impulse was to hide. She dreaded the discovery of her visit +to the sick-chamber, since that discovery must betray an unusual +anxiety for Lionel’s welfare. + +She obeyed that first impulse, for there was no time for reflection. +She crept swiftly past the bed round to the other side where she +could be most completely concealed by the curtains. + +From between a very narrow opening in these curtains she was able to +see everything that happened in the room. + +The footsteps in the corridor drew nearer. They were those of a man. +Presently the door was cautiously opened, and Rupert Godwin entered +the room. + +Julia was not very much surprised at this late visit of her father to +the sick-chamber. What more natural than that he should be anxious +about the young man who was a dweller beneath his roof? + +She fancied that he would at once awaken the housekeeper and that +he would be very angry with her for having fallen asleep daring the +hours of her watch. + +But to Julia’s surprise the banker made no attempt to arouse Mrs. +Beckson. He walked past her with no further notice than one sharp +scrutinizing glance, and bent with a thoughtful face over the bed. + +From between the curtains Julia watched her father’s face. There was +something in the expression of that familiar face which chilled her +heart, and inspired her with a sudden terror--a terror whose nature +she could not define. + +Rupert Godwin held a candle in his hand, and the light of it shone +full upon his gloomy countenance. Julia stood motionless, almost +breathless, gazing at him from her hiding-place behind the curtains. +Presently he passed the flame of the candle slowly backwards and +forwards before the eyes of the sleeper. + +Lionel Westford’s eyelids never stirred. + +Then the banker turned towards Mrs. Beckson, and watched her intently +for some moments. + +No words could express Julia’s astonishment at her father’s conduct; +she was paralyzed by that shapeless fear which had taken possession +of her mind as she saw him bending over the sick man. + +Presently he approached the table, upon which the patient’s +medicine-bottles had been placed. There were two bottles, one large +and half empty, the other smaller and nearly full. + +The banker lifted the small bottle and looked at it. Then he removed +the cork and smelt the mixture. It was a saline draught to be taken +the first thing in the morning, and it was colourless as water. +Rupert Godwin took a tiny vial from his waistcoat-pocket--so tiny, +that Julia could only just distinguish what it was, as the banker +held it between his finger and thumb. He withdrew the cork with his +teeth, for his left hand was occupied with the medicine-bottle. + +Then, slowly and deliberately, he poured several drops of some +colourless fluid from the tiny vial into the larger bottle containing +the draught. He replaced the medicine-bottle in the precise spot from +which he had taken it, looked once more at each of the sleepers, and +then crept stealthily from the room. + +Whatever purpose had brought him thither had been achieved. Could +Julia doubt that it was a dark and dreadful one? + +She shivered as if stricken by an ague fit, and there was a sickness +worse than death at her heart. She loved her father so dearly; could +she believe him to be---- + +What? A midnight poisoner? + +His actions pointed to this hideous conclusion. What motive but the +deadliest of all motives could have brought him to that room, in the +stillness of the night, to tamper with the sick man’s medicine? + +“It cannot be!” thought the horror-stricken girl. “I must be mad, or +dreaming. That which I have seen cannot be real. It cannot be!” + +She clasped her hands tightly upon her forehead. She was trying to +collect her scattered senses. + +“O God, it is too real,” she murmured, “too real!” + +Her father’s face had revealed more than even his actions. There +was no evidence that the liquid he had dropped into the sick man’s +medicine was poisonous in its nature; but his face had been the face +of an assassin. + +“O Heaven!” thought Julia; “I have heard of people becoming suddenly +mad, and being tempted by some diabolical suggestion to the +commission of a deadly crime. Surely it must be thus with my father.” + +The wretched girl clung to this belief as to one faint ray of hope. +It was better to think that her father was a madman, a hapless +distraught creature, possessed by the devil, than that he was a +deliberate and cold-blooded assassin. + +Slowly and stealthily Julia crept from her hiding-place and advanced +to the little table upon which the medicine-bottles stood. She looked +at the housekeeper, fearing every moment that she might awake; but +the old woman slept on in a heavy slumber, induced by the drugged +coffee. + +Julia took the medicine-bottle in her hand, and looked anxiously +round the room. + +She was looking for an empty bottle. + +Presently she perceived one standing on a corner of the mantelpiece. +Into this she poured the contents of the vial which her father had +tampered with. + +She then filled the vial with pure water from the water-bottle on the +wash-hand stand. + +The poisoned medicine she carried away with her, departing as +noiselessly as she had come, after one last anxious glance at the two +sleepers. + +Throughout the remainder of that wretched night Julia Godwin sat at +her window, staring vacantly out at the starlit heavens. + +She saw those stars fade slowly in the chill morning light; but +still she sat motionless, like a creature whom some great horror had +changed into stone. Yet in all this long agony her senses did not +fail her. + +At seven o’clock she went to her dressing-room, after disarranging +the coverings of her bed, so that her maid might not discover that +she had been up all night. She locked the bottle containing the +medicine in a desk in her dressing-room, and then commenced a careful +toilette. + +At half-past seven her maid came to her, and found her very nearly +dressed. + +“I was a little earlier than usual this morning, Mitford, but you are +just in time to do my hair,” Julia said very calmly; “have you heard +how Mr. Wilton is going on this morning?” + +“Yes, miss. He is pretty much the same, I hear; still delirious, but +a good deal quieter. Poor Mrs. Beckson’s quite upset, I hear, this +morning. She fell asleep, poor old soul, and slept all night, and +woke this morning with a dreadful headache, and quite put out to find +that she had been asleep so long. However, luckily her patient seemed +to have been very quiet, so there was no harm done.” + +Julia Godwin shuddered as she thought of the harm that _might_ +have been done during the watcher’s slumber, if Providence had not +interposed to shield the banker’s intended victim. + +When the bell rang for breakfast she went down to the dining-room. +Surely her father would not be there; or, if he were there, his +manner would reveal the frenzy of a distraught brain. But, to her +utter bewilderment, she saw him, calm and self-possessed, seated at +the head of the breakfast-table, with an open Bible under his hands. + +Yes; it was unspeakably horrible. This man, this midnight poisoner, +was about to read the Gospel to his assembled household! + +It was a rule with Rupert Godwin to read morning prayers to his +family and servants whenever he slept at his country-house. Whatever +his life might be in London, in Hertfordshire his habits were those +of extreme respectability. + +Julia watched him with dilated eyes as he read. Presently he began +prayers. The servants knelt; the master also sank upon his knees. + +The proud girl’s noble spirit revolted against this hideous +hypocrisy. She rose from her seat and walked to one of the windows, +where she remained looking out at the garden, while her father read +the morning prayer, in which he besought the grace of Heaven for +that kneeling household, and implored the Divine guidance for all +the actions of his life. Even as he read Rupert Godwin perceived the +figure of his daughter standing by the open window, and was not a +little disturbed by her unusual conduct. + +Presently, when the servants had risen from their knees and left the +room, Mr. Godwin went to the window where Julia stood. + +“Why did you not join in our prayers just now?” he asked, looking at +her with concealed terror. + +She turned her face towards him. It was deadly pale, and the dark +eyes fixed themselves upon the banker’s countenance with a strange +earnestness. + +“I could not kneel and pray this morning,” she said in tremulous +accents. “I could not ask for Heaven’s blessing on this household, +or on--you.” + +She looked at him intently as she pronounced that last word. His face +grew livid; but he was able to conquer all other evidences of his +agitation. + +“Why not, Julia?” he asked coldly. + +“O, my unhappy father, cannot you guess the reason?” cried the +wretched girl in an outburst of passionate grief. + +The banker looked at her with a scowl upon his face. + +“Are you mad, Julia?” he exclaimed. “What, in the name of all that +is ridiculous, has inspired you with this folly? I have a peculiar +aversion to anything in the way of heroics. What is the meaning of +these tragic airs?” + +“O, father, father!” she cried, suddenly bursting into tears. “Heaven +grant that I have wronged you!” + +She rushed from the room before Rupert Godwin could question her +further. A hundred conflicting feelings tortured her breast, but +amidst them all there still lingered one ray of hope. + +Her father might be guiltless of the poisoner’s dark intent. She +could not believe that the parent she loved so dearly was the worst +and vilest of earth’s creatures. + +“It is too horrible--too horrible!” she murmured, when she had +reached the shelter of her own apartment and flung herself upon the +bed, hiding her pale face in her clasped hands. “It is too bitter +a blow, too cruel, to be forced to hate the father I have loved so +dearly. To hate him! The father I have been so proud of--from whom I +have never known anything but love and indulgence. And yet, can I do +otherwise than hate him, if he is what he seemed to be last night? +A murderer--and the vilest of murderers--the secret assassin, who +carries death to the unconscious sleeper!” + +She brooded on the scene of last night until her brain grew dizzy +with the violent strain that was made upon it. Why should her father +attempt the life of Lewis Wilton--the penniless obscure artist? What +motive could have induced him to injure this stranger, whom accident +only had thrown across his path? No--an attempt so purposeless could +only be the murderous freak of a madman. Or was it not possible that +Julia had been mistaken in the import of the scene she had witnessed, +and that the liquid added to the medicine was harmless--some +experimental remedy which Mr. Godwin chose to administer in secret, +rather than encounter the opposition of a medical practitioner, or +the prejudices of an ignorant nurse? + +No words can depict the agony of this unhappy girl. Noble and pure of +heart, she could but detest guilt and treachery. Yet she was devoted +to her father; and her breast was tortured by the thought of his +peril, should his guilty attempt become known to the world. + +“I will ascertain the truth,” she thought; “come what may I will +discover the nature of the liquid which he mingled with the sleeper’s +medicine. If it should be something harmless after all, O, what +happiness!--what a blessed relief from this unendurable agony of +mind! And yet, can I hope it?--can I forget my father’s face as he +looked at me to-day--so dark, so livid, so like the countenance of a +murderer?” + +While Julia abandoned herself to her sorrow, the banker paced the +breakfast-room, tormented by horrible fears--fears which until lately +had been almost strangers in his breast. His daughter’s conduct had +affected him more acutely than anything that had happened to him for +a long time. + +Could _she_ suspect? No, it was impossible. Elsewhere suspicion +might arise, but not _here_--not in her mind. She is as innocent and +confiding as a child. + +He thought over the events of the previous night, and he could +perceive no flaw, no blemish, in his deadly work; all had been +planned so carefully, all had been executed so successfully, and at +an hour when Julia must naturally have been asleep in her own room. + +It was impossible that she could know anything. + +“I understand it all,” thought the banker. “She is in love with this +Lionel, and he has revealed his real name to her, and has told her +the story of his mother’s wrongs.” + +Reassured a little by this thought, Rupert Godwin paced his room with +a quick nervous step, listening for the opening of the door. He was +waiting for the coming of the person who should announce to him the +death of Lionel Westford. + +But the door was not opened; no one came. Breakfast remained +untouched upon the table, where the richly painted Worcester china, +the antique silver dishes, the mellow brown of a ponderous ham, +the golden tints of a raised pie decorated in alto relievo by some +Benvenuto Cellini of pastrycooks, would have made a study for a +painter of still life. + +The poor envy the rich sometimes, and it is only natural that the +penniless should murmur complainingly against the waste and luxury +of a millionaire’s household, and be rather slow to recognize the +harmony of a universe in which one man has half-a-dozen country +seats, a shooting-box in the Highlands, and a house in Park-lane, +while another man’s children look at him with wan haggard faces as he +sits moaning with his gaunt elbows on his bony knees--out of work! +Yet if the veriest pauper in all England could have looked into that +splendid room and watched the dark face of Rupert Godwin, he would +have hugged himself in his rags as he contemplated the misery of a +bad man surrounded by the luxury of a prince. + +No one came to speak the slow solemn words that tell of death; and +yet the time had long passed at which Lionel Westford should have +taken his medicine. + +Again and again Rupert Godwin had looked at his watch. At last he +could endure the suspense no longer. He left the breakfast-room, and +went straight to Lionel’s apartment. + +He expected to behold the face of the dead, still and shadowy in a +shrouded chamber. But the chamber was not darkened; the windows had +been opened, and the balmy morning air blew into the room. Lionel was +lying with his eyes fixed upon the door. He raised himself in the bed +as Rupert Godwin entered, and fixed those wild bloodshot eyes upon +the banker. + +“My father’s murderer!” he cried, pointing to the advancing figure. +“Don’t you see him? Will no one seize him? Will no one hold him for +me? My father’s murderer, Rupert Godwin!” + +Mrs. Beckson was seated by the bedside. She had taken a cup of strong +tea, and had recovered in some measure from the effects of the opiate +given her by the banker, though her head ached, and she felt a +sensation of drowsiness that was very difficult to shake off. + +Nothing could exceed Rupert Godwin’s bewilderment when he found his +intended victim still living, still vigorous, still able to proclaim +his guilt. + +He looked at the bottles on the table near the bed. + +The bottle which he had tampered with was empty. + +“Who gave the invalid his medicine?” he asked. + +“I did, sir,” answered Mrs. Beckson. + +“He took it quietly?” + +“O yes, sir. Though he does rave and go on so at times, he always +takes his medicine quietly enough.” + +“There was none spilt, then?” + +“Not a drop, sir.” + +The banker looked at his housekeeper very intently. It was evident +that she was speaking the truth. + +No suspicion had as yet entered her mind. Here, at least, there was +safety. + +But how was it, then, that the poison had failed in its effect? It +was not a poison likely to fail. Rupert Godwin had laid his plans +deliberately, and was not a man to make any mistake in a deadly +business like this. + +He left the room. He dared not remain longer in that apartment, to be +denounced as a murderer. + +At present that denunciation was only regarded as the senseless +raving of delirium. What if those who watched the invalid should come +by-and-by to believe in it--to search, to investigate? It was all one +dark labyrinth of horror. Rupert Godwin felt as if a network had been +closing round him, slowly but surely--a fatal web, from which escape +would ere long be impossible. + +“I must remove this man somehow,” he thought, as he went back to his +own room. “The poison has failed, and I must try some other means, +less deadly, less dangerous, but as certain. I think I know of a plan +by which Lionel Westford’s lips may be as surely closed as if he +slept the cold slumber of the dead.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + +PUT TO THE TEST. + + +The doctor from Hertford came at noon to see his patient. As he left +the sick-chamber he was met by Julia, who had been watching for him +at the door of her own apartment. + +She beckoned the surgeon into her pretty sitting-room. A small +portable easel was arranged upon the table, with an open colour-box, +a palette, and a sheaf of brushes. It seemed as if Julia had been +painting. + +Amongst the colours and brushes there was a little medicine vial, +filled with a colourless liquid, but bearing no label whatever. + +“Good morning, Mr. Granger,” said Julia. “How is your patient?” + +She was quite calm, although still very pale; and she asked the +question in a quiet tone that betrayed no emotion except a natural +interest in the invalid. + +The surgeon shrugged his shoulders. + +“I cannot say that there is much change,” he said, “either for better +or worse. It is a very peculiar case, Miss Godwin--a case in which +the mind seems more affected than the body. I am about to speak to +your father on the subject, and I shall propose calling in further +medical aid. I must confess that the case is somewhat beyond me, the +mind is so very strangely affected. One rooted idea seems to have +taken firm possession of the brain.” + +“And that idea is----” + +“A very horrible one, Miss Godwin--something about murder and +treachery; and unfortunately my patient has taken it into his head to +mix your father’s name with all his wild talk. There is no accounting +for these delirious fancies. Good morning.” + +“Stay, Mr. Granger,” exclaimed Julia. “I want to ask your advice +about something.” + +“And I shall be most happy to give it.” + +“It is a very trivial subject. When I was in town some weeks ago, I +was recommended a wash to mix with my colours for painting. It is a +mixture intended to brighten the tints, I believe; but the shopkeeper +who recommended it told me that I must be very careful how I use +it, as it is of a poisonous nature. I am so foolish as to be almost +afraid to use the wash at all after having heard this, and I should +be very glad if you would tell me whether it really is poisonous.” + +Julia Godwin placed the medicine vial in the surgeon’s hand. He +removed the cork and smelt the liquid. + +“Poisonous!” he exclaimed; “I should think it was poisonous indeed! +Why, my dear young lady, do you know that there is a considerable +admixture of prussic acid in this fine wash of yours? Upon my word, +people have no right to sell such stuff, even if it does give +brilliancy to the water-colours, which I can scarcely believe.” + +Julia’s pale face grew white to the very lips. + +“There is prussic acid in it, then?” she said. + +“Most decidedly, my dear Miss Godwin; but there is no occasion for +so much alarm. So long as you do not let any of this liquid approach +your lips there is no possible danger.” + +“And if--if an accident were to happen--if any one were to drink that +stuff?” + +The surgeon smiled. + +“Well, my dear young lady, that imprudent person would not live to +drink anything else. But I will take the bottle home and analyze its +contents, if you like.” + +“O, no!” exclaimed Julia, taking the bottle hastily from his hand, +“not on any account; there is no occasion.” + +“I should recommend you to throw the stuff away.” + +Julia went to one of the windows, and poured the contents of the +bottle upon the mould of a box of flowers in her balcony. + +“You are satisfied now?” she said, with a smile. + +Heaven knows how difficult it was for her to assume that careless +manner, that smiling countenance. + +“Quite satisfied,” answered the surgeon. “Good morning.” + +He left the room, closing the door after him. In the next moment +Julia flung herself on her knees, her hands clasped above her head, +her tearless eyes raised piteously to Heaven. + +“O God of mercy, have compassion on my misery!” she cried; “for now I +know the worst. My father is a villain and a murderer! I understand +all now--that delirious raving about murder and treachery; those wild +accusations which mystify the watchers in the sick-room: I understand +all now. Beneath them there is hidden some fearful story, and it is +to seal for ever the lips of his accuser that my father would have +committed a murder.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + +RIDING TO HER DOOM. + + +Esther Vanberg’s prophecy respecting the weather was fully realized. +The sun shone with unusual and most un-English splendour upon that +morning on which she had arranged to ride Devilshoof for the first +time. + +In spite of the pain and terror with which her hardihood inspired +him, Esther’s devoted adorer presented himself in her drawing-room as +the hands of the Sèvres timepiece indicated the appointed moment. + +The Duke was pale and anxious-looking. He could not forget Lord +Wallace’s warning with respect to the thoroughbred hunter. But the +Jewess was almost as radiant as the summer sunlight which was shining +into her tiny conservatory. She was walking up and down the room in +high spirits, singing a gay little Swiss ballad, and slashing the +trailing skirt of her riding-habit with a turquoise-handled whip. + +She looked superb in her equestrian costume. The closely-fitting +habit revealed the outline of her graceful figure. A tiny turban hat, +adorned with a peacock’s breast of shining green and purple, was +perched coquettishly upon her queen-like head. The blue-black hair +was coiled in a tight mass of plaits at the back of this regal head, +and secured by a small golden comb. Her head-gear might very easily +have been in better taste, but it certainly could not have been more +becoming, and it was the becoming rather than the correct which the +strong-minded Miss Vanberg affected. + +“Esther,” cried the Duke of Harlingford, “you look positively +adorable!” + +“I am always adorable,” answered the Jewess, gaily, “when I happen to +be in a good temper, which perhaps is not very often. But to-day I am +bent upon enjoying myself. You must give me a superb luncheon at the +Star and Garter, Harlingford. This is the very weather for whitebait +and moselle. If I were a person of fortune, I would have iced moselle +laid on all over my house, like the water-service, and a cistern of +Badminton on the roof. O, how I long for a canter over the greensward +of Richmond Park! Devilshoof has been saddled for the last ten +minutes. Look at him!--did you ever see a greater beauty?” exclaimed +Esther, pointing to the open window. + +The young Duke looked out, and in the street below he saw the +thoroughbred chestnut in charge of a groom, who seemed to have some +little difficulty in keeping the animal quiet. + +Certainly, the horse was a superb creature; but as certainly he was +an animal that few women would have cared to ride. + +“How do you like his looks?” asked the Jewess. + +“Not at all,” answered the Duke, gravely. + +Then, after a pause, he said earnestly: + +“Esther, I have some little claim upon your affection. You know +how devotedly I have loved you. You know that I am even ready to +break with all my family for your sake--to snap my fingers at the +prejudices of the world in which I live, in order that I may make you +my wife. You know this, Esther! I do not boast of my love, or make +any merit of my devotion; for I am so weak where you are concerned +that I cannot help loving you, in spite of my better reason. I never +refused to gratify any whim of yours; and I have not received much +kindness in return for my obedience to your fancies. For the first +time in my life I ask you a favour. Do not ride that horse.” + +There was a tender earnestness in the Duke’s tone that for a moment +almost melted the stubborn heart of Esther Vanberg; but in the next +instant she drew herself up proudly, and met her lover’s entreating +look with a defiant smile. + +“My dear Harlingford,” she said, “I think I must have the blood of +a warrior in my veins, for I have a horror of showing the white +feather. I have set my heart upon proving the folly of Lord Bothwell +Wallace’s warning. Come, Devilshoof is getting impatient.” + +“Very well, Esther,” the young nobleman replied sadly; “I have been +refused the first and the last favour that I shall ever ask at your +hands.” + +The Jewess turned to look at him wonderingly. + +“You are offended with me, Harlingford?” she said. + +“No, Esther; only grieved.” + +No more was said until the Jewess and her companion were mounted. +They rode through the Park to the Kensington-road, crossed +Hammersmith-bridge, and went through Barnes. Devilshoof seemed quiet +and tractable enough under the light hand of his new mistress; and, +after watching the animal intently for some little time, the Duke +began to recover his spirits. Perhaps, after all, Bothwell Wallace +had been mistaken about the horse. + +Esther was in her gayest humour, and at such a time the brilliant +Jewess could be marvellously fascinating. She talked a good deal of +nonsense, perhaps; but what is more delightful than nonsense from the +lips of a beautiful woman who is not quite a fool? The Duke forgot +all his fears, bewitched and delighted by his companion’s vivacity. + +They rode thus gaily onward to Richmond. During the whole of the +journey Devilshoof had behaved splendidly, and Esther was loud in her +praises of him. + +At the Star and Garter they dismounted, and left their horses to be +refreshed under the watchful care of Esther’s groom. An obsequious +attendant ushered the young nobleman and his lovely companion into +one of the pretty little garden rooms, which the ruthless hand of +that seven-league-booted giant, Limited Liability, has swept off the +face of the earth. The Duke ordered the whitebait and moselle which +his idol affected, with such accompanying delicacies as the taste of +an accomplished German waiter might suggest. + +“Pray let the luncheon be served quickly,” Esther exclaimed, as +she removed her hat, and threw aside her whip and gloves. “I am +longing for that canter in the Park, Harlingford. I suppose you are +reconciled to Devilshoof now?” + +“Well, darling, I begin to think that Wallace must have exaggerated +his vices. But I shall never feel easy while you insist on riding +him. However, perhaps when you have sustained your reputation for +pluck by a canter or two, you’ll let me send the brute down to +Leicestershire.” + +The luncheon was served very speedily. The Duke of Harlingford +was well known at the Star and Garter, and swift are the feet and +dexterous are the hands which perform the bidding of a ducal guest. + +The cook had done his best, the perfume of the moselle was delicious, +and the Jewess drank several glasses of the sparkling beverage. + +“Here is to the health of my glorious hunter, Devilshoof!” she said +gaily, lifting the glass above her head. + +Never had the Duke beheld her so bewitching. He was fascinated by +her--intoxicated far more by the splendour of her dark eyes than by +the pale ambrosia of Rhineland. + +It was nearly four o’clock when Miss Vanberg rose from the table, +and adjusted her coquettish little hat before the glass over the +mantelpiece. Four o’clock, and a radiant summer afternoon. Richmond +Hill was looking its gayest as the Duke and his companion mounted +their horses before the portico of the Star and Garter. Carriages +were passing to and fro; loungers were strolling on the broad +terrace; dinner-eaters were beginning to arrive at the hotel; and in +the distance a band was playing a German waltz, whose pensive strain +mingled with the shrill happy voices of little children playing under +the elms. + +“I never felt in higher spirits,” cried Esther, as she sprang lightly +into the saddle. “Come, Vincent, now for our gallop in the Park!” + +As she lifted her habit, and put her little foot into the groom’s +hand before mounting her horse, the Duke perceived for the first time +a slender steel spur glittering at the heel of her patent leather +boot. When she had adjusted herself in the saddle he turned to her +with an anxious face. “Good heavens, Esther!” he exclaimed, as they +rode away from the hotel, “you surely cannot be so mad as to intend +using a spur with that horse?” + +“And why should I not, you most fidgety man?” asked the Jewess, with +a saucy laugh. + +“Because, if there is any truth in what Wallace says, the animal has +a devil of a temper, and a touch from a spur may send him half mad. +For mercy’s sake, Esther, be prudent!” + +“Bah!” cried the haughty girl, with a contemptuous shrug of her +shoulders; “one would think I was some school-girl who had only +had half-a-dozen lessons in a riding-school. You forget that I have +hunted in Leicestershire, and been in at the death after many a ride +across the stiffest country in England. Come, Vincent! Hurrah for the +horse that can carry me with the speed of a lightning-flash across +hill and dale!” + +She flung her arm above her head, waving the tiny riding-whip with a +triumphant flourish. + +They were in the heart of the Park by this time, on a broad open +expanse of greensward, a sunny sky above them, the purple woodlands +stretching far around, the birds singing merrily under that cloudless +sky. + +Devilshoof held his head high, his nostrils dilated as they scented +the air sweeping across the broad expanse. He was going at a swinging +canter, when Esther, delighting in her companion’s anxiety, suddenly +shouted the loud view-halloo of the hunting-field, and planted her +spur in the animal’s side. That one touch seemed to act like magic. +In the next moment Lord Bothwell Wallace’s opinion of the horse was +fully confirmed. + +Away flew Devilshoof, scudding across the grassy expanse swift as +the wind, uprooting little patches of grass with his flying hoofs as +he tore along. At first the Jewess laughed gaily, pleased with the +animal’s spirit. She turned round to look at the Duke with a smile +upon her face, and waved her whip above her head as a signal to him +to follow her. + +But all at once this daring and obstinate woman began to be conscious +of her folly. Danger lay before her--a danger whose extent she could +not estimate. + +The grassy expanse sloped suddenly downward; and at the bottom of +the slope there was a rugged timber fence, about eight feet high, +dividing the Park from the enclosed lands beyond. + +On the other side of this fence the ground sloped abruptly upward, +stony, rugged, and steep. + +Towards this danger, hidden until now, Devilshoof was flying at the +speed of a racehorse. + +In vain the Jewess tried to pull him up. The animal had got the bit +between his teeth, and held it locked as if in an iron vice. + +Esther Vanberg’s face grew deadly white, but to the last her +dauntless spirit defied danger. She was a first-rate horsewoman, and +held herself as firmly in the saddle as if she had been a part of the +animal she rode. + +But the danger was close upon her now. Devilshoof went madly at the +fence, cleared it with his fore-feet, but caught his hind-legs in the +topmost rail, and fell crashing down against the rugged slope beyond. + +The Duke of Harlingford, riding his hardest to overtake the Jewess, +arrived only in time to see the catastrophe. The groom came behind +him. Both men were white to the very lips, and breathless with +terror. They knew the extent of the danger that had been seen only +when too late. + +They dismounted on the near side of the fence, tied up their horses, +and clambered over the wooden boundary. It was the work of but a few +moments; those few moments, however, seemed an eternity of agonized +suspense to the Duke of Harlingford. + +Between them, the two men contrived to drag the horse away from the +motionless form of his rider. The animal’s shoulder was broken. + +“Take him away!” exclaimed the Duke in hoarse gasping accents. “Take +the cursed brute from my sight, and blow out his brains; he has +killed the only woman I ever loved.” + +“God grant it mayn’t be quite as bad as that, your grace; let us hope +for the best,” said the groom, as he took the bridle and led the +horse away. + +The young man knelt down on the rugged slope beside the Jewess. +Esther Vanberg was lying on her back, with her face looking upward to +the afternoon sky. Her beauty was unblemished--no scratch disfigured +the pale olive skin. The still face, with its closed eyes and long +drooping lashes, looked as calm as the face of a statue. + +Presently the eyelids were raised, very slowly, and the glorious dark +eyes looked with a strange languid gaze at the face of the Duke. + +“Esther!” he exclaimed, with a wild cry of rapture. “You are not +dead! O, thank Heaven! thank Heaven!” + +The strong man’s face sank upon his clasped hands, and he sobbed +aloud. The revulsion of feeling had been even more difficult to bear +than the agony that had preceded it. + +The Jewess looked at her lover with a languid smile. + +“Why, you dear, affectionate goose, who said I was dead? I never saw +such a man--to be frightened about a trifle of a spill. That animal +has thrown me, I suppose? Well, well, Vincent; you and your friend +are right after all, I daresay; and I’ve been fairly punished for +my obstinacy. I scarcely knew where I was just now. I fainted, I +suppose?” + +“Yes, darling; you were unconscious for a few moments. O, Esther, +what an age of agony it seemed! I thought you were dead.” + +“Dead! Why, I’m not even hurt. I only feel a kind of numbness--just +as if I hadn’t any sense in my limbs. The shock, you know, and that +kind of thing.” + +“My own darling, where can I take you? The nearest lodge must be +upwards of a mile from here; but I’ll carry you in my arms, if you +feel fit to come.” + +“Fit to come? Of course I am! I daresay I shall be able to walk when +this numbness goes off. But perhaps you’d better carry me at first.” + +The Duke lifted the light burden in his arms. Alas for that slender +form! It hung as inertly in his arms as though it had been a corpse. +There was no spring, no elasticity; it was a deadweight which the +Duke carried. + +He called to the groom, who left Devilshoof tied to the fence at some +distance, while he came to render service to his mistress. + +“Thank God for this escape, your grace!” the man said +earnestly.--“We’ve had a rare fright about you, ma’am.” + +Esther Vanberg was a liberal mistress, and her servants were attached +to her, in spite of her violent temper. The Duke intrusted his +beloved burden to the groom, while he himself mounted his horse. Then +the groom placed Esther in the young man’s arms, and he seated her in +front of him on the saddle, and walked his horse gently away. + +“We shall meet a carriage before long, I daresay, my darling,” he +said; “and I will get you a more comfortable mode of conveyance.” + +The Jewess was very pale. Her large dark eyes were fixed on the +face of the Duke with a strangely anxious and inquiring gaze. They +looked unnaturally large now, those dark eyes, and all their lustrous +brilliancy had faded. + +“Do you think I am much hurt, Vincent?” she asked very earnestly. “I +don’t suffer any pain; but this numbness in my limbs is so strange. +There seems no life in me below my shoulders. What if the life should +never come back?” + +The Duke looked at her with his face blanched by a new terror. The +revulsion of feeling upon finding her alive and conscious had been so +great, that Vincent had imagined all serious danger to be past. But +now an icy horror crept through his veins. + +“I remember a man being thrown from his hunter down in +Leicestershire,” said the Jewess, in a low faint voice, watching the +Duke’s face anxiously as she spoke. “At first he didn’t seem hurt at +all; but he was just like me--he couldn’t move a bit; and when they +carried him home, the surgeon found that his back was broken. He died +before it was dark that night. O, Vincent, do you think I am going to +die?” + +“Going to die!” cried the Duke. “What, darling, when I hold you in my +arms--your own bright self, with your eyes looking into mine? Why, +Esther, this is foolish; my brave girl’s proud spirit has gone all at +once!” + +“Yes, Vincent, the proud spirit has gone. It will never come back +again. I’m afraid it was a wicked spirit, and led me into many evil +deeds. I hope I am not dying, Vincent,” she said very slowly; and +then added, in a still lower voice, “for I do not think I am fit to +die.” + +“You shall not die!” cried the Duke, with an almost savage energy. +“How can you talk of dying, Esther, when you know that I would give +the last drop of my heart’s best blood to save you? I tell you you +shall not die. All the greatest surgeons in London shall be summoned. +Science can do marvellous things, and it shall save you. I will give +them every penny of my fortune, but, I say, they shall save you! Fear +nothing, my own darling. You shall know the power of a devoted love.” + +He drew her closer to him with his strong right arm, while his left +hand held the reins. + +At this moment carriage-wheels sounded on the road. The Duke looked +round, and saw a plain brougham, drawn by one horse, which was +approaching at a smart pace. + +“A doctor’s brougham, I’ll lay my life!” cried the young man. +“Nothing could be more providential. Cheer up, Esther darling; if +there is a medical man in that carriage, he’ll soon laugh your fears +out of you.” + +The Duke drew up his horse, and waited for the advancing vehicle. He +made a sign to the coachman as it approached, and the man stopped. +Vincent rode up to the carriage-window. + +The glass was down; an elderly, gray-haired gentleman, with a cheery, +pleasant face, looked out. + +“Is there anything the matter?” he asked, looking with quick +observant eyes at Esther’s pale face, and the slender form leaning so +languidly against the Duke’s shoulder. + +“Yes. This lady has met with an accident, and I have been on the +look-out for a carriage in order to beg a lift for her. Are you a +medical man, sir?” + +“I am.” + +“Thank God for that! Will you assist me to place the lady in your +carriage, and see her conveyed to the Star and Garter?” + +“Most certainly.” + +The doctor was an active little man. He arranged the cushions on the +seat of the brougham, and then skipped lightly out of the vehicle, +and took Esther Vanberg in his arms. + +“Any bones broken?” he asked, as cheerily as though a few fractured +bones were of very little consequence when he was by to set them. + +“No, thank Providence!” answered the Duke. “Miss Vanberg only +complains of numbness in the limbs--nothing else; she is suffering no +pain.” + +All at once the doctor’s face changed. Its cheerful expression gave +place to a very grave and earnest look. + +Esther had been watching the medical man’s countenance very intently. + +As she saw the change, a low cry of terror broke from her pale lips. + +“I knew that it was so!” she said. “I am going to die!” And then, in +low mournful accents, she murmured: + +“So unfit to die! so unfit to die!” + +The doctor recovered his professional presence of mind in a moment. + +“My dear young lady,” he said, “I must not have any foolish alarm of +this kind. As yet we do not know that there is danger. The sensation +you complain of may be only the effect of the shock--the severe +shaking, the----” + +“You are deceiving me, doctor!” cried Esther angrily. “But it is no +use. Your face told me the truth just now.” + +The medical man saw that his thoughts had been read by those anxious +eyes. + +“I did not quite like that symptom of the numbness,” he said; “that +was all. There may be nothing in it. Was it a very bad fall? Don’t +talk, my dear young lady; your friend will tell me all about it.” + +The doctor had placed himself on a little seat with his back to the +horse. Esther was lying opposite to him. The Duke rode by the side of +the carriage, as the vehicle drove slowly towards the principal gates +of the Park--those gates which Esther Vanberg had entered so joyously +less than an hour before. + +The Duke of Harlingford related the circumstances of the accident. +The medical man listened attentively; but while he listened he +kept his eyes fixed on Esther’s white face, and his fingers on her +pulse. He tried to conceal his anxiety; but the brisk cheerfulness +of manner that was common to him had quite forsaken him. He was very +grave--very watchful, like a man who feels that danger is at hand. + +“Shall we take her to the Star and Garter?” asked the Duke. + +“You could not take her to a better place. You will telegraph for +some female relations, I suppose--her mother, perhaps?” + +“She has no mother. She is an orphan.” + +“Your sister, I conclude?” + +“No,” answered the Duke, looking at Esther with inexpressible +affection; “she is a lady whom I hope to make my wife.” + +Esther returned his look, and the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. +O, what a noble heart this was, which she had so often trampled upon +and spurned in her pride and folly! What a devoted love! What a +self-sacrificing affection, which she had trifled with and imposed +upon in the haughty recklessness of her stubborn nature! But now that +nature seemed melted all at once. + +“Heaven have pity upon me!” she thought. “I believe I have been a +demon until to-day. And now I seem transformed into a woman, with +womanly feelings--womanly tears! But the change comes too late!--too +late, too late!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + +THE SHADOW OF DEATH. + + +The medical man felt rather inquisitive as to the name and position +of his patient and her companion. The Duke was unattended; but from +the appearance of the horse he rode, and from the careless manner in +which he spoke of putting up at the Star and Garter, Mr. Granby, the +surgeon, concluded that he was at least tolerably well off. But he +had no idea of the rank of his patient’s companion until the carriage +arrived at the Star and Garter, when a bevy of waiters crowded to +obey the orders of the fair-haired, elegant-looking young man, whom +they addressed as “your grace.” + +The helpless girl was carried to a suite of spacious rooms on the +first floor. She was laid on the sofa, and then the doctor turned +round and addressed the Duke. + +“I must beg you to leave us, sir,” he said. “I require the assistance +of some middle-aged woman, who has been used to wait upon an invalid. +I daresay there is such a person in the house.” + +The waiter who had escorted them to the apartments replied that +there was a person qualified to attend to the young lady, under Mr. +Granby’s direction. + +“Very good,” said the surgeon; “then you will be kind enough to send +her to me immediately.--In the mean time, perhaps you will kindly +assist me to wheel this sofa into the next room?” he added, to the +Duke. + +The adjoining apartment was a bedroom, large and airy, like the +sitting-room, and overlooking the garden of the hotel. Beyond the +garden stretched one of the fairest landscapes in England--the +winding river, now crimsoned by the sinking sun; the distant hills +and woodlands, purple with the cool shadows of evening. + +Esther looked round the room with an expression of alarm. + +“Why do you bring me here?” she exclaimed. “I shall not be obliged to +sleep at Richmond, shall I? Surely I shall be well enough to go home?” + +“Not to-night, my dear young lady; it is growing late, and you +require rest,” said the doctor in a soothing tone. + +The Jewess looked at him anxiously, but said no more. + +The Duke was banished from the bedchamber. Pale, and restless with +the slow torture of suspense, he paced up and down the sitting-room, +while the doctor remained alone with his patient. + +A respectable-looking woman appeared presently, escorted by the +waiter. She was one of the head chambermaids, and she had lived +in private families, where she had had considerable experience in +nursing. + +In cases of real need people seem, by general consent, to forget +the very meaning of the word “trouble.” The woman came cheerfully +to devote herself to the young lady who had fallen from her horse. +She was a clean comfortable-looking woman, of about five-and-forty, +called Martha Gibbs, the very _beau idéal_ of a Martha. + +The doctor opened the door, and Mrs. Gibbs went into the bedroom. +Then the door was again closed, and the Duke of Harlingford resumed +his weary pacing up and down the room. + +How long the time seemed! And yet, during all that period of +suspense, the young nobleman did not once look out upon the evening +landscape, which spread itself like some glorious picture of earth’s +rarest beauty before the open windows. + +His eyes were never lifted from the carpet, as he paced up and down, +up and down, straining his ear to catch some sound of voices from the +chamber within--sometimes hoping, sometimes despairing, but never +praying. Alas! it was so long since this young man had lifted his +voice in supplication to his Creator, that now, when he had such +need to pray, the words would not come. Prayer seemed a mockery upon +his lips. His frivolous, dissipated life; his association with men +who scoffed at the very name of religion; all his own faults and +follies,--arose before him in this dread hour of anguish, and he felt +himself unworthy to ask for Heaven’s compassion upon his sorrow. How +doubly appalling is the face of death when it confronts the man who +is without religion! Who does not remember that woful picture of the +dying Dubois, fighting against death till the last, and then sending +in hot haste for the Viaticum, with the _special ceremonial for +cardinals_? + +At length that period of agonizing suspense came to an end. The door +of the bedroom was opened, and the medical man appeared. + +One eager glance at his face told the Duke that the surgeon had +melancholy tidings to impart. He rushed forward, and grasped Mr. +Granby’s arm. + +“The case is much worse than I thought,” he exclaimed; “I can see it +in your face. Miss Vanberg’s injuries are serious?” + +“They are very serious.” + +“She will be a cripple for life?” + +The surgeon shook his head sadly. + +“O God!” cried the Duke, “then it is even worse than that! She will +be paralyzed, perhaps helpless? No matter! She shall find what it +is to be truly loved! O, doctor, for pity’s sake speak, and speak +plainly--tell me the worst!” + +The Duke raised his head, and looked earnestly at the surgeon’s face. + +“I understand,” he said; “you can give me no hope. She is----” + +He could not finish the sentence. He paused, struggled with the +passionate sobs that rent his breast, and then gasped, in a hoarse +whisper: + +“I shall lose her?” + +“On earth, your grace. Let us hope that you may meet her again in +heaven.” + +The Duke shuddered as he listened to those solemn words. Alas! he +knew but too well that the life of the Jewess had not fitted her for +a higher and purer sphere than this lower world. Proud and reckless, +she had lived a pagan life, neither worshipping in the synagogues of +her own people nor at any Christian shrine; and now that the shadow +of death hovered near, Vincent, Duke of Harlingford, felt how utterly +helpless were his rank and wealth to ward off one pang from the woman +he loved. + +“My God,” he murmured, “it is too bitter a stroke! And yet it is only +a fitting retribution for my useless, frivolous life. But she seemed +so little hurt!” + +“Ah, my dear sir,” answered the doctor gravely, “those very symptoms +which gave you hope filled me with alarm. The absence of pain, the +numbness of the limbs--I knew too well what those portended. The +spine is fractured.” + +“And no science can save her?” + +“No. It may give you some satisfaction to call in further aid. I +will telegraph immediately, if you please, for the two best men in +Saville-row.” + +“For Heaven’s sake do so! But before you go give me one word of +comfort. You have spoken her doom, but it will not be soon; she will +live for some time, surely?” + +Again the surgeon shook his head, with the same sad expression on his +face. + +“I wish to tell you the truth,” he said, “for I know that in these +cases the truth is wisest and best. Miss Vanberg’s hours are +numbered. If she has relatives whom she would wish to see, they had +better be telegraphed for at once.” + +“No,” answered the Duke mournfully; “my poor girl stands alone in +the world. She has had many admirers, but not one friend, except +myself,--a weak and dangerous one; for I yielded to all her caprices, +against my own better judgment, and I allowed her to commit the +imprudence that is to cost her her life. She has no friends, doctor; +but there is one favour you can do me.” + +“Your grace has only to command my services.” + +“After you have telegraphed for the London surgeons, I shall be +truly grateful if you will call upon some clergyman in this town, +and request him to come at once to my poor girl. You reside in +the neighbourhood, and are, no doubt, on intimate terms with some +minister of the Church?” + +“Yes,” answered the doctor, “I do know a clergyman in the immediate +neighbourhood, one of the best men that ever breathed. I will call on +him immediately after sending the telegram, and will bring him here +with me.” + +“I thank you very much. In the mean while I may see her, I suppose?” +said the Duke, looking with mournful, yearning eyes to the door of +the bedroom. + +“Yes, you may see her. She is quite conscious, and very calm--though +she knows the worst.” + +The Duke bent his head. He could not speak, but he grasped the +doctor’s hand with a grateful pressure, and then passed silently into +the sick-room. + +Esther Vanberg was lying quite motionless, her eyes fixed on the door +as the Duke entered. Never before had Vincent seen so much tenderness +in those eyes. The shadow of death, so near at hand, seemed to have a +very softening influence upon the Jewess. + +She pointed silently to an arm-chair by the side of the bed. The +Duke seated himself, and took the feeble hand which stretched itself +towards him. + +The proud woman was quite subdued. She could read the signs of an +unspeakable sorrow in the pale face of her lover, and she felt how +unworthy she was of such unbounded devotion. + +“Dear Vincent,” she murmured softly, “you must not grieve for me. You +have all your life before you. It is better for your happiness, much +better, that I should die. I have been a proud, capricious creature, +and I never should have made a good wife. Believe me, dear, it is +better as it is. I know that you will grieve just at first; but +by-and-by the sorrow will all wear away, and you will only remember +me as one of the pale shadows of the past. Then I hope you will marry +a woman of your own station, a woman worthy of your love.” + +“My darling! my own dear love! I would give my dukedom, and the last +acre of the Harlingford lands--I would give my very soul--if I could +save you!” + +“I know your true heart, Vincent; and I can believe all you say, poor +boy! But I know that my death will be ultimately for your happiness. +And now, dear, I have done many wicked things in my life. I want to +repent of them before I die--to atone for some, if I can. There was +one cruel wrong I inflicted upon an innocent girl, prompted by an +envious hatred of her good looks--and her success in the theatre. +You’ll despise me when I tell you how mean and cruel I have been--but +I must tell you, Vincent, however hard it is to do it.” + +In as few words as could tell the story, Esther related the +circumstances of the treacherous plot against Violet Westford. The +Duke listened with a grave face. He was deeply grieved by the recital +of Esther’s sin. + +“I was very wicked, was I not, Vincent?” she asked, when she had +finished her story; “and you will hate me for my wickedness.” + +“No, Esther: but I hate the man who tempted you--that cold-blooded +scoundrel, Rupert Godwin, who, for some wicked purpose of his own, +played upon a woman’s foolish jealousy, in order to make her the +instrument of his treachery.” + +“Rupert Godwin!” cried the Jewess. “Is Mr. Godwin’s name Rupert?” + +“It is.” + +“Strange! strange!” + +“Why so, darling?” + +“I don’t know; but the name is an uncommon one, and it is connected +with the history of my childhood. O, Vincent, I have not many hours +to live; but before I die I should like to tell you the story of my +youth. I think it would make you understand why I have been a proud +and extravagant woman--reckless of the feelings of others, seeking +only my own pleasure, heartless, ungrateful. If I live long enough, +Vincent, I will tell you that story.” + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + +A FATAL LESSON. + + +While Esther Vanberg lay very calm and still, with her hand linked +in that of the Duke, the door was softly opened, and the surgeon +appeared on the threshold of the chamber. + +He was not alone. Behind him came the ever-welcome visitor to the +death-chamber, the minister of the Gospel. The proud heart may scorn +Heaven’s gentle laws while life is in its zenith, while the grave +seems so far away; but, sooner or later, the dark hour comes, and the +only earthly comforter is welcome. + +“My friend, Mr. Champneys, has come to see our patient,” the surgeon +said softly: “shall you and I leave them alone for a little? The +nurse will see that Miss Vanberg wants nothing. She understands all +that is required.” + +The Duke rose from his seat by the bedside, and submissively followed +the medical man. + +They entered the sitting-room, and seated themselves in mournful +silence. Candles had been brought, and the curtains drawn. A table +had been laid for dinner, but the Duke took nothing but a glass of +water. + +“Is there no hope?” he asked presently, in heart-broken accents. + +“None, upon this earth. I have telegraphed for the most eminent +surgeons in England; but I have only done so in deference to your +affectionate anxiety. I regret to say that the case is quite +hopeless. Miss Vanberg’s life is a question of so many hours. She +may possibly survive the night, but even that is doubtful.” + +No more was said. The two men sat in silence. Vincent Mountford +covered his face with his hands. But this time he shed no tears. He +was occupied in solemn prayer for the departing soul of the woman he +loved. + +For upwards of an hour he sat thus. Then the door of the bedroom was +opened, and the clergyman emerged. + +“I am leaving her in peace,” he said. “I never talked with any one +more humbly desirous to obtain solace from the true source of all +consolation. I shall return in a few hours; my presence may afford +some comfort. In the meantime, I wish you good-evening. Do not +hesitate to send for me if--if there should be any unlooked-for +change, or if the patient should wish to see me.” + +Mr. Champneys departed as quietly as he had entered; and next minute +the door of the sick-room was again opened, and Martha Gibbs appeared +on the threshold. + +“Miss Vanberg wishes to speak to you, sir,” she said, addressing the +Duke. + +Vincent Mountford hastened to respond to that summons. Once more he +seated himself by the bed of the dying girl. + +Mrs. Gibbs passed silently into the sitting-room, leaving the lovers +alone together. + +Even in the brief interval that had passed, the Duke saw a change in +the face he loved. + +Yes, the pale shadow was hovering nearer. The small hand was feebler; +the dark eyes had a more spiritual light--the radiance of a soul fast +escaping from its earthly bondage. + +“Vincent,” said the Jewess, “I want to tell you the story of +my youth. Ah, no, no!” she exclaimed, answering his look of +remonstrance; “it will do me no harm to speak. I should suffer more +were I compelled to keep silence. The only excuse for my life lies in +the story of my childhood. I must speak of that, Vincent, before I +die.” + +“Speak, then, darling! Every word of yours is precious to me.” + +“Let me begin at the beginning. The first thing I can remember +is living in a great city--Paris, as I found out afterwards. I +remember beautiful apartments; windows that opened into a garden, in +which there was a fountain in a marble basin. I remember a happy, +idle life, spent in this fairy mansion, and in those beautiful +gardens; shut in from the great city by high walls and sheltering +chestnut-trees. + +“I remember a face, a lovely woman’s face, darker than my own--dark +with the rich olive hue of the South. I remember that foreign-looking +face smiling upon me, and I knew that she to whom it belonged was my +mother. + +“She was my mother. Hushed in her arms I used to sink to sleep in the +still summer twilight while she sang to me. O, Vincent, I can almost +hear her voice now as I think of her; and the old time comes back--I +am a child once more. My mother was not happy. I was only a very +little child when I first discovered that secret. She was not happy. +Sometimes she would sit, pale and silent, for hours together--with +her hands lying listlessly in her lap. Sometimes her tears fell upon +my face as I lay in her arms. Children are quick to perceive sorrow. +I saw that my mother was unhappy; and, child though I was, I watched +her closely. + +“Few friends visited us in that splendid abode, and even to me its +lonely splendour seemed sad and dreary. + +“Now and then--at long intervals, as I thought--a gentleman came; +a gentleman whom I was told to call papa. He took me on his knee +sometimes, and caressed me; and when he was with us my mother’s +manner changed from its dreary quiet, its outbreaks of passionate +sorrow. + +“When he was with us my mother seemed gay and happy. She would sit +on a heap of cushions at his feet, looking up at him with her dark +eyes, which had a light like yellow sunshine in them, smiling at him, +talking to him, happy and vivacious as some joyous bird. + +“Ah, how beautiful I thought her then, in her rich dress, with jewels +flashing on her hands and arms! + +“But as I grew older, my father’s visits were rarer; my mother’s +sorrow became deeper and more settled day by day. + +“Then, by-and-by, there was a sudden change in our life. My father +came very often, but not alone; he brought with him a young +Englishman, an empty-headed fop, as I know now, with a heart of ice. +Even then, child as I was, I perceived the man’s shallow nature, and +I instinctively detested him. + +“But my mother cared very little what guests she welcomed so long as +she was blessed with the presence of the man she loved. She smiled +her brightest smiles upon my father’s friend, and greeted him with +her sweetest words. + +“My father came day after day, week after week; but his English +friend always came with him. He bought my mother a carriage, and we +went to races and fêtes; but the Englishman accompanied us everywhere. + +“This may have gone on for some three months, when the end came. + +“Ah, Vincent, that end was very terrible! It was the old, old story: +passionate devoted love on the one side; on the other, selfishness +and cruelty. The Englishman, whose name I forget, came one day to +announce that the house which was our only home had changed hands. +He was its new master. My mother might still be its mistress. He +brought his credentials with him, in the shape of a letter from my +father. + +“That letter now lies amongst my private papers, Vincent, and I have +read it again and again, until its every word seems branded on my +brain. That horrible letter has influenced my life; for it taught me +to believe all men false and cruel. I accepted their flatteries; I +let them squander their fortune on my follies; but I never trusted +them; and it is only now, when the world is fading away from me, that +I begin to understand there may really exist one good man upon this +earth. + +“Shall I tell you the contents of that letter, Vincent? It was very +brief, for the writer had used little ceremony. + +“The man my mother loved had grown tired of her and of her devotion. +He had sold her to his wealthy friend! _That_ was the gist of the +letter. The elegant house, the horses, the carriages, all had been +lost at the card-table; and the last stake had been the woman whom he +had sworn to love and cherish to the hour of his death! + +“Within an hour of the receipt of that letter my mother and I +left the luxurious home in which I had been born. She took me to +England--to London; and London did indeed seem a dreary city after +the bright boulevards and chestnut-trees of Paris. All through one +long summer day we wandered in the dismal muddy streets of the most +squalid neighbourhood on the Surrey side of the Thames, and at +length, worn out, wearied, and miserable, we took possession of our +new home. + +“Shall I tell you what it was like, Vincent, that new home,--the +first that ever sheltered me in your native country? + +“It was a garret, so poorly furnished, so utterly wretched, that a +tolerably prosperous crossing-sweeper would have despised it for a +habitation when his day’s work was over. The rain pattering against +the casement beat in upon us through the gaps in the broken glass; +and the chill night wind crept in through a hundred different cracks +and crannies. + +“‘This is the only lodging we can afford, child,’ my mother cried +bitterly, as I stood in the midst of the wretched chamber, staring +helplessly about me, utterly bewildered by the change in our +position. ‘It is as good a home as either you or I have any right to +occupy; for we are friendless outcasts, penniless wretches, who know +not where to look for their daily bread.’ + +“Ah, Vincent, I dare not dwell upon that horrible time; for the +shadow of death grows darker round me; and though I feel so little +pain, the numbness seems creeping, creeping to my heart, and I know +that the end must be very near. + +“My mother went out on the day after our arrival, leaving me alone in +that most miserable house. She did not return until late at night, +and then she told me that she had obtained work which would give us, +at the worst, enough to keep us from starvation. + +“After this she went out every night, and was sometimes away from me +half the day. She never came home till after midnight; and as soon as +I was old enough to understand anything of London life, I knew that +she was a _figurante_ at a minor theatre on the Surrey side of the +Thames. + +“By-and-by we moved to a lodging which, although very humble and +very poorly furnished, was a palace in comparison with the miserable +garret that had first sheltered us. + +“So long as my mother lived, I never entered a theatre. She loved +me with the same passionate affection which I felt for her; and +she could not bear that I should be exposed to the dangers and +temptations of a life in which she saw so many fall into a fatal +career of extravagance and vice. Her life was a very hard one; +and others saw the change in her which I was too inexperienced to +perceive. Strangers saw that the hard life was slowly killing her. + +“One day she came in from her morning duties at the theatre with the +hectic tint in her cheeks heightened, and the fatal brightness of her +eyes even more brilliant than usual. + +“It was my birthday, she had told me early that morning, and I was +fifteen that day. + +“She took both my hands, and led me to the window. + +“‘Turn your face towards the light, Esther,’ she said. ‘Let me see +your eyes, for I am going to tell you something, and I want to see if +you are my own true daughter.’ + +“I looked at her wonderingly; and we stood thus, each looking with +fixed and earnest gaze into the other’s eyes. + +“‘Esther,’ said my mother, ‘I saw your father in the streets of +London to-day. I saw him, and spoke to him; to him--to the man for +whom I fled from a happy home in my native country--for whose sake +I broke my father’s heart! But the vengeance of Heaven follows such +sins as mine surely--too surely; and that vengeance has tracked me +step by step ever since the fatal night upon which I was beguiled +by your father’s empty promises to leave the shelter of my home, +trusting in the honour of a villain. To-day, for the first time after +weary years of beggary, I met your father in the street. For your +sake, Esther, and for your sake only, I followed and spoke to him. He +was very much surprised to see me, and even more disgusted to see me +such an altered creature. His face said as much. I told him that his +daughter was growing into womanhood; that in all the world she had +not one friend to replace the mother on whose face the hand of death +had set its stamp. I implored him to have pity upon this friendless +child; I promised forgiveness for my own blighted life--for the lies +that had lured me from my home--the cool treachery which would +have sold me with the goods and chattels lost at a gaming-table. I +humiliated myself to the dust, Esther, for your sake--only for your +sake! + +“‘Shall I tell you how that man answered my prayers? He told me to +starve, or to rot, where I pleased; but not to obtrude my ghastly +face on him. He had given me my chance, he said, and I might have +squandered the wealth of a weak-minded fool who would have supported +me in the splendour I was so fond of. I had chosen to fling away this +chance, and whatever misery had come to me had been brought upon +me by my own folly. He was not responsible for that folly, he told +me, and he would not give me sixpence to save me from the pangs of +starvation. + +“‘This was what he said to me, Esther; but no words can tell the +brutal manner in which he spoke, the cold-blooded insolence of his +gaze. He could not have looked more scornfully at the dirt beneath +his feet than he looked at me--at me, whose girlish brain was +well-nigh turned by his flattery when he stole me from my home. + +“‘You are indeed changed,’ he said. ‘I can scarcely bring myself to +believe that the creature I am looking at was once the vaunted beauty +of Seville.’ + +“‘I could find no words to speak my indignation. I was choked by the +suffocating tears of shame and despair. He turned upon his heel, and +left me--left me standing like a statue in the windy street, with +the rain driving gustily at me, and the icy cold creeping to my very +heart.’ + +“I burst into a torrent of sobs, and fell on my mother’s breast. I +tried to comfort her; but there are some sorrows in which any attempt +at comfort seems a mockery; and hers was one of them. + +“‘Esther,’ she said, ‘I have told you this story as a solemn warning. +You must be dull indeed if you cannot understand the bitter moral to +be learnt from my life. Crush out from your heart every vestige of +womanly affection. You are beautiful, and your beauty will win you +lovers. Remember my fate! Remember that their admiration is the false +worship of the profligate, who pays homage to the divinity that he +is only eager to destroy. Value your charms only for their power to +win the love you trample upon and despise. Be proud and pitiless, +false and mercenary, as the wretches who pretend to adore you; for +only thus will you keep them at your feet. They will be the slaves +of a beautiful demon, who laughs at their devotion, and mocks them +with false hopes, while she ruins them by her reckless extravagance, +her insatiable avarice; but they would grow weary of the love of an +angel, when once she has been won by their treacherous pleading. +Take everything from them, but give nothing in return--not one true +word, not one tender thought. Revenge my fate, Esther, and be warned +by the misery you have seen. Remember the anguish of a woman who +sacrificed her life to one unhappy passion, and who will die the +heart-broken victim of a scoundrel.’ + +“This, and much more, my mother said to me, not once, but many times, +before she faded slowly from me, leaving me alone in the world. + +“Such, Vincent, was the teaching of my early youth; such were the +precepts that had been carefully instilled into me when I found +myself lonely and destitute, with the world all before me. + +“I was not quite sixteen years of age when my mother died. I looked +in the glass; but my life had been such a secluded one, that but for +my mother’s words I should scarcely have known that I was beautiful. + +“At first I was stunned by my calamity, and I sat day after day in my +lonely room, in the idle helplessness of complete despair. + +“One day the proprietor of the theatre in which my mother had been +employed called upon me, and offered to engage me, paying for my +services at the same pitiful rate as my mother had received for hers. + +“I accepted his offer, since it afforded me the only chance of +escaping starvation. I entered the theatre, and in the following +year I received the offer of an engagement from the manager of the +Circenses, where I have been employed ever since, and where I first +met you, Vincent, and won the love which I have done so little to +deserve. + +“But I think you will understand now why my heart has seemed cold and +hard as stone. My mother had taught me to believe that my father was +only a sample of the rest of mankind. She had believed herself, and +she had taught me to think, that truth, honour, loyalty, generosity, +pure and unselfish affection did not exist in the breast of any +man living. I had learnt the fatal lesson only too well, and you +know what that lesson had made me--a heartless, pitiless creature, +eager for my own pleasure alone, at any cost to others; extravagant, +reckless, greedy, valuing those who admired me only for the wealth +they lavished on me; proud and insolent, cold and ungrateful. To win +you for my husband, to wear the coronet of a duchess, and to push +my way into the great world in defiance of all who should oppose +me--this was my ambition. But even to win such a prize as this I +could not control the passionate temper which had so long been freely +indulged; I could not curb the insolent tongue on whose reckless +audacity I prided myself. + +“Nothing but true and pure love could have exercised such forbearance +as you have always shown me. O, forgive me, Vincent; forgive me for +my heartless ingratitude! I see things in a softened light now that +the shadows are closing round me, and I can understand how good, how +noble you have been to me. You would have taken the nameless Jewess +to your arms; you would have bestowed the sacred name of wife on the +reckless adventuress who squandered your wealth and laughed at your +love. Forgive me, Vincent! Remember my early teaching, the wrongs of +my broken-hearted mother; remember these, and forgive me!” + +“I do, Esther, with all my heart,” answered the Duke in a broken +voice. “If you could live, darling; if heaven would spare you, the +dismal lesson of the past should be forgotten in the happiness of the +future, and you should learn that a man’s love can be as true and +pure, as unselfish and devoted, as the affection of the woman who +unites her fate to his.” + +“Vincent,” said the Jewess, “when I am dead, you will go to my house +and examine all my papers. If amongst them you can find any clue to +the identity of my father, seek him out, if he still lives, and tell +him of his victim’s death, and of the death of that daughter whom he +refused to rescue from starvation.” + +No more was said upon this subject. Esther gave Vincent Mountford +some few directions respecting the papers which he was to examine. + +“And now,” she said, “my true and only friend, I have one last favour +to ask of you. My jewels and pictures, the furniture of my house, +my carriage and horses, are worth a considerable sum. I should like +them all to be sold to the best advantage--except such things as you, +Vincent, may like to keep for my sake; and let the proceeds of the +sale be given to Miss Watson, the girl whom I so cruelly injured in +my wicked jealousy. You will do this, will you not, Vincent? It is +the only atonement I can make for the treachery which may have caused +so much pain. I trust in you, dear and faithful friend! Miss Watson +must never know the name of the person by whose bequest she inherits +the money; for if she did so, she might refuse to receive it. Let +this last act of justice be as little known as the guilty act for +which it is a poor reparation. Promise me, Vincent!” + +The young man gave a solemn promise; and the dark eyes of the Jewess +looked at him with a calmer light, as she lay back upon the pillow +from which she was never to rise again. + +It was late by this time, and the London surgeons had arrived. The +Duke left the room as the medical men entered it. + +Once more he paced slowly up and down the sitting-room; and, in spite +of all that the Richmond surgeon had said to him, his heart was +agitated by a faint thrill of hope. + +That hope was soon changed to the calm quiet of despair. After about +a quarter of an hour of suspense, the door of the bedchamber was +opened, and the medical men came out, grave and silent, and in their +solemn faces Vincent Mountford read the death warrant of the woman he +loved. + +“There is no hope?” asked the Duke, appealing to the Richmond surgeon. + +“None!” that gentleman answered solemnly. + +Vincent Mountford sank helplessly down upon the nearest chair. This +time he gave way to no passionate outburst of grief: this time he +was calm and silent; but he felt that the one bright dream, the fond +delusion of his youth, was melting away from him for ever. + +The time might come when Esther Vanberg’s beautiful face would smile +upon him, faint and shadowy as the face that haunts a sleeper in his +dream; but that time would be slow to come; and to-night it seemed to +the Duke of Harlingford as if all the joy and brightness of his life +had vanished away from him, never to be recalled. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + +SILENCED. + + +After the discovery of the deadly nature of that draught which Rupert +Godwin had attempted to administer to the unconscious invalid, a dull +stupor seemed to take possession of Julia’s mind. + +The horror of her thoughts was too terrible for endurance. The brain +almost gave way beneath its burden. The heart which until now had +throbbed with love for this guilty father was well-nigh broken by the +knowledge of his crime. + +“A secret assassin--a midnight poisoner!” thought the miserable girl, +as she brooded over the events of the past few days. “Had his crime +been of any other nature, had his guilt been the consequence of a +moment’s violence, the fatal act of sudden rage, I could have pitied +and forgiven him. But how can I pity the criminal whose treachery +hides itself beneath a smile?” + +She paced up and down the room, her hands clasped before her face, +maddened by the thoughts which distracted her over-tasked brain. + +“And all my life, all my life, I shall have to keep this hideous +secret hidden in my breast! Day after day I shall see my father +smiling upon people who, were I to reveal what I know, would think +the story of that night the wild delusion of a maniac. I can +understand now why my brother could never be happy in this house--why +there was always a gulf between him and my father, a yawning gulf of +distrust that was almost hatred. My brother’s instinct revealed to +him that fatal truth, to which my love has blinded me. He saw that +my father was unworthy of a son’s affection, and he ran away from a +home whose atmosphere was hateful to him. He knew what I could not +understand. He knew that it was the stifling atmosphere of falsehood +and hypocrisy.” + +All that day Julia remained in her own apartments. Mrs. Melville came +to her and entreated to be admitted; but the girl was inflexible, and +refused to see anyone. + +“I am suffering from a headache,” she said, opening the door a little +way, in order to speak to the widow, “and all I want is undisturbed +quiet. My brain has been over-excited by the anxiety of the past +few days. Pray do not ask to see me, dear Mrs. Melville. I shall be +infinitely better if you leave me quite alone.” + +The widow was really alarmed by her charge’s conduct. She went +straight to Mr. Godwin’s study, and informed him of what had passed. + +But, to her surprise, she found the banker almost indifferent upon +the subject of his daughter’s illness. This man, who was known to +be so fond and devoted a father, seemed to-day as if he scarcely +understood the communication that was made to him respecting his +idolized child. + +“She is ill, you say?” he muttered impatiently. “Yes, yes; I thought +she seemed ill this morning when I saw her. I don’t wonder. Her mind +seemed affected, I fancied. I begin to fear that the fever from which +Mr. Wilton is suffering is contagious. I shall take Julia to Brighton +with me to-night.” + +“I should imagine it would be very wise to do so. The dear girl +is far too sensitive to be exposed to the excitement and anxiety +of a sick-house,” answered the lady. “I will go at once and make +arrangements for the journey. You will require me to accompany you, I +conclude, Mr. Godwin?” + +“No!” exclaimed the banker, turning upon her almost angrily; “I shall +require no one. You were asking me the other day for permission to +pay a visit to some friends in town. I give you that permission now, +and I will write you a cheque for a half year’s salary in advance, if +you wish it. My daughter and I will go alone to Brighton, and this +house will be shut up and left in the care of Mrs. Beckson.” + +“And Mr. Wilton?” asked Mrs. Melville wonderingly. + +“Mr. Wilton’s comfort and safety will be provided for,” answered +Rupert Godwin impatiently. “And now, Mrs. Melville, I must wish you +good morning. I am very busy.” + +The banker had been standing all this time at the door of his study. +He closed it now, leaving Mrs. Melville bewildered by the strangeness +of his manner. + +Her bewilderment would have been even greater, had she seen him +standing in the centre of the room, with his hands clasped about his +head, staring vacantly at the floor. + +“The net is closing round me,” he muttered; “it’s closing round +me. The meshes gather about me thicker and thicker--the web grows +tighter; and I shall find myself all at once bound hand and foot +without hope of escape. My daughter suspects me. How or why she has +learnt to do so, I cannot conceive; but she suspects. Another spy, +whose lips must be sealed; another creature whose every word I must +fear! Surely she would not betray me! No, no; she would not betray +the father whom she has loved, unless the hideous secret escaped her +in the ravings of delirium. I have to guard against that danger as +well as every other. O, what a life!--what a life! The hand of the +avenger is upon me: it pushes me on to wade yet deeper in guilt; but +at the end of all what do I see? Security? No; there is no security +for the wretch whose secret is once known to any mortal but himself.” + +Then, after a pause of blank terror and dismay, Rupert Godwin lifted +his head with an impetuous and defiant gesture. + +“Bah!” he exclaimed; “I am a coward and a fool to-day. What was my +intellect given me for, if not to triumph over meaner men? The world +is still with me. The dupes and fools still trust the wealthy banker. +Who would believe Rupert Godwin is an assassin--a thief--a baffled +poisoner? No; I will not despair because that young man has fathomed +the secret of his father’s murder--I will not despair even though my +own daughter suspects my guilt. The odds may be against me; but if +the game is to be a desperate one, I will not throw away a single +chance.” + +A servant opened the door of the library. In a moment Rupert Godwin’s +brow cleared. He was himself again; or rather, he resumed once more +that false and smiling semblance which he presented to the world. + +“Well?” he demanded. “Are those two gentlemen here?” + +“They are, sir,” answered the servant, ushering in two gentlemen. + +One was Mr. Granger, the doctor from Hertford; the other was a little +fat man, with a pale flabby face and sandy hair. There was a cunning +expression in his reddish-brown eyes, and a physiognomist would have +perceived the signs of a brutal and cruel nature in the low receding +forehead, the thick lips and massive jaws. + +This pale-faced, sandy-haired man wore the orthodox costume of a +medical practitioner, and exhibited that expanse of spotless cambric +which is generally supposed to be the outward indication of that +highly-prized grace--respectability. He seated himself opposite Mr. +Godwin, while the Hertford surgeon stood near the window. + +The sandy-haired man called himself Doctor Wilderson Snaffley, and +he was the proprietor of a private lunatic asylum, on which he had +bestowed the romantic appellation of “The Retreat.” He had published +several pamphlets on the efficacy of a paternal indulgence in the +treatment of lunatics--pamphlets in which the pages quite bristled +with Latin quotations. + +“I little thought, when I saw your advertisement in the _Times_ some +weeks ago, that I should ever be under the necessity of appealing to +you for assistance, Dr. Snaffley,” said Rupert Godwin; “but I regret +to tell you that I do require your services. A young man, who is a +kind of protégé of my daughter’s, something of an artist, employed +out of charity to mount some drawings of my son’s, has been seized +with a fever, under which his mind seems entirely to have given way. +Mr. Granger will tell you that he has been treating this young man +for fever only; but the malady appears to have its seat in the mind, +or at least mainly there. He has therefore come to the conclusion +that this is a case requiring quite another course of treatment--he +has come to the conclusion that this unhappy young man is mad.” + +“I beg your pardon, Mr. Godwin,” interposed the surgeon; “but I must +remind you that the suggestion of madness first came from you.” + +“Did it?” asked the banker carelessly. “Well, it may be so--my memory +is not quite clear upon that point. The first direct suggestion may +have come from me. You medical men only deal in hints and innuendos. +You are so abominably cautious. Indirectly you suggested the idea +of mental disease; for I have been much too busy to give this +unfortunate young man’s case any serious consideration.” + +“Certainly, certainly,” said Dr. Snaffley, in a slow ponderous way, +which, like his spotless shirt-front, seemed indicative of extreme +respectability--a kind of social solidity. “Your duties, sir, are +no doubt multifarious. We are aware of the onerous duties of such a +position as yours, Mr. Godwin.” + +“You are very good,” replied the banker. “But, however busy I may be, +I must see that this young man is properly cared for. It is quite +clear to my mind that he is mad. There seems no doubt as to the +lamentable fact. Whether there is hereditary madness in this case I +know not; for the unhappy young man is a mere waif, without friends +or connections, so far as I can understand, and quite penniless. I +know nothing of his past history; I only know that my daughter picked +him up, almost starving, at a printseller’s in Regent-street, where +he was offering some drawings for sale, and that he has been employed +in this house ever since.” + +“Very creditable to Miss Godwin’s benevolent nature, I am sure,” +murmured Dr. Snaffley. + +“Under ordinary circumstances, this young man would of course be +handed over to the proper authorities, to be treated as a pauper +lunatic. But I cannot suffer that. My daughter has chosen to +undertake a work of benevolence--the rescue of a fellow-creature +from destitution and despair. Whatever the cost to myself, I am +bound to carry out that work to its furthest limit; so if this young +man’s mind is indeed gone, as I regret to say I believe it is, I am +prepared to place him under your care, Dr. Snaffley, and to offer you +whatever remuneration you may think fair and liberal.” + +The doctor bowed. His cunning brown eyes twinkled with gratification +at having secured another inmate for that peaceful and delightful +home which he called the Retreat; but he dropped his eyelids, and +affected disinterested feeling. + +“I am ready to serve you, Mr. Godwin,” he said; “and in serving you +it is very pleasant to serve also the cause of humanity. Your noble +offer to protect this friendless young man is indeed worthy of a +Christian. Let me see him. My friend here, Mr. Granger, is prepared +to give a certificate, I believe.” + +“Yes,” answered the surgeon, shaking his head mournfully; “I am +really very sorry, but I am afraid there is no doubt about the +case--the young man is mad. That rooted delusion, that morbid idea +about an imaginary murder, can only result from madness. The fever +has been got under, but the hallucination still remains. There are +all the symptoms of insanity.” + +Rupert Godwin sighed heavily. + +“It is very sad,” he said. “My poor Julia will feel it deeply, for +she had such a high opinion of the unfortunate young man’s talents. I +trust that you will bring the calmest deliberation to bear upon this +case, gentlemen, and that you will decide nothing hastily.” + +The banker rang a bell, and ordered a servant to conduct the two +medical men to the invalid’s apartment. + +The two men left him--one impressed with the generosity of his +employer, the other delighted at the promise of profit. + +Dr. Wilderson Snaffley was an unprincipled adventurer, who was a +disgrace to the science which he made subservient to his own schemes. +He was a man who throughout his life had enriched himself by preying +upon the weakness, or trading upon the wickedness of his fellow-men. +The Retreat was a kind of tomb, in which guilty secrets could be very +easily hidden; and some of the mysteries buried within those dismal +walls were terrible ones. + +Dr. Snaffley was the last man to be deceived by hypocrisy, for he +was himself an accomplished hypocrite. He penetrated the pretence of +generosity beneath which Rupert Godwin sought to conceal his real +purpose, and he perceived that there was some mysterious reason for +the banker’s benevolence towards a stranger. + +“I understand,” he thought, as he followed the servant upstairs. +“I have only to keep quiet, and I may make this business very +profitable. One thing is perfectly clear: Mr. Godwin wants to get rid +of his young friend.” + +Dr. Snaffley entered the room, while his fellow-practitioner waited +in an adjoining apartment. + +Lionel Westford was lying in an uneasy slumber; but he was awakened +by the entrance of the doctor, and opened his eyes in a wild, +wondering stare. + +The proprietor of the Retreat seated himself in an easy-chair by the +bed, and laid his hand softly on the wrist of the invalid. + +Lionel looked at him, and then turned away, murmuring some low +incoherent words. The doctor bent over him, listening intently; +but the young man’s mind had gone back to the scenes of his early +youth. He fancied himself a student once more, amidst light-hearted +companions--now at a boat-race, now at a wine-party. His feeble voice +had a strangely melancholy sound as it strove to shape itself into a +jovial shout or a cry of triumph. + +“Brazenose wins!” he cried; “ten to one upon Brazenose! Bravo! +Brazenose!” + +The doctor knew that his patient was acting over again the scenes of +a University career. + +“Ha, ha!” thought he; “this nameless, friendless, penniless young +man has been educated at one of the Universities. That looks rather +strange, Mr. Godwin. We shall find out something more by-and-by.” + +He kept his place by the bedside, listening intently to Lionel’s +half-broken words. + +Presently the young man started up from his pillow, erect as a dart. + +“Murdered!” he cried. “My poor father--my brave, noble-hearted +father, murdered by the hand of a villain, in the cellars below the +northern wing!” + +Dr. Wilderson Snaffley’s flabby face was always pale, but it grew +livid as he listened to these words. + +“The cellars below the northern wing,” he muttered; “why, the man +is talking of this house! I knew that there was a mystery. Murder! +That’s a big word. So, Mr. Godwin, you seem to want my services very +badly. People do not send their friends to the Retreat for nothing. A +private madhouse is rather expensive--an expensive luxury; but when +people want to get rid of a troublesome acquaintance, they don’t mind +coming down handsomely.” + +Again the doctor bent over the patient, and listened breathlessly. +The young man had fallen back upon his pillow, and lay prostrate and +exhausted. For some time the silence was only broken by incoherent +murmurs; and then Lionel spoke once more of the northern wing, the +cellar-stairs, the foul deed that had been done in that accursed +spot--all in broken sentences; but the doctor had been accustomed +to listen to the ravings of a maniac, and he knew how to put those +broken phrases together. + +“My father’s blood!” exclaimed Lionel, in a hoarse whisper. “Yes, +father, I saw the traces of that blood spilt by a murderer’s hand. +But the crime shall not go unpunished. Yes; your son shall track that +guilty wretch to the gallows. Rupert Godwin--Rupert--_her_ father!” + +It was such broken sentences as these which Dr. Wilderson Snaffley +heard as he bent over the prostrate form of the invalid. He saw that +Lionel Westford was suffering from brain-fever, and that his mind was +distracted by the memory of some deed, the discovery of which had +been the chief cause of his illness. + +The proprietor of the Retreat was able to discover what the simple +Hertford surgeon had been utterly unable to understand; for to him +the idea of any guilty deed done by Rupert Godwin seemed so utterly +preposterous, that he attributed Lionel’s persistent accusations to +the ravings of insanity. + +Dr. Wilderson Snaffley had made a fortune by the crimes of other +men; and he was only familiar with the darkest and most hideous side +of human nature. He was ready to believe anything. Cunning, false, +designing, he knew how to turn guilty secrets to his own advantage +without betraying his knowledge of them. + +He went downstairs presently, leaving his fellow-practitioner to +enter the sick-chamber alone, and form his unbiassed opinion as to +the condition of the patient. + +Dr. Snaffley found Rupert Godwin in his study. By no look or gesture +did the banker betray impatience or uneasiness; and yet the doctor +knew very well that he was both impatient and uneasy. + +“Well, doctor,” he said, “is there any hope for this poor young man?” + +The doctor shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips. + +“It is a very difficult case,” he said; “a most critical case. I +never met one at all resembling it. I can only see one chance of +cure, and that is very hazardous.” + +“What is the nature of this one chance?” + +“I will tell you. This young man appears to be possessed with a +monomania--a single delusion. Once dispel that, and you may restore +the brain to its balance. Our patient has formed some idea about +the cellars below the northern wing of this house. Your servants +have told him some ghastly legend, I suppose, and he has dwelt so +long upon its details, that his imagination has become completely +distempered by queer fancies. Now, what I think is this: Why not +attempt to cure him by proving to him the absurdity of his delusion? +He fancies that a murder has been committed in one of the rooms, or +in one of the cellars, belonging to the northern wing. Have a public +investigation of those rooms and cellars. Call in the assistance of +the police, and let them search for traces of this imaginary murder. +If there has been any foul deed done there, the secret of it will be +brought to light, and that would, of course, be a satisfaction to +you, as owner of this house. If not--if this horrible story is only +the invention of a distempered brain, there is every chance that, +when the young man has witnessed a practical investigation, he will +see how foolish his fancies have been, and the balance of the mind +will be restored.” + +Throughout this speech Wilderson Snaffley had kept his eyes fixed +upon the banker’s face. When he had finished speaking, Rupert Godwin +shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. + +“My dear Doctor Snaffley,” he said, “I begin to think that madhouse +physicians do indeed catch a little of their patients’ disease. Can +you for a moment imagine that any revelation of the groundlessness of +this unhappy young man’s fancies will dispel them, and restore him to +reason? What arguments can ever induce the ghost-seer to disbelieve +in his phantom? No; he believes to the end, and perhaps dies a victim +to the visitations of a shadow which he conjures out of his own +brain.” + +“Then you will not attempt my plan? You will not cause any +investigation of the grounds for this man’s story?” + +“There are no grounds. No, Doctor Snaffley. Cure your patient if you +can; but you must devise some better means than this before you will +cure him.” + +“Be it so, then,” answered the proprietor of the Retreat, still +watching the face of the banker with a fixed and searching gaze. +“Be it so. I am prepared to certify to this young man’s insanity; +and I am willing to take him under my charge, and to keep him in +my establishment, pledging myself to ensure his safe keeping. I am +willing to do this; but I shall expect a liberal compensation for my +trouble.” + +“Name your terms.” + +“Five hundred a year.” + +“Humph!” muttered the banker. “Are not those absurdly extravagant +terms, taking into consideration the position of the patient?” + +“No, Mr. Godwin; the terms are not by any means extravagant, taking +into consideration the _nature of the case_,” answered Doctor +Wilderson Snaffley. + +The two men looked at each other. It was only for a moment that +their eyes met; but Rupert Godwin knew that his secret was divined by +the doctor. + +“Agreed,” said the banker; “I accept your terms.” + +At ten o’clock that night Lionel Westford was removed from Wilmingdon +Hall to the Retreat, which was situated in a very lonely part of the +county, some ten miles from the banker’s mansion. He was taken away +in a close carriage, lying upon a mattress. An opiate prepared by Dr. +Snaffley had been administered to him; and he slept too soundly to +give any trouble to those who conveyed him to his new home. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + +GIRT WITH FIRE. + + +Rupert Godwin did not quit Wilmingdon Hall quite so soon as he had +told Mrs. Melville he intended to leave it; but he contrived that +the widow should take her departure some time before the removal of +Lionel Westford by Doctor Snaffley and his myrmidons. + +In the solitude of her own apartments, Julia Godwin heard nothing of +what was passing in her father’s house. She lay upon a sofa in her +own room, not sleeping, but oppressed by a kind of stupor. She felt +as though she would have been glad to die, that in the repose of +death she might no longer be haunted by the memory of her father’s +guilt. + +Mrs. Melville had tried to gain admission to Julia’s room, but found +the door locked. The unhappy girl feigned to be asleep, and made no +reply to the widow’s anxious entreaties for admittance. + +The banker had behaved very liberally to his daughter’s companion; +but, accomplished hypocrite as he was, Mrs. Melville could not help +suspecting that he must have some reason for wishing her to leave his +house so suddenly. + +The widow thought there was something wrong, but imagined that the +banker was harassed by some commercial difficulty--perhaps threatened +by ruin; and she considered herself fortunate in securing an advance +of six months upon her very handsome salary, when other people might +lose by a bankruptcy. + +She left the Hall, therefore, in excellent spirits, after bidding +adieu to Mr. Godwin, who promised to communicate with her as soon as +he and his daughter were settled at Brighton. + +At eleven o’clock that night all was quiet in Wilmingdon Hall, and +the banker strode up and down the dining-room, after dismissing the +servant who had attended upon him. + +The habits of the household were early. At ten o’clock all except +the servant who waited on Mr. Godwin had retired to their several +apartments. By eleven all was still as the grave; and, pacing to and +fro the large empty room, Rupert Godwin was able to contemplate his +position with something like calmness. + +“_He_ is safe,” the banker muttered, “and will remain so, while I +can pay that man, who has fathomed my secret and means to profit +by it. So long as I can satisfy his exorbitant claim, all will be +secure in that quarter. How much simpler would have been the effect +of that draught, had not some devilry interfered to prevent its +being administered! Nothing could have been more natural than that +young man’s death; and a decent funeral would have won for me the +reputation of a kind and liberal patron. However, at the worst, +he is safe. The next thing from which I have cause for fear is my +daughter’s suspicions. She knows something; but how much does she +know? That is the point. Was hers the hand which interposed so +mysteriously between that draught and the lips for which it was +intended? Was it she who baffled my plans, and put my neck in danger +of the gallows? And will she consider it her duty to betray her +father? These are fearful questions; but, come what may, I must know +the worst. I will face this girl, hear what she has to say, and learn +how far she dare accuse me.” + +The banker took one of the candlesticks from the dining-room table, +and went upstairs to his daughter’s room. + +He knocked, and waited, listening for some moments; but there was no +answer. + +He knocked again, with the same result. + +Then he spoke: + +“Julia,” he said, in a low but resolute tone, “it is I--your father. +I beg you to admit me immediately.” + +He heard his daughter’s footsteps slowly approaching the door, and +then a low voice answered, in broken accents: + +“Pray pardon me, papa. I cannot see you to-night. I am distracted +with an excruciating headache, and really cannot see anyone.” + +“I cannot accept that excuse, Julia; I must see you, and immediately. +I command you to admit me. I insist upon knowing your reasons for +this most extraordinary conduct.” + +“Father, for pity’s sake--” cried the miserable girl, in an imploring +voice that was broken by hysterical sobs. + +“If you do not unlock your door immediately, I will burst it open,” +rejoined the banker resolutely. + +He had the desperate resolution of a man who feels that despair is +close upon him, that death and danger are tracking his footsteps, +and that only indomitable courage can save him from the fate he has +merited. + +The key turned in the lock. The banker opened the door, and entered +his daughter’s apartment. + +He shuddered, as he stood in presence of the girl, whose glorious +beauty had been wont to shine upon him radiant with youth and +happiness. To-night, he beheld the pale face of a woman whose heart +has been racked with the anguish of despair. + +That colourless face looked soddened with tears. The dark luxuriant +hair hung loosely about Julia Godwin’s shoulders; her hands were +locked together, her white lips trembled convulsively, as she averted +her gaze from the father whom she had once loved so dearly, but whose +presence now inspired her with horror. + +“Julia,” said the banker, “I want to know the meaning of your conduct +to-day. Why have you secluded yourself in this unusual manner, so +obstinately refusing to admit anyone to your room?” + +“I have been very ill.” + +“In that case you must see the doctor. I will send one of the +servants for Mr. Granger immediately.” + +“There is no occasion. My illness is not one that can be cured by Mr. +Granger. It is an illness of the mind, rather than of the body.” + +“Julia!” cried the banker sternly, “are you going mad? There was +something in your manner when you spoke this morning that was unlike +the conduct of a rational being. What is amiss with you?” + +His daughter was silent. For a few moments she stood quite motionless, +with her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed upon her father’s face +with a heart-rending expression. + +“Father,” she said, after that brief silence, “I had a dream last +night--a dream so horrible, that it has oppressed me throughout the +day, and I cannot shake it off. It clings to me still. It will haunt +me till I find forgetfulness in the grave. Shall I tell you that +hideous dream?” + +“Yes, if telling it will give you relief.” + +“Nothing can give me relief. There is nothing but misery for me +henceforward upon this earth. But I will tell you my dream. I dreamt +last night that the sick man lying in this house was menaced by some +terrible danger. I did not know the nature of the peril; but I knew +that it was deadly peril, and close at hand. I thought that--guided +always by some subtle instinct that was stronger than reason--I left +my room in the dead of the night, resolved to watch over the helpless +invalid, to save him if possible from the danger that threatened +him. I did leave my room, and crept along the corridor with stealthy +footsteps. I went into Mr. Wilton’s room, and found that the old +woman who was set to watch him had fallen asleep at her post. That +was the first part of the danger.” + +“Humph!” muttered the banker, “a commonplace dream enough, and a very +natural one. You have troubled yourself a good deal more than was +necessary or becoming about this protégé of yours.” + +“That is only the beginning of my dream, father,” answered Julia, +“you will find the end of it neither commonplace nor natural. I +had not been in the sick-room many moments, when I was startled +by the sound of stealthy footsteps in the corridor outside. +The same instinct that had prompted me to seek the sick man’s +apartment prompted me now to hide--or it might be only a feeling of +embarrassment at my strange position. I had no time for reflection; +so, obeying the impulse of the moment, I concealed myself behind the +curtains of the bed. From that hiding-place I saw a man enter the +room. I saw the hand of a murderer mix poison with the medicine which +was to be administered to the sleeper. I saw the assassin’s face; +yes, father, as plainly as I see yours at this moment. O, Heaven! +have pity upon me; when shall I forget the horror of that time?” + +“Pshaw!” exclaimed Rupert Godwin; “distempered dreams like these +arise from a disordered brain. Beware how you indulge in them, Julia. +They are the forerunners of madness. Such youth and beauty as yours +would be sadly wasted in the padded room of a private lunatic asylum. +Take my advice, Julia, and do not give way to the influence of evil +dreams, lest such a fate should be yours.” + +This advice sounded like a threat. But Julia Godwin did not quail +beneath her father’s stern gaze or threatening tone. + +“It would be better to be really mad than to suffer as I do,” she +said. + +“Why should this dream affect you? It is as absurd and +inconsequential as dreams usually are. What motive should anyone have +for murdering your protégé? Besides, how did you know that the liquid +mixed with the draught was poison?” + +“Because--in my dream--I caused the draught to be analyzed--or, at +least, I consulted a surgeon as to its nature, and he told me that it +contained prussic acid.” + +“A very strange dream. Come, Julia, let me hear no more of this +folly. I shall remove you from here to-morrow, and shall take you +with me to Brighton. If I do not speedily find you recovered from +these morbid fancies, I shall conclude that your mind is seriously +affected, and I shall place you under the charge of a medical man +accustomed to deal with mental disorder.” + +“You would do that, father?” asked Julia; “you would declare me to be +mad, and give me over to the care of a stranger?” + +“Yes, I would do so without a moment’s hesitation,” answered the +banker resolutely, “if I saw reason for such a course. Once for +all, I tell you, I will endure no folly of the kind which you have +practised to-day. I know how to act when I am assailed by the morbid +fancies of madness; and to prove my power to protect myself from +the folly of others, I will tell you of something that has happened +to-day--something that is _not_ a dream. But, first, come with me.” + +Rupert Godwin led the way to the apartment which had lately been +occupied by Lionel Westford. + +“You see, Julia,” he said, pointing to the bed upon which the young +man had so lately been lying, “this person, in whom you take so much +interest that you must needs dream horrible dreams about him, has +disappeared: you will never see him again.” + +“Great Heaven!” cried Julia, “he is dead! And you--_you_ dare tell me +this!” + +“He is not dead; but he is as completely lost to the living as if he +were buried in the deepest grave that was ever dug for mortal man. He +was like you, Julia; and he had foolish fancies. He was tormented by +some absurd idea about a murder--a foul deed which had no existence +save in his own distempered imagination, but which, little by little, +had shaped itself into a reality. Poor fellow! he could not abandon +his dream, and the end of it is, that two qualified practitioners +have pronounced him a confirmed maniac, and to-night he will sleep +in that living tomb--a private lunatic asylum. And now, Julia, you +can return to your room; I think we shall understand each other in +future; and you will trouble me no more by the relation of ghastly +dreams, that are as meaningless as they are unpleasant.” + +Once more the eyes of the father and daughter met--the girl’s +expression sorrowful, despairing; the man’s gaze proudly defiant, +with the defiance of a fiend. + +Julia did not utter another word. She turned from her father, and +left the room with a slow step and a drooping head. It seemed to her +as if the end of the world had come. She felt that she could not +endure life now that her father had revealed himself to her in his +true character. + +And the man she loved, what of him? + +“Heaven give me power to think calmly!” she murmured on her knees +in her own room. “Let me plan some means for watching over him. An +impulse, inspired by Providence, enabled me to save him from an +untimely death. May the same Providence watch over him now in his +helplessness, and enable me to rescue him from a life that can be +little better than death!” + + * * * * * + +Early next morning the banker went to his daughter’s room to order +her immediate preparation for departure from Wilmingdon Hall. He +intended to take her to London by an early train, and thence to +Brighton. + +He found her rooms empty. Julia Godwin had fled from the home which +had sheltered her from her girlhood. + +This was the last blow that fell upon him before he left +Hertfordshire, and the stroke was a crushing one. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + +THE CLERK’S STORY. + + +While Gilbert Thornleigh was employed in putting the case of Harley +Westford’s disappearance into the hands of the police, Clara sat in +her shabby lodging, brooding over the troubles which environed her, +until it seemed as if there was not one ray of sunshine to illumine +the darkness of her fate. + +The mysterious disappearance of her daughter--her beloved Violet--was +almost more horrible to contemplate than the dark fate of her brave +and true-hearted husband. + +Harley Westford might have died the victim of treachery--he might +have perished by the pitiless hand of the assassin; but the fate of +Violet might be something worse than death. + +Shame--disgrace--degradation! These were the dangers which the mother +dreaded for the daughter she loved. And she was quite helpless. She +knew not what step to take--how to attempt a rescue of the lost girl. +Sorrows had crowded upon her with a bewildering rapidity, and the +sufferer succumbed beneath the force of a burden which hourly grew +heavier and harder to bear. The revelation made by Gilbert Thornleigh +had been the last overwhelming blow; and Clara Westford sat in a +listless attitude, helpless, nerveless, apathetic, like a creature +who had outlived all sense of sorrow. “Who am I? and where am I?” she +asked herself; “are these troubles real, or are they part of some +long feverish dream?” + +There comes a stage in human sorrow when the sufferer seems to +lose all hold upon reality. The victim cannot understand why the +chastisement should be so heavy, the cup of anguish so bitter and so +deep. The brain refuses to grapple with the horrible realities that +crowd upon it. There is a merciful pause in life’s fever, a dull +apathy, which may perhaps be designed to save the anguish-stricken +sufferer from madness. + +For Clara Westford this pause, this apathy, did not last long. + +One joy, at least, was in store for the woman upon whom so many +sorrows had come with crushing force during the last twelve +months--one joy, so wild and deep in its intensity, that the +overwrought brain could scarcely sustain the sudden shock of so much +joy. + +While Clara Westford sat by her bedside, with her head lying wearily +upon the pillow, her tearless eyes fixed on the dingy ceiling above +her with a blank unseeing stare, carriage-wheels sounded in the +street below, and a vehicle drew up close at hand. + +The bedchamber opened out of the sitting-room, and the door of +communication between them was open. Clara rushed to the window, and +looked down into the street. Her heart throbbed tumultuously. She was +in that over-excited state in which every incident alarms the mind. + +A very handsome close carriage, simple in its appointments, but drawn +by a superb pair of horses, was standing before the door of the +house. A bright face appeared at the window of the carriage--a lovely +face, framed in clustering golden hair; a face which seemed like that +of an angel to Clara Westford, for it was the face of her daughter. + +A servant opened the door of the carriage, and Violet alighted. +She rushed into the house, and her mother heard the light familiar +footstep hurrying up the stairs. + +She burst into a torrent of tears, the first she had shed since her +daughter’s disappearance, and in the next moment Violet was clasped +in her mother’s arms. + +Clara Westford saw that this was no heart-broken, dishonoured girl, +who returned thus, radiant and smiling, to bury her beautiful face on +her mother’s breast, and to cry amidst her passionate sobs: + +“Dear mother, I have come back to you! I have been rescued by a kind +and noble friend; and we shall be happy together once more.” + +As she spoke the door was opened, and an elderly lady entered--a +lady with a pale gentle face that had once been beautiful, and +smoothly banded silver hair. This lady was the Dowager Marchioness of +Roxleydale. + +“I have brought you back your daughter, Mrs. Westford,” said the +Marchioness; “and I feel that I deserve your thanks, for the treasure +I restore to you is a priceless one. If I have learnt to love this +dear girl in a few hours, how tenderly must you love her who have +known her for a lifetime!” + +The mother’s heart was full to overflowing. She uttered no word +relating to Gilbert Thornleigh’s return, or to the ghastly mystery +involved in Captain Westford’s disappearance. Her child was restored +to her, and she taught herself to smile, while her heart was still +racked by anxiety, that no cloud should overshadow the joy of +Violet’s return. + +The Marchioness did not remain long with the mother and daughter. + +“I will not intrude upon your happiness,” she said; “but I shall +hope not to lose sight of this sweet girl, whom my son’s wicked +folly, instigated, I am sure, by bad advisers, has involved in so +much trouble. I shall pay some visits while I am in town, and return +to Essex this evening. But whenever I come to London I shall make +a point of calling upon you. Violet has told me a good deal of her +history; and if I can find any way of serving either herself or her +brother through the influence of my friends, I shall not be slow to +do so. In the mean time, she has given me a promise not to return +to the perilous life of a theatre, as with her attainments and +accomplishments, assisted by my hearty recommendation, she cannot +fail to obtain very remunerative employment as a daily governess. +There _are_ people in the world who know how to respect the ladies to +whom they intrust the education of their children. I shall make it my +business to find a lady in whose employment Violet will feel that she +is respected and esteemed.” + +The Marchioness pressed Clara Westford’s hand, and kissed Violet +almost as affectionately as if the grateful girl had been indeed her +daughter. + +When she was gone, the mother and child sat down side by side, +happy in the delight of being once more together; so happy in this, +that the wife forgot for a few moments the mystery of her husband’s +disappearance. + +But that bitter memory was very swift to return; and it was only by +heroic self-control that Clara contrived to keep her daughter in +ignorance of the anxiety which was gnawing at her heart. + +While they were sitting together, talking of Violet’s escape from +danger, and of the warm friend she had found at a moment when she +seemed to be surrounded by enemies, the servant of the house came +into the room, and handed a visiting-card to Mrs. Westford. + +It was a dirty-looking, old-fashioned card, and upon it was inscribed +a name that seemed vaguely familiar to Clara: + + MR. JACOB DANIELSON. + _Who entreats Mrs. Westford to grant him a + private interview._ + +These words were written in pencil below the name on the card. + +“Danielson!” murmured the widow; “I have an idea that the name was +once familiar to me. And yet that may be only fancy--it is such a +common name.” + +“The persing seemed very anxious to see you, mem,” said the girl who +had brought the card. + +“What sort of person is he?” + +“A little old man, mem; very shabby and common-looking, with a hump +on his pore old back, mem. He said he had somethink very particular +to tell you.” + +“Something particular to tell me! If it should be--I will see him, +Susan,” exclaimed the widow, with sudden agitation. “Go to your room, +dear. I must see this man alone.” + +The slipshod maid-of-all-work ran down stairs to admit the stranger; +and Clara Westford half led, half pushed Violet into the inner room, +before the anxious girl had time to inquire into the cause of her +mother’s agitation. + +In the next minute Jacob Danielson entered the little sitting-room, +his hat in his hand, his head bent in a respectful attitude. + +“What is your business, sir?” asked Clara Westford, looking at him +very anxiously. + +“You do not remember me, madam?” + +“Remember you? No!” + +“And yet it is only a day or two since you saw me. I am Mr. Rupert +Godwin’s confidential clerk--the person of whom you and a young +sailor made some inquiries respecting your missing husband.” + +“Yes, yes!” cried Clara eagerly; “I remember. And you have something +to tell me? For pity’s sake do not trifle with me! If you knew what I +suffer--” + +“I have something to tell you, madam--I have much to tell you. But I +cannot yet give you any information about your husband. I came to you +to-day to make you the offer of my friendship. But perhaps you will +despise such an offer from such a person as I am?” + +“Despise your friendship! No, indeed, Mr. Danielson; I am in too much +need of friends to despise the kindly feeling even of a stranger.” + +“You are changed, Mrs. Westford,” murmured the old clerk; “very much +changed since I knew you.” + +“Since you knew me!” exclaimed Clara. “Have we ever been known to +each other? Your name just now seemed familiar to me; but I have no +recollection of you.” + +“No, Mrs. Westford!” cried Jacob Danielson, with a sudden burst of +passion; “you cannot remember me, because the stamp of degradation +is upon me. It is more than twenty years since I knew you. I was a +man then, with some remnant of self-respect, though the world had +begun to teach me how vile a thing I was, in my misshapen form, +my low birth, my hopeless poverty. But I was a man then, with a +man’s ambitious yearnings to climb some few steps of life’s great +ladder. Now you look only upon a degraded ruin--the hideous wreck +of that which was once a man. Mrs. Westford, do you remember, when +you were completing your education at your father’s country seat, +the humpbacked village schoolmaster who was employed to teach +you classics? Do you remember reading Virgil during the summer +afternoons, before you had grown too grand a lady to care about old +Latin fables?” + +“I do remember the schoolmaster at the dear old park!” cried Clara. +“Yes; and he was called Danielson. I knew that the name was familiar +to me. And you are that very Mr. Danielson? Ah, then indeed you are +sadly changed. I should never have recognized you.” + +“Yet I am not so much changed as the daughter of Sir John Ponsonby,” +said the clerk, with an intensity of bitterness, “if she can deign to +feel one spark of compassion for the wretch who stands before her.” + +“What do you mean, Mr. Danielson? It has not been my habit to refuse +pity to anyone who needed it.” + +“Indeed!” cried Jacob Danielson, with sudden vehemence. “Ah! I see +you have a convenient memory, Mrs. Westford. You have quite forgotten +the day on which the humpbacked scholar was beaten like a rebellious +hound at your bidding!” + +“Beaten!” exclaimed Clara, “at my bidding! What, in Heaven’s name, do +you mean?” + +“O, Mrs. Westford, you have indeed forgotten the past,” said the +clerk, in tones of quiet irony. + +“I have forgotten nothing,” answered Clara. “Pray sit down quietly +and explain yourself. There must be some mistake in all this.” + +The clerk dropped listlessly into a chair. + +“It is so easy for the person who strikes the blow to forget,” he +murmured, “but not so easy for the victim on whom the blow falls.” + +Clara looked at him, with perfect mystification in her countenance. + +“I am weary of these enigmas,” she said coldly; “pray speak plainly, +Mr. Danielson.” + +“I will,” answered the clerk; “I will go back to the day when you +were seventeen years of age--yes, it was your seventeenth birthday; +and I had been teaching you for a year then, and had found you the +brightest pupil whose apt intelligence ever sent a thrill of pride +through a master’s heart. It was your birthday. You and some happy +girls of your own age were to celebrate the day by a rustic _fête_. +You were busy, decorating your favourite rooms with garlands of +flowers, when I came that morning to give you your usual lesson. You +told me that you were to have a holiday--there were to be no studies +that day; but when I would have turned to leave you, Heaven knows how +sorrowfully, you called me back, and invited me--me, the humpbacked, +low-born, village schoolmaster--to share the day’s pleasure, to join +in the simple festival. + +“Can I ever forget that day? Have I ever forgotten it? No, Mrs. +Westford, not once in all these long dreary years has the memory of +that bright summer morning faded away from me. I have drowned it in +fiery drink--I have maddened my miserable brains with brandy; but I +have never forgotten, and I never shall. Upon my deathbed the memory +of my youth’s one passion will haunt me still, as it has haunted me +all my life. + +“I can see you now as I saw you that day, Clara. Ah, let me call you +Clara once more, as I did on that fatal day--as I have called you in +my dreams ever since, as I shall call you with my latest breath when +I die! What can it matter to you if such a wretch as I am insolent +in the madness of my idolatry? What am I but a worm beneath your +feet? Yes, Clara, I can see you now as I saw you then, with your soft +brown hair falling in ringlets to your waist, and shot with wandering +gleams of gold; your large dark eyes, blue with the serene azure +of the skies; your parted lips, more lovely than if they had been +sculptured out of coral. I had Catullus and Horace at my fingers’ +ends in those days, and all manner of poetic fancies used to arise +in my mind as I looked at you. A garland of white lilies crowned +your brow; but the loveliest of them was not fairer than yourself. +You were pleased to be gracious to me; you bade me help you with the +baskets of June roses, the honeysuckle, the seringa, which you were +twining into wreaths and festoons to decorate your pretty rooms. The +proud baronet’s lovely daughter did not know that the humpbacked +schoolmaster was so mad, so presumptuous, as to love her with a +devotion which the fairest of womankind does not always inspire even +once in a lifetime--the devotion of the slavish idolater, who cries, +Give me leave only to lie upon the ground under your feet, that I may +be trampled out of life by the creature I adore! + +“Clara!” cried the clerk, with subdued vehemence, “I went mad +altogether that day--I lost all consciousness of who and what I was. +I might have had the rank of a duke, the wealth of a millionnaire, +the beauty of an Adonis, for all the recollection I had of the +monstrous gulf that separated you and me. I remembered only that you +were beautiful, and that I loved you. In an evil moment my folly +reached its climax. I spoke. I told you all. In one instant I was +reminded of the audacity to which my wild passion had urged me. The +daughter of Sir John Ponsonby answered my mad burst of passionate +prayer with quiet dignity. She did not rebuke my presumption, but +she let me understand how much I had presumed. Had all ended here, +Clara, I could have borne my deserved humiliation, and I should have +cherished your image as that of the purest and best of womankind, +as well as the loveliest. But my punishment did not so end. Your +wrath was not appeased by my humble apology. I slunk away from you +abashed, repentant, and, as I thought, forgiven. You had deceived me +by an appearance of mercy which you did not feel. As I was crossing +the park, dejected, miserable, with my heart bleeding, and tears +that were not all unmanly in my eyes, I was pursued, seized roughly, +violently, by a couple of lacqueys, and dragged by brute force to +your father’s study, where the infuriated baronet sprang on me, and +horsewhipped me until I was unable to crawl from his presence. Then +only was his fury appeased. He sent for a surgeon, and under the +cover of night I was carried home to my lonely dwelling, where I +recovered from my wounds as I might, unnoticed and unaided--except by +a deaf old village crone who succoured me in my helplessness, and +never thought of questioning the nature of my illness, which I told +her arose from rheumatism. + +“Call it cowardice, if you like; I sought no redress from the man +who had assaulted me; I kept the secret of my wrongs, and, as soon +as I was sufficiently recovered, I threw up my situation and came +to London, leaving my native place for ever, and leaving it a +heart-broken man. + +“You had found it impossible to forgive the wretch who dared to +love you, Clara, and who in an evil hour told you of his love. You +urged your father to avenge a wrong which some women would have been +merciful enough to pardon--for even the love of a Caliban is a kind +of tribute.” + +“It is false!” cried Mrs. Westford, with passionate energy; “I never +mentioned your name to my father on that day. I never knew until +this moment that you had suffered an indignity, such a cruel wrong, +at his hands. I remember, now, that my French governess was in the +conservatory adjoining the room in which we were standing when you +made that foolish avowal which I forgave as completely as I regretted +that it should have been spoken. She overheard all, and threatened +to tell my father. I implored her not to betray you, and I believed +until this moment that she had kept your secret. For myself, I should +have been the last to inflict humiliation upon a man whose learning +I respected, and for whose patient kindness as a tutor I had good +reason to be grateful.” + +“Mrs. Westford, is this true?” asked the clerk earnestly. + +“Look in my face, and doubt me if you can,” answered Clara. + +“No, I cannot doubt you,” answered Danielson, with a burst of +emotion. “Truth beams from the eyes whose loveliness has haunted +me throughout a lifetime. O, how I have wronged you! But it is not +yet too late to repair that wrong; and it shall be repaired. Trust +in me, Clara Westford; you have found a friend who will restore you +your rights--an avenger who will bring your enemy, Rupert Godwin, to +justice.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + +THE DUKE OF HARLINGFORD MAKES A DISCOVERY. + + +Esther Vanberg was buried in a churchyard north-west of London, a +rustic spot on the summit of a hill--a churchyard in which a poet +might love to lie and dream away the summer hours. Old yew-trees +spread their solemn shadows on the velvet grass, and the pure hues +of white marble monuments glimmered here and there among the dark +foliage. + +The Jewess had noticed this spot once when riding a little way out of +town with her devoted lover; and she had said, half playfully, that +if she could choose her own grave she would desire nothing better +than to be buried in that sequestered churchyard. + +Vincent Mountford, who forgot no sentiment that those beloved lips +had ever expressed, took care that this wish should be religiously +observed. + +The Jewess was buried in one of the fairest spots in that rustic +churchyard. The funeral was entirely without ostentation, and there +was only one mourner; but perhaps there are few graves over which +such tears are shed as those which filled the eyes of Vincent +Mountford, while the rector was reading the solemn service of the +dead. + +All was over, and the young man drove slowly back to town. All was +over! Alas, how much anguish is conveyed in those three little words! + +The last office of love had been performed, and there was no more to +be done but to leave the quiet churchyard where the loved one lay in +a tranquil slumber, + + Deeper than the frost can bite, + Deeper than the hail can smite, + Deep asleep by day and night, + Our delight. + +For a time at least the Duke of Harlingford was a broken-hearted man. +The glories of his four-in-hand, the finest team in England, had +no further charm for him. Other men of his class were deep in the +delights and excitements of English races and regattas, or hurrying +off to ride in continental steeplechases, or to lose their money at +German spas. But Vincent Mountford felt as if these things could +give him no more pleasure; they were all alike “stale, flat, and +unprofitable,” and he turned from his familiar friends with a kind of +loathing. + +“I never saw a fellow so awfully cut up,” said the Duke’s intimates +to each other dolefully. “There’ll be no shooting at Mountford’s +place this season, and no chance of his standing in for a moor with +Bothwell Wallace, as he talked of doing.” + +It is a bad day for wild Prince Hal’s companions when the prince +takes to wearing sack-cloth and bestrewing his head with ashes. +There were some irreverent worldings who complained that it was +a hard thing Miss Vanberg must needs break her back before the +shooting-season, and at a time when the grouse promised more than +usually good sport. + +Vincent Mountford wrote to one of the first sculptors in England, +begging him to design a monument for the grave of a dearly-loved +friend--a lady who had died in the zenith of her days; but he did not +reveal the name of her whose tomb that monument was to adorn. + +“Let her sleep far away from the memories of her wasted life,” he +thought sadly; “and let those who look upon her resting place know +only that she was young and beautiful and beloved.” + +A sad task remained for Vincent Mountford after the burial of the +Jewess. He had promised to examine her papers, to arrange the many +valuable things she left behind her, and to see that the proceeds of +their sale were handed over to the girl whom Esther Vanberg had so +deeply injured. + +This girl was only known to the Duke as Miss Watson, the _figurante_ +of the Circenses. From the stage-doorkeeper at the theatre he +obtained Violet’s address; then sent for his lawyer, and placed in +his hands the carrying out of Esther’s last wish. + +But before the day appointed for the sale--before the auctioneer’s +assistants entered the _bijou_ little residence in Bolton-row, and +those expensive frivolities on which Esther had squandered a small +fortune _pour se distraire_, were duly set forth in the flourishing +language of a fashionable auctioneer’s catalogue--Vincent Mountford +went alone to examine and destroy the papers left by the Jewess, so +that nothing which she might have wished to keep sacred should fall +into the hands of strangers. The task was a very painful one; and +the young man would have encountered death in its most terrific form +with a pang less keen than he now felt as he went up the familiar +staircase in the bright summer noontide,--that staircase at the top +of which he had so often seen her standing looking down at him, ready +to scold or to praise him, as the humour of the moment prompted her, +but always charming to that one faithful slave who never found his +chains too heavy. + +He entered alone into those elegant little rooms, which Esther’s +beauty had adorned, as some priceless jewel adorns the casket that +contains it. + +The same exotics were blooming in the conservatory--the faded +bouquets, on whose fresh bloom the eyes of the dead had looked, still +remained undisturbed in the vases in which her hands had arranged +them. + +The birds were singing gaily in the sunshine, though the white hands +that had so often tended them lay still and cold in their last +resting-place. A little dog, Esther’s favourite, whined piteously as +he looked up at the Duke, and this faithful creature was the only +object in those rooms that bore witness of the melancholy event which +had almost broken Vincent Mountford’s heart. + +He took from his pocket the little bunch of keys given him by the +Jewess, and seated himself before the piece of furniture, half +cabinet, half writing-table, in which she had kept her papers. + +Nothing could have been more careless than her habits. The Duke +sat for long hours, that would have wearied another man, trying to +introduce some order into that mass of bills and letters, notes of +invitation, tradesmen’s circulars, catalogues of pictures, playbills, +programmes of concerts, and crumpled receipts. + +At last he had looked over them all, and had placed on one side every +fragment of paper which bore any of the beloved handwriting. These +he sorted and folded, as tenderly as a miser might fold a packet of +bank-notes; and when he had collected the last of them, he packed +them very neatly in a sheet of foolscap, and sealed the packet in +several places with his signet-ring. + +Upon this packet he wrote only these few words: + +“Esther’s papers. To be burnt immediately after my death--unopened.” + +He had no wish that the prying eyes of strangers should ever inspect +those records of the woman he had loved; frivolous, meaningless, +though the greater number of them were. Nor yet could he bring +himself to destroy the smallest paper on which the beloved hand had +inscribed the most commonplace words. + +The rest of the papers, with the exception of tradesmen’s bills and +receipts, he burnt. + +Then he turned his attention to the few remaining contents of the +odorous sandal-wood pigeon-holes into which Miss Vanberg had thrust +papers, trinkets, faded flowers, and worn gloves, without the +smallest attempt at classification. + +Among these there was a miniature set in a rim of pearls. + +It was the picture of a lovely woman, a Spanish Jewess, whose face +proclaimed her at once the mother of the dead girl. + +On the back of the gold case which contained the miniature was +engraved the inscription: + + “FROM RUPERT TO HIS BELOVED LOLA.” + +The Duke examined the miniature very closely and then it suddenly +occurred to him-- + +Was there not, perhaps, something more than this inscription--some +hidden spring in the case of the miniature, which might reveal a +secret that Esther Vanberg had been too careless to discover? + +“I will take it to my jeweller,” muttered the young man; “if there is +anything hidden in this massive case--which seems needlessly thick +and heavy--he is the most likely person to find it out.” + +The Duke was not slow to carry out this idea. He drove straight from +Bolton-row to a jeweller’s in Bond-street, and handed the locket to +one of the assistants. + +“If there is anyone in your establishment who understands the +mechanism of these things better than you do, I should be very glad +if you would take him this, and ask him to examine it,” he said. “I +will wait while you do so.” + +The Duke seated himself by the counter, and after he had been waiting +ten minutes, the jeweller’s assistant returned with an elderly man, +who held the locket open in his hand. + +He had discovered a secret spring, the nature of which he explained +to Vincent Mountford. + +“Nobody except a working jeweller could have opened the locket,” he +said in conclusion; “for the spring has evidently not been used for +years. It is a very peculiar piece of jeweller’s work, and has been +made by no English mechanic. The gold and the workmanship are both +undoubtedly foreign.” + +The inner case of the locket contained a second miniature--the +portrait of a young man; a dark handsome face, which seemed very +familiar to the Duke of Harlingford. + +As he drove away from the jeweller’s he brooded thoughtfully upon +that pictured face, trying, but without success, to remember when and +where he had seen a face resembling it. + +“Those dark eyes, that peculiar mouth, are strangely familiar to me,” +he thought; “and yet I cannot tell whom they recall to my mind.” + +The Duke drove across Waterloo Bridge, and sought out the obscure +street in which Clara Westford and her children had lived during the +days of their poverty. He had obtained the _figurante’s_ address from +the door-keeper at the Circenses, and he was now going to announce to +her with his own lips the news of her good fortune. + +All the practical part of the business he left to his lawyer; but he +wished himself to tell Miss Watson of the money which had been left +to her; as he fancied that he should thus more completely carry out +Esther Vanberg’s dying request. He found the house in which Clara and +her daughter lodged; sent up his card by the servant with a request +that he might see Miss Watson on most urgent business. + +He was shown immediately into the shabbily furnished sitting-room, to +which a certain air of refinement had been imparted by Mrs. Westford +and her daughter at a very small cost. A few books, a vase of +flowers, a caged bird, and a work-basket of graceful form, were the +most expensive ornaments Violet had been able to buy; but even these +small things relieved the sordid vulgar poverty of the room. + +Clara Westford was sitting on one side of the little table, working; +while her daughter sat opposite to her, reading aloud. + +She closed the book as the Duke of Harlingford entered. + +He remembered Violet at the Circenses only as a very lovely +girl; he perceived now for the first time that she was a perfect +lady--self-possessed, and yet modest; and to Vincent Mountford’s +mind, more beautiful in her well-worn black dress and simple linen +collar than she had been in her brilliant stage costume. + +He seated himself, at Mrs. Westford’s request; and then he told +Violet in a very few words that he was empowered to inform her of a +small fortune that had been left her by a person whose name was to be +kept a secret. + +“The bequest consists of a balance in the hands of the testator’s +banker, and of personal property of a valuable character, which is to +be sold, in order that the proceeds of the sale may be handed to you +with the other money in one sum. The amount will not be a large one. +Four or five thousand pounds at most.” + +Four or five thousand! It seemed an enormous sum to Violet, who had +felt the keenest pangs of poverty. She burst into hysterical tears; +for she was completely overcome by the thought that henceforward her +mother might be spared at least the anguish of want. + +But suddenly she wiped her tears away, and addressed the Duke with +imploring earnestness. + +“O, sir,” she exclaimed, “are you sure that no degradation attaches +to this mysterious bequest? Why should this money be left to me by a +person who conceals his name? Can you assure me, on your honour, that +I am justified in accepting this unexpected wealth?” + +“I give you my word, as a gentleman, that you are justified in taking +the money that has been left you,” answered the Duke gravely. “It +is bequeathed by a lady who once did you an injury, and who most +sincerely repented that wrong before she died. The thought that the +gift of her fortune might do something to repair that injury was a +solace to her on her deathbed. And I assure you that you would be +actuated by a false pride were you to reject this bequest.” + +“In that case, I will accept it, gratefully, gladly,” returned +Violet. “You would wish me to do so, would you not, mamma?” + +“Yes, Violet; for if I can believe in the evidence of an honest face, +I am sure this gentleman would not advise you to take a false step,” +said Mrs. Westford. + +The Duke bowed. + +“I am here to execute the last wishes of the dead,” he answered +mournfully. + +“But I never knew that anyone had wronged me,” exclaimed Violet, +“except one person; and that was not a lady, but a gentleman--or, +at any rate, a person whose rank gave him a right to be called a +gentleman.” + +“You will never know the entire history of that wrong,” answered the +Duke. “I rejoice to see you here in safety with your mother, and to +know that you have therefore escaped from all serious peril. As for +the bequest, of which I have informed you, I beg you to accept it +when it reaches you without question, and let the dead be forgiven.” + +Little more was said; and the Duke departed, pleased, even in the +midst of his grief, by the knowledge that Esther Vanberg’s fortune +had fallen into the hands of a deserving girl. + +From Lambeth he drove to his club, where he dismissed his cab and +strolled into the reading-room. + +He had no wish for society; but solitude was very terrible to him, +for it was haunted by the shadow of the dead--the mournful memories +of the loved and the lost. + +He fell back, therefore, into his old habits, and took his accustomed +seat in the public reading-room, though not without a strange sense +of wonder that he should be able to take his place amongst other +men, to read the evening papers, and talk in the conventional manner +about the events recorded in them, while she was lying in that quiet +churchyard. + +Could she indeed be there? Was it true? Was it possible? The +catastrophe which had caused her death he could realize--her death +itself; but not the fact that all was so completely finished, +so entirely a thing of the past; and that she was lying in her +grave--never to look upon him again on this earth, unconscious of his +love, regardless of his anguish, a creature for ever removed from him +and the world of which he was a part. He sat for upwards of an hour, +with a newspaper before him, brooding over the great mystery. There +were very few people in the reading-room at this time, for it was +late. The dusk was closing in already; and the _habitués_ of the club +were almost all of them dining in one of the larger apartments. + +The Duke left his seat by-and-by, and walked to the window. The room +was very dreary in the waning daylight, and the street below the +windows was almost deserted, the West-end world having gone home to +dine. + +A gentleman was seated close to the open window reading a paper; he +lowered the sheet from before his face and looked up, as Vincent +Mountford approached him. + +This gentleman was Rupert Godwin, the banker. He had come to town +in search of Julia, and had dropped into the club, pale and worn +out by fatigue, to take a hasty dinner. He had heard nothing of his +missing daughter; and he had just returned from the office of a +private detective, whom he had been consulting as to the best means +of seeking her. + +In his own words, the web was closing round him. Narrower and +narrower grew the fatal circle; and he scarcely knew which way to +step without finding himself face to face with some new danger. + +As he looked up at the Duke of Harlingford, whom he had met very +frequently in society and in the familiar intercourse of the club +reading-room, he tried to affect some of his old ease of manner, +though the effort was a painful one. + +“Good-evening, Duke,” he exclaimed. “How is it that I find you +here at an hour when you ought to be glorifying some Belgravian +dinner-table by your presence?” + +The young man looked intently at that pale face, those un-English +black eyes, dimly seen in the gathering dusk. This face--the face +of Rupert Godwin the banker--was the image which had floated before +his mental vision since he had seen the hidden miniature in Esther +Vanberg’s locket. The face in the portrait was the youthful likeness +of that face on which Vincent Mountford now looked. + +The Duke knew something of the banker’s history. He knew that Rupert +Godwin had, in his early manhood, been a resident in Spain, where a +branch house belonging to the banker had been carried on by a junior +partner. + +Rapid as lightning an electric chain of ideas flashed through the +mind of the Duke. + +This man, this banker, half Spaniard, half English, was the betrayer +of the beautiful Spanish Jewess, and the father of Esther Vanberg. + +Occupied as Mr. Godwin was with his own thoughts, he could not help +perceiving the strange expression, the solemn earnestness, in the +Duke of Harlingford’s face. + +“There is something amiss with you to-night, is there not?” he asked. + +“Yes,” answered Vincent Mountford: “I have lately lost one who was +most dear to me. It is but a very short time since I stood beside +the grave of the only woman I ever loved. Do you know the name of +Vanberg, Mr. Godwin?” + +The banker started; and pale though his face had been, it grew a +shade paler as he looked up nervously at the Duke. + +The young man handed him the miniature of the beautiful Jewess. + +“Did you ever see this before?” he asked. + +The shrinking, half-shuddering movement with which Rupert Godwin +recoiled from that faded miniature in its jewelled case told enough. + +“Your daughter, your abandoned, forgotten daughter, would have cursed +you on her dying bed, Rupert Godwin,” said the Duke, solemnly, “if +the shadow of death had not softened all things before her eyes. She +uttered no word of love or forgiveness--she only told me the story +of her life. The days of duelling are past, or I might tell you more +plainly what I think of a man who leaves two helpless women to starve +in the streets of London. As it is, I will say only that you and I +had better meet as strangers after to-night.” + +The Duke bowed gravely, and turned his back upon the man who had once +carried his head so proudly amongst the noblest frequenters of that +room. Now he had no word of defiance to utter. He felt that the fatal +circle was narrowing. A strange influence had been upon him for the +last few days, and all his old hardihood of spirit seemed to have +deserted him. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. + +THE FACE OF THE LOST. + + +The Retreat, the abode in which Dr. Wilderson Snaffley received his +patients, was a place which seemed eminently calculated to drive the +sanest person mad. + +Dismal walls of an unusual height, and ornamented at the top with +iron spikes, surrounded a dreary wilderness of tangled bushes and +tall lean poplars, which was designated a garden. In the centre +of this garden stood a high square house; a house which had once +been white, but from whose damp-stained walls the stucco had peeled +off in great patches. Long rows of curtainless windows, every one +the precise pattern of its neighbour, looked out upon the dismal +wilderness. There were not even blinds to shut out the glaring heat +of the sun; but wooden shutters, painted black, swung to and fro +before the windows with every gust of wind, and the rusty hinges +made a dreary creaking noise, that was like the groaning of a human +creature in pain. + +This was the place of which Dr. Snaffley spoke so pleasantly to +the friends of his patients, describing it always as “a delightful +country mansion, standing in the midst of its own grounds.” + +But the doctor knew his patrons; and he was not deluded by the +sympathetic looks or compassionate phrases of the people who +intrusted their relatives to his keeping, and who took no trouble +to ascertain the nature of the place that sheltered the afflicted +creatures, or the comforts that softened their calamity. Dr. Snaffley +knew that no one who entered the gates of the Retreat would have +committed a beloved relative to his care. The unfortunates who came +to that dark abode were people who were to be _got rid of_. No +matter how cheerless the home, how wretchedly furnished the room, +how miserable the daily fare, how chill and damp the atmosphere; the +patients were only likely to die the sooner, and the bitterly-grudged +stipend cease to be paid. + +Dr. Snaffley took patients at different rates, for he varied his +charge according to the circumstances of the persons who employed +him. His policy was neither to ill-use his patients nor to starve +them; his policy was to keep them alive at the smallest possible +cost. He was not personally cruel; but he allowed the men and women +he employed to do pretty much as they liked; while he lived his +own life, and enjoyed himself after his own manner in London, only +putting in an appearance at the Retreat now and then. + +In that joyless, comfortless mansion there was, it may be hoped, less +actual cruelty than in some of those dens of iniquity which have +encumbered this beautiful earth. There were padded rooms, into which +the dangerous lunatics were thrust, and kept under lock and key; but +the harmless lunatics were allowed considerable liberty. The walls +were so high, and the neighbourhood so utterly desolate, that there +was little chance either of escape or of communication being held +with the outer world. + +By far the larger number of his patients, and those for whom Dr. +Wilderson Snaffley was the most liberally paid, _were not mad_, but +were the wretched victims who, for some reason or other, had been +put out of the way by their unnatural relatives upon the infamous +pretence of insanity. + +These patients were very quiet. At first they were loud in +their complaints. They cried out bitterly for justice; they +threatened--they implored--they wept--they wrote letters, and tried +with piteous persistence to hold some communication with the outer +world--to find some means of reaching the ear of mercy, of enlisting +the voice of justice in their cause. But no eye save that of Heaven +saw their sufferings; no mortal ear but that of merciless gaolers +heard their complaints; and in time they were all wearied out, one +after another, and submitted with a stupid apathy to an inevitable +fate. A hopeless, changeless melancholy took possession of them. They +sat motionless at the windows, staring blankly out upon the gloomy +prospect. They rarely conversed with one another; for what could they +talk of in that living grave? + +Sometimes they roamed listlessly in the dreary wilderness, staring +at those walls which shut them out from all they had ever loved +or cherished. They ate their scanty meals in despondent silence. +The wild chatter of the really mad patients tortured them with its +discordant jargon; and they had no heart to speak amidst the Babel +that surrounded them. + +Thus it was not strange that many who entered that place as sane as +the wretches who sent them there became at last raving maniacs. + +All Dr. Snaffley wanted was the liberty to enjoy himself abroad, and +the power to save a fortune for his old age from the profits of the +Retreat. He was already rich; but every day brought him new wealth, +and every day made him more greedy of gain. + +Still, notwithstanding the _good luck_ that had attended his dreary +abode for many years, Dr. Snaffley had never before caught so rich +a prize as the patient committed to his care by Rupert Godwin the +banker. + +The proprietor of the Retreat knew his power; he knew that the +patient called Lewis Wilton, who had been placed under his care, was +capable of revealing a secret that might have condemned Rupert Godwin +to a felon’s doom. + +The patient once within the walls of the Retreat, the secret was +safe--as safe as if it had been buried in the grave of a second +victim. + +“If Rupert Godwin had dared, he would have murdered this young man,” +thought Dr. Snaffley; “he only pays me because he hasn’t pluck enough +to play the bolder game.” + +For some days and nights after his removal to the Retreat, Lionel +Westford remained still unconscious--still a prey to delirious +fancies, to terrible visions, to all the wild delusions of a violent +attack of brain-fever. + +But Dr. Wilderson Snaffley, although a scoundrel and a charlatan, +was not without a certain cleverness in his professional capacity. +He prescribed for the young man with a watchful care that he did not +often bestow upon a patient, for Lionel Westford’s life was worth +five hundred pounds a year to him--more than the income derived from +five ordinary patients. + +For this reason the invalid enjoyed privileges that had never before +been shown to any inmate of the Retreat. + +A private bedchamber was allotted to him, instead of a miserable +truckle-bed in one of the bare wards, where twenty patients slept +side by side, with the wind whistling round them from the chinks in +the worm-eaten doors and window-frames. The battered furniture of the +dreary mansion was ransacked in order that a tolerably comfortable +bed and a dilapidated easy-chair might be found for Lionel’s private +room. + +The fever-stricken young man progressed very rapidly in the hands of +his new attendant; and in little more than a week after his removal +from Wilmingdon Hall the patient had recovered consciousness. + +That recovery of consciousness was the most awful hour in Lionel +Westford’s life--more awful even than the hour in which, stricken by +the revelation of his father’s murder, he fell senseless on the turf +in Wilmingdon Park. + +As he opened his eyes and stared stupidly about him, trying +helplessly to remember where he was, the bare and wretched aspect of +the chamber sent a deadly chill to his heart. + +Where was he? Never before had he seen those dreary, dirty walls. +That dingy paper, with its geometrical pattern in dirty yellow and +faded brown, falling in tattered shreds here and there, and looking +as if it had not been renewed for twenty years, and those bare +carpetless boards, belonged to no chamber that he could remember; +for, poor and shabby though his Lambeth lodging had been, it had at +least been clean, and here all looked dirty and disorderly. At first +the invalid’s mind was too weak to arrive at any definite conclusion. +He could only lie staring at the wretched chamber, with a vague +wonder in his mind. + +He knew he had never before been in that room; but for a time that +was all he knew or sought to know. He was not terrified by its +strangeness. He did not recollect where he had last been, or what had +happened to him. His mind was almost a blank. + +Then, little by little, memory came back, with all its power to +torture. He remembered his pretty bedchamber at Wilmingdon Hall--the +perfume of flowers blowing in at the open window, the luxurious +furniture, the comfort and beauty of all around him. + +Then the image of Julia Godwin arose before him in all the splendour +of her beauty. Then a dark form pushed that brilliant image aside, +and the face of the banker scowled at him with hate and fear in every +lineament. + +It was the countenance that had so often looked down upon him in +his delirium. It looked on him now, as it had looked then; and it +recalled the memory of the crime that had been committed in the +northern wing. + +Then the picture was complete. Lionel remembered all the past--the +mystery which it had been his fate to discover; the secret which +Providence had revealed to him; the evidence that had been link by +link united into one perfect chain, identifying the Captain of the +_Lily Queen_ with the victim of Rupert Godwin. + +But where was he? How had he been removed from the luxurious chamber +which had been his to this dismal and poverty-stricken room, such +as no gentleman’s servant would have occupied without complaining +bitterly of the master who allotted it to him? + +He fancied that he must have been removed into some desolate and +disused chamber in Wilmingdon Hall. He was in the north wing, +perhaps, in one of the bedchambers of that forgotten building, which +ignorant people believed to be haunted by the shadows of the dead. + +It was noon when Lionel Westford lay helpless in his lonely chamber, +with the anguish of consciousness, instead of the childish fancies +of delirium. The sunlight streamed into the room through the narrow +opening of a shutter which had been blown against the outside of the +window. + +The window reached to the ground; and the young man was still +scrutinizing his apartment with curious eyes, when the shutter was +blown back from the window, and the chamber, which had been only +dimly lighted before, was suddenly exposed to the full glare of the +mid-day sun. + +Lionel Westford turned his gaze from the chamber itself to the +prospect without. + +In all this time he had never once doubted that he was still an +inmate of Wilmingdon Hall. He fancied that he had only been removed +to some remote and uninhabited part of the house, where his ravings +could not be heard--where no prying ear could listen to the ominous +words which might fall from his lips. + +He believed this, and he was not disabused of his error; for, by a +strange coincidence, the scene which met his eyes beyond the window +of his room was not unlike the neglected garden which was to be seen +from the windows of the northern wing. + +There all was ruin and desolation--overgrown shrubs, whose straggling +branches were strangers to the gardener’s pruning-knife, long rank +grass, ill-looking weeds, moss-grown gravel. Here were the same +weeds, the same rank grass, blown to and fro by the autumn wind, the +same weird tangled bushes, withering under the autumn sun. + +The northern garden at Wilmingdon Hall was shut in by an old brick +wall; a noble mass of brickwork, with buttresses that might have +served to sustain the ramparts of some mediæval castle. Here too the +wall loomed, dark and dismal-looking, against the blue autumn sky. + +“Yes,” muttered Lionel Westford; “they have removed me to the +northern wing. The murderer feared to hear himself denounced by the +lips of his victim’s son; and he has banished me here--here, where I +may lie forgotten and neglected; here, where _she_ may never know my +fate! I only wonder that he has let me live; for he must know that, +if I am ever able to leave this place, I shall devote the rest of my +life to the task of bringing my father’s assassin to justice.” + +Then, as he put the story of the past together bit by bit, Lionel +Westford remembered that he had entered Wilmingdon Hall under an +assumed name. He did not think of his mother’s letter, or his +father’s miniature--two things which bore direct evidence to his +identity. + +“I am only a stranger to Rupert Godwin,” thought the young man, +“unless in my delirium--for I suppose I have been delirious--I have +revealed who I am, and my knowledge of his iniquity. Surely, if I had +done so, he would have murdered me while I lay helpless in his power, +as he murdered my father; and since I live, I may be sure that I owe +my life to his ignorance.” + +For some time he lay too weak to move, gazing straight before him at +the desolate garden, the neglected weeds waving drearily to and fro +in the wind. + +“Strange,” he thought, “very strange, that they should have banished +me to the building within whose walls my father met his fate.” + +Then, with a faint thrill of that latent superstition which lurks in +almost every breast, he remembered the ghastly stories he had heard +about that northern wing--the shrouded form which had scared ignorant +intruders, and sent them shrieking from that deserted edifice. + +He remembered all this now. He had smiled at the foolish stories +when they were told him, and had laughed to scorn the servants’ talk +of ghosts and goblins; but now, weakened by his illness, prostrate, +lonely, and wretched, Lionel thought very differently of the gloomy +regions of which he fancied himself an inhabitant. + +As the dreary moments crept on, intolerably long while they left him +in such miserable uncertainty with regard to his fate, the invalid’s +spirits sank lower and lower, and the agonizing tears of despair +filled his eyes. + +Then a kind of superstitious horror took possession of him. His +utter loneliness, the strange quiet of the place, oppressed him to +an extreme degree. The thought of his father’s assassination became +every moment more vivid, until he pictured the scene of horror in all +its hideous detail. + +“O, God!” he exclaimed, bursting into a flood of hysterical tears, +“if Rupert Godwin does know who I am, it must have been by the +instinct of a refined and hellish cruelty that he decided upon +banishing me to this deserted building. If ever the dead yet haunted +the living, surely my father’s shadow will haunt me.” + +The words had scarcely escaped his lips, the tears were still wet +upon his cheeks, when a dark form suddenly came between him and the +sunlight. + +A white death-like face looked in at him with a wan melancholy gaze. + +Lionel Westford lifted himself from the pillow, uttered a wild +prolonged shriek, and then fell back unconscious. + +It was his father’s face that had looked at him through the sunlit +window--the face of the Captain of the _Lily Queen_, the face that +had smiled upon him in the days of his careless boyhood; but changed +into the face of death. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. + +SUSPENSE. + + +Rupert Godwin was too desperately circumstanced, and too hardened +a sinner, to be much affected by the revelation made by the Duke +of Harlingford with regard to Esther Vanberg’s identity with his +deserted daughter. Are there human beings created without that +attribute of the mind, that natural love and tenderness, pity and +remorse, which we blend into one general whole and call “a heart”? + +It would seem so; it would seem as if there are some natures in +which there is no such element as heart or conscience. These are the +exceptional criminals whom men wonder at, and whose iniquities the +merciful are apt to ascribe to mental disease. + +The banker had been struck by Esther Vanberg’s likeness to the lovely +Spanish Jewess whom his treachery had lured from the home of a +doting father, a rich wine-merchant of Seville, who had toiled long +and patiently in order to amass the fortune which was to secure the +future welfare of his only child, Lola. The girl was engaged to be +married to the cashier in the Seville banking-house belonging to the +Godwin firm, when the young _roué_ saw her, and at once determined to +oust his inferior. + +Rupert Godwin was handsomer and more polished than his _employé_. +He was already a man of the world; the cashier was only an honest +and devoted lover, eager to achieve a better position in life before +he claimed the heiress of old Isaac Mendez. While the young man +worked at his bureau, the employer hung about the footsteps of the +merchant’s daughter, followed her to church and bull-fight, bribed +her old nurse, flattered and fooled her doting father, and turned the +poor girl’s head by his impassioned pleading. The end came only too +quickly--the hackneyed conclusion of the hackneyed story. + +Lola let herself quietly out of the paternal dwelling one starless, +airless summer night, and left Seville under the protection of Rupert +Godwin. They started at once for Paris, where Lola had been told the +marriage would take place. There were reasons why it could not be +performed at Seville. Mr. Godwin’s father had formed plans of his own +for his son’s matrimonial settlement, and for a time the marriage +would have to be kept secret. + +“There is no safer place than Paris,” said Rupert; and Lola, who had +heard Paris talked of as a kind of earthly elysium, was quite ready +to agree to this proposal. + +In Paris the banker lodged his divinity in one of the prettiest +villas in the Champs Elysées, a _bijou_ mansion built and decorated +in the Moorish style, at a fabulous outlay, for a Muscovite prince +lately deceased, and bought under the hammer by Mr. Godwin at about +ten per cent of its original cost. In this luxurious nest Lola Mendez +found herself a kind of fairy princess--flattered, beloved; but she +never became the wife of Rupert Godwin. + +Rupert Godwin had thought it quite probable that the _figurante_ +might be his own daughter; but he had concerned himself no more about +her fortunes in her lovely and reckless womanhood than he had done in +her deserted girlhood. + +But when the Duke showed him the portrait of his victim, the proud +man did feel the humiliation of his position. He winced beneath +the cold contempt of the generous young patrician, for he was not +without the plebeian’s natural reverence for rank, and it was hard to +be despised by a duke. He had sunk so very low now, that every new +stroke wounded him to the quick. Hemmed in on every side by danger, a +superstitious terror had taken possession of him, and he saw in every +incident of his troubled life a new omen of ruin. + +His daughter’s flight had filled him with unspeakable fear. He had +loved this girl with the bad man’s selfish love, which sees in the +beloved object only a source of pleasure or happiness to himself; +still, he had loved her, and he felt her desertion deeply. + +But this was the least element in his trouble. Julia knew his guilty +secret; she doubtless possessed the proof that in intention, if not +in act, he was a poisoner. + +Would she betray him? Surely, not willingly. But she might be seized +with a fever, such as that which had stricken Lionel Westford, and +in her delirium she might utter the accusing words which would lead, +perhaps, step by step, to the discovery of all his crimes. + +Ah, if the criminal could only foresee the agonies that follow the +commission of crime, even when the torturing voice of conscience +is dumb; if he could calculate the labour, the patience, the +self-abnegation, the watchfulness which will be required of him +during every hour of his ensuing existence, in which the one end +and aim of his life will be to keep _that_ secret,--surely the very +selfishness which suggests the crime would restrain the hand of the +criminal. + +The search for Julia had been, so far, made in vain. Advertisements +had been inserted in the papers; inquiries had been made in every +direction, but without avail. If she had read the appeals in those +advertisements, Julia had been inexorable, for she had never answered +them. + +But Julia had not read those advertisements. While private detectives +were searching for her in every direction suggested by Rupert Godwin, +the missing girl had fled to a neighbourhood which the banker had +never dreamt of suggesting. + +She had dressed herself, upon the morning of her flight, in some dark +homely garments which she had been making for the poor; and, thus +disguised, with an unfashionable straw bonnet, and a thick veil over +her face, she had walked to Hertford in the dewy morning, while it +was yet scarcely light. She had taken the first train for London, +stepping quite unobserved into a second-class carriage. From the +station at King’s Cross she had driven straight to Waterloo, going +thence by express to Winchester. At the Winchester station she had +taken a fly, which drove her to a quiet retreat in the New Forest. + +In her journey thither she had evidently a settled purpose, for her +conduct from first to last had betrayed no hesitation as to whither +she should go. + + * * * * * + +Three or four days after the old clerk’s visit to the lodging in the +Waterloo-road, Clara Westford received a letter in the handwriting +which had been so familiar to her in her early girlhood, when the +deformed schoolmaster had devoted himself to her education, inspired +by a passion which had been the keynote of his life,--such a passion +as Quasimodo felt for the beautiful dancing-girl--such a passion as +in the breast of Quasimodo’s master, the priest of Nôtre Dame, called +itself fatality. + +The old clerk’s letter was very brief:-- + +“I told you I could atone in some measure for the wrong I inflicted +upon you when I imagined your father’s treatment of me was inspired +by your express request. You shall see that I can make some amends +for having thus suspected you of conduct which was foreign to your +noble nature. If you will come with your daughter to the bank parlour +this day week, at twelve o’clock, you will receive my atonement; and +at the same time you will, perhaps, experience the greatest and the +happiest surprise that you have ever known in the whole course of +your life. + + “--Your respectful and obedient + “JACOB DANIELSON. + “_Tuesday morning._” + +A surprise! An atonement! It was quite in vain that Clara Westford +perused and reperused the old clerk’s letter in the hope of +discovering something of its meaning. + +A surprise--a happy surprise--wrote Jacob Danielson. Alas, what happy +surprise could there be for her, since her husband, the lover of her +youth, the adored friend and companion of her womanhood, met his fate +at the hands of an assassin? + +“Unless Jacob Danielson can bring the dead back to life, I know not +what happiness he can give me,” thought Clara mournfully. + +She was almost crushed down by the weight of her sorrows. They had +come upon her, one after another, without even a brief interval of +peace. Only a short time had elapsed since her daughter had been +restored to her, and already a new grief was racking the mother’s +heart. + +Her son had never responded to that letter in which she had told +him of her meeting with Gilbert Thornleigh--a letter which was of a +nature to demand an immediate answer. + +Day after day she had expected the reply; but none had come--for the +reader knows the cause of Lionel Westford’s silence, and how little +power he had to respond to that appalling communication. The mother +wrote again and again, imploring some answer to her anxious letters; +but still the post brought no tidings of the beloved son. + +Mrs. Westford had no address, except the Hertford post-office, to +which she could direct her letters. She believed her son to be living +in the town of Hertford, and she had imagined that forgetfulness +alone had prevented his sending her the address of the house in which +he lived. + +But as time wore on, and still no answer came to her letters, Clara +Westford felt that something must have happened to her son. Lionel +was the last in the world to neglect a mother’s supplicating letters; +he had always been the most attentive and devoted of sons. + +“My boy is ill,” exclaimed Clara, when she found herself no longer +able to keep her uneasiness hidden from Violet. “He must be +dangerously ill,” she cried; “dying, perhaps; for if he were able to +hold his pen, if he were able to dictate a letter, I am sure that he +would not leave me in this state of suspense.” + +On the day after she had received Jacob Danielson’s letter, Mrs. +Westford determined on going to Hertford. Her little stock of money +was nearly exhausted; but she had just enough to pay the expenses +of the journey, and she had no longer the grim visage of starvation +frowning upon her darkly in the future, for Violet’s mysterious +good fortune had changed the worldly position of the widow and her +daughter. + +“Do not despair, dearest mother,” pleaded Violet; “even amidst all +our bitter miseries, Providence has not wholly deserted us. What can +be more providential than the chance by which I inherit a fortune +from some mysterious benefactress, whose name I do not even know? +Depend upon it, dearest mother, the turning-point has come on the +dark road, and in future our path will be smoother than it has been +during the last year, even though we may have little sunshine to +illumine our lives,” murmured Violet sadly. + +She was thinking of George Stanmore, the lover whose fancied +inconstancy was the settled sorrow of her life--a grief endured so +patiently, a burden borne with such Christian resignation, that +it had left no shadow on the calm loveliness of her pensive face. +Her beauty was altered in character since the days when she had +wandered, light-hearted as some wood-nymph, in the depths of the New +Forest; but it was even more exquisite now in its pensive gravity of +expression than it had been when radiant with the smiles of careless +girlhood. + +Mrs. Westford set out alone for Hertford. Violet had entreated to be +allowed to accompany her mother, but Clara refused. + +“No, Violet,” she said; “Heaven only knows what I may have to go +through. I may find my boy lying in his grave, buried by strangers +who did not even know of his mother’s existence. I may find him on a +sick-bed: in that case I need not tell you that I shall remain with +him. But, whatever may happen, I will telegraph to you, Violet, if I +am detained.” + +It was with a very heavy heart that Clara Westford started on that +journey. She seated herself in the corner of a second-class carriage, +with her face hidden by a shabby crape veil; and she took little +notice of her fellow-passengers, or of the autumn landscape that +spun past the open windows of the carriage. Her heart was oppressed +by the anticipation of some calamity. The image of her beloved son, +racked by sickness, or lying still in death, haunted her brain with +a torturing persistence. The voices of her companions jarred upon +her ears. It was so terrible to hear their careless laughter--their +gay discussions of the pleasures awaiting them at the end of their +journey--their eager talk of business to be done, and money to +be gained, at this or that market-town--their speculation and +argumentation about the state of the crops in the country they were +passing through--while before her there was only a blank horizon, +darkened by the shadow of a hideous fear. It seemed to her that her +life and her sorrows must be exceptional in a world where people +could be so busy and so free from care as all these fellow-passengers +appeared to be. + +At last she reached her destination, and a sickness like death itself +came over her as she told herself that she would soon learn the +worst. She went at once to one of the porters, and inquired her way +from the station to the post-office. + +Here she fancied that her suspense would end. The people belonging to +the office would be able to tell her the address of her son, and she +would have nothing to do but to go straight to his lodging. + +But an unutterable despair took possession of her when the woman who +answered her inquiries told her that she knew nothing whatever of the +gentleman whose letters had been addressed to him under the name of +Lionel Westford. + +“We have so many people call for letters,” she said, “that it is +quite impossible we can remember them all.” + +On looking into the pigeon-hole where the letters addressed under the +initial W. were deposited, the woman found three letters directed to +Lionel Westford. + +Clara asked permission to look at them, and found that they were her +own three letters of inquiry, written one after the other during the +period of her alarm respecting Lionel. + +The woman returned them to the pigeon-hole, as she could give them up +to no one but the person to whom they were addressed. + +Mrs. Westford asked the postmistress if she remembered the gentleman +who had been accustomed to call for letters bearing that address. + +Yes, the woman remembered him perfectly. She had been struck by his +good looks, his affable manner. She remembered the last time he +called. It was on a very bright afternoon, but she could not say +exactly how long ago. + +Had he ever told her in what part of the town he lived? + +No, he had been very reserved, though so pleasant-spoken. He had +never said anything about himself. + +After this, Clara Westford wandered hopelessly about the town until +long after dark, making inquiries in every direction where she +thought there might be the smallest chance of obtaining a clue to +Lionel’s whereabouts. + +She went to a printseller’s, to several booksellers’, to all the +inns, even to humble little taverns in obscure by-streets and +alleys, where poverty alone would seek a resting-place. But there +was only one answer to her inquiries. No one had heard the name of +Westford--no one had met with any stranger from London answering to +the description which Mrs. Westford gave of her son. + +It was ten o’clock when Clara returned to the railway station, +disconsolate and broken-hearted. Fortunately for her, the last train +had not yet left; and after waiting some time she took her place in +one of the second-class carriages, and was conveyed back to London as +ignorant of her son’s whereabouts as she had been when she set out +that morning to seek for him. + +Violet knew by her mother’s face, the moment she looked at her, that +no good tidings had greeted her at Hertford. + +She knelt by Mrs. Westford’s side, removed the heavy black shawl from +her shoulders with gentle, caressing hands, and tried by every means +in her power to console the unhappy woman. + +“You have not found him, mother,” she said. “I can see that by your +face. But is it not better to be still uncertain of his fate than +to know, perhaps, that we have lost him? There is always hope where +there is uncertainty. Ill news travels fast, you know, dearest. I +am sure we should have heard if anything serious had happened to my +brother. If he had been seized with illness, we should have been told +of it. He must have had letters about him containing our address, and +in such cases there is always some good Samaritan to summon a sick +man’s relations. Do you know, mamma darling, I have an idea that the +surprise alluded to in Mr. Danielson’s letter must be something that +concerns Lionel. Try to hope this, dearest; and do not give way to +grief which may be entirely groundless.” + +With such a loving comforter, Clara Westford could not quite despair. +At the worst, it was a relief not to have heard ill news of Lionel. +He had left Hertford most likely. His letters had been intrusted to +strangers, perhaps, to carry to the post, and had never been posted. +And again, in spite of herself, Clara could not help feeling some +confidence in the mysterious hints of the old clerk. + +A surprise, and a happy surprise, he had written. Ah, surely some +great joy must be in store for her. She had suffered so much, that +it was scarcely unreasonable she should expect some blessing at the +hands of Providence. + +“But they cannot give me back the dead,” thought Clara. “I can only +hope to go down to the grave in peace, with my children by my side. +No power on earth can restore the lost, nor give me back the happy +days in which my husband and I walked side by side in the dear old +garden at the Grange.” + +As she mused thus, the widow’s thoughts went back to that happy time. +She fancied herself once more leaning on her husband’s arm--proud of +him, and of his love; the happiest wife whose heart ever beat faster +at the sound of a husband’s footstep. + +On the day which had been mentioned in the clerk’s letter, Clara +Westford and her daughter dressed themselves neatly in their mourning +garments and walked into the City. + +Clara’s mind had been much disturbed by the mysterious tenor of the +old man’s letter. + +That he should ask her to meet him in the bank parlour was in itself +very extraordinary. That room was the sanctuary of Rupert Godwin; and +the clerk must have unusual power if he could venture to make any +appointment of his own in that apartment. + +But the entire contents of the letter were a mystery to Clara, and +she resolved on obeying the old clerk in blind confidence, since she +was quite unable to penetrate his motives. His manner had impressed +her with the perfect sincerity of his wish to serve her. + +Thus it was that she presented herself at the bank in Lombard-street +at the appointed hour, accompanied by her daughter. + +The two ladies were shown at once into the parlour, where they found +Rupert Godwin seated at the table, with Jacob Danielson standing at +the back of his chair. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. + +RESURGAM. + + +Rupert Godwin had been summoned to the bank by a letter from his +clerk. + +“My dear sir,” wrote Jacob, “things are looking very black in the +City, and the old rumour is beginning to get afloat again. You had +better come to the office and look into matters yourself. I have +made a business appointment for you to-morrow, at twelve sharp; and +as it is an affair of some considerable importance I would recommend +you to be punctual.--Obediently yours, J. D.” + +This letter had been addressed to the banker’s West-end apartments; +and it was this summons which had brought him to the bank about three +minutes before Clara and Violet entered it. + +For some time Rupert Godwin’s affairs had been gradually sinking back +into the state in which they had been before his theft of the twenty +thousand pounds intrusted to him by the sea captain. + +That sum was not the tenth part of the amount that would have been +needed to restore the firm to a solvent position. But it had been +enough to stop the leak in the ship, and to enable the rotten old +vessel to right herself for a time, while her captain sailed in +search of new gold-fields. + +Small depositors--always the first to take alarm--had been appeased. +Suspicion had been set at rest by the promptitude with which all +demands were satisfied; and customers who had withdrawn their +balances in a fever of alarm, had brought back their custom when the +panic was over. + +Unhappily for Rupert Godwin, this halcyon state of things could not +endure for ever. The effects of the preceding year’s commercial +panic were still felt. The edifice of credit had been shaken to its +foundations, and the enchanted temple still tottered, frail as some +confectioner’s fairy fabric of spun sugar. + +There were prophetic rumours of an approaching crisis more alarming +than that through which the commercial classes of London had passed, +more or less scorched and scathed by the ordeal, so lately. There +were those who said that the first blast of the trumpet which +sounded the alarm in the halls of the Stock Exchange would ring the +death-knell of Rupert Godwin’s credit. + +There was one who knew this only too well; and that one was the +banker himself. He knew that an hour’s run upon his bank would +demonstrate the fact of his insolvency. + +He had been insolvent for more than ten years, and had borne the +burden of that guilty secret, knowing that whenever the crash +came thousands of innocent people would suffer for the inordinate +extravagance which had sapped the capital of one of the most +respectable private banks in the metropolis. + +Utterly indifferent as to the sufferings of other people, this +knowledge had troubled Rupert Godwin very little. But he was +considerably disturbed by the thought of his own ruin--his disgrace, +and perhaps even poverty; or, at any rate, a miserable state +of existence which to him would be little better than absolute +indigence--a kind of suspension between the heaven of wealth and +the hell of penury. “Better to be an outcast and Bohemian, begging +in the high-road by day and sleeping in an empty barn by night, +than to drag out the remnant of my days as a dreary old twaddler +in some suburban cottage, with a maid-of-all-work to wait upon me, +and a garden thirty feet square to walk in,” the Sybarite said +to himself as he contemplated the future. He had tried to make a +purse for himself; but of late his mind had been entirely absorbed +by considerations that were even more alarming than his financial +difficulties; and he had not been able to garner any great store +against the day of ruin. He had set aside something; but even that +something would be wrested from him if he did not make his plans for +a speedy escape from the financial storm whose first hoarse thunders +already rumbled ominously in the distance. And those commercial +tempests travel so quickly! + +Upon his confidential clerk’s fidelity the banker relied with +implicit confidence; not because he believed the clerk to be attached +to his person, or bound to him by any sense of honour. Mr. Godwin +had directed his attention to the vices rather than the virtues of +his fellow-men. He had paid Danielson handsomely for fidelity in +the past, and had promised him ample payment for fidelity in the +future; and, as he looked upon good faith as a marketable commodity, +to be purchased in any quantities at the current market rate, he was +troubled by no doubt of his ally’s fidelity. + +He came to the office this morning in no very pleasant frame of mind; +but distrust of Jacob Danielson had no part in his conflicting doubts +and difficulties. + +“Well, Jacob,” he said, as he seated himself at his desk, “how are +things looking?” + +“As black as they can look,” answered the clerk, with a mixture of +respect and indifference that always galled his master--“as black as +they can look. People have begun to talk; and when they once begin, +it is not very easy to stop them. There may be a run upon the bank +any day, and then the murder’s out.” + +Rupert Godwin’s nerves had been terribly shaken of late. He could not +control a slight shuddering movement as the clerk pronounced that +ghastly word “murder.” + +Before he could speak, one of the junior clerks opened the +parlour-door and ushered in Mrs. Westford and her daughter. + +The banker started violently, and half rose from his chair with a +convulsive movement at the aspect of those two slender figures draped +in solemn black. + +“Who are these people?” he gasped. “I cannot see them.--Walters, take +these ladies back to the public office; they can have no business +here.--What is the meaning of this, Danielson?” added the banker, +turning indignantly to the old clerk. “You told me you had arranged +an important business meeting here at this hour. These people cannot +possibly have any business to transact with me.” + +“O, yes, they have, sir,” answered the clerk quietly.--“Sit down, +ladies, pray. Mr. Godwin is rather unprepared for your visit, you +see, as I have not found time to explain matters to him before your +arrival. But he will find the business very simple--quite simple. +Pray sit down.” + +The mother and daughter obeyed. Clara had not in any manner saluted +the banker, nor he her, though they had looked at each other fixedly +for a moment. + +Mrs. Westford’s face was pale, and rigid as the face of a statue. + +Rupert Godwin’s countenance had grown livid. The sudden appearance of +those two women had inspired him with a strange fear. + +As he turned indignantly towards the old clerk, something in Jacob +Danielson’s face told the banker that he was about to find a deadly +foe in the man who had so long been his tool and accomplice. + +“Insolent scoundrel!” he exclaimed, “how do you dare to defy me thus? +Take your friends out of my room! I will not be intruded on by any +one.” + +“These ladies are no friends of mine,” answered the clerk; “though I +shall be proud indeed if I can render them any service. They are no +intruders here. They have a claim upon you, Mr. Godwin, and a very +large one.” + +“You are mad!” exclaimed the banker contemptuously. “What claim can +these ladies have upon me?” + +“A very terrible one, it may be, Rupert Godwin,” replied Clara +Westford solemnly. “What if I come to claim justice upon the murderer +of a beloved husband? Retribution is very slow sometimes; but it is +none the less certain. Sooner or later the day of reckoning comes; if +not in this world, in the next. Heaven have pity on those who are not +allowed to expiate their iniquities upon earth!” + +Rupert Godwin tried to carry matters with a high hand--but even +his bravado failed him in this supreme moment of fear. His livid +countenance, convulsed every now and then by sudden spasms, betrayed +the state of his mind. + +“We will not talk of retribution here,” said Jacob Danielson. “It +is only on a matter of business that these ladies have called on +you this morning, Mr. Godwin. They come to claim the sum of twenty +thousand pounds, intrusted to your care by Captain Harley Westford, +of the _Lily Queen_, with five per cent. interest thereupon for the +time the money has been in your hands.” + +Rupert Godwin laughed aloud. It was a wild spasmodic kind of laugh, +and by no means agreeable to hear. + +“My good Danielson,” he exclaimed, “you are evidently going mad. +I had better send for the parish authorities and the parish +strait-waistcoat.” + +“Not just yet,” replied the clerk coolly. “You are rather fond of +putting people into lunatic asylums, I know. But as I am not mad, +your philanthropic and compassionate nature need not be troubled +by any concern about me. Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to pay these +ladies the money they claim--twenty-one thousand pounds. Mrs. +Westford’s husband died suddenly; but he made his will, bequeathing +all he possessed to his wife, with undivided power to administer +his affairs. She has not yet gone through the usual formula; but +as this is an exceptional case you can afford to waive ceremony, +and pay Captain Westford’s widow the money that belongs to her, +without waiting for legal formalities. Here is the receipt signed by +yourself, and witnessed by me.” + +The clerk produced an oblong slip of paper, which he held before the +eyes of his master. Those eyes glared at the document with a blank +stare of mingled astonishment and horror. + +“Where,” he gasped,--“where did you----” + +“Where did I find it?” said the clerk, with supreme coolness. “Ah, to +be sure. I was prepared to hear you ask that question. I’ll tell you +where I found it. On the night on which Harley Westford came to you +at Wilmingdon Hall, to claim the money which this receipt represents, +he wore a light overcoat. Ah, you remember it, I see. The night was +warm; and when the Captain came into the dining-room, where you and I +were lingering over our dessert, he carried his outer coat across his +arm. When he left the dining-room he flung it down upon a chair. _I_ +found it there when I returned to the Hall, after missing the train. +I’m rather of an inquisitive disposition, and I had peculiar motives +for my curiosity that night; so I took the liberty to examine the +pockets in the Captain’s overcoat. I was very well rewarded for my +pains, for in the small breast-pocket I found _this_. You recognize +it, Mr. Godwin, I can see. It is the receipt for which _you_ searched +the same pocket that night, but a little too late. You only half +did your work when you stabbed Captain Westford in the back, and +flung him down the cellar-steps, to lie and rot there unburied and +forgotten.” + +“O, great Heaven!” shrieked Clara, with a wail of agony. “My husband +was murdered then--by him; and you know the secret of his murder! You +know, and you have never denounced the hellish assassin!” + +“Hush, Mrs. Westford,” cried the clerk, almost imperiously; “not a +word! I told you that the greatest surprise, the _happiest_ surprise +you had ever experienced in your life, would come upon you to-day. +Wait, and trust in me.” + +Mrs. Westford had risen in her sudden agony and terror; but +overawed,--influenced, in spite of herself, by something in the old +clerk’s manner,--she sank back upon her chair, pale and breathless, +waiting to hear more. + +“Come, Mr. Godwin,” said Jacob Danielson; “the best thing you can do +is to pay this money quietly, and immediately. You would scarcely +care to have any public inquiries made as to how I came into +possession of this receipt.” + +“It is a forgery!” gasped the banker. + +“Is it? That’s a question which must be decided by a court of law, if +you dispute the settlement of Mrs. Westford’s claim. And if this case +once gets into a court of law, you may be sure it will be sifted to +the very bottom. The mystery of that summer night at Wilmingdon Hall +will be brought before the public, and then----” + +Jacob Danielson uttered the last words very slowly. + +“I will pay the money,” cried Rupert Godwin; “but you must give me +time!” + +“Not a day! Not an hour! I know the state of your affairs. This money +shall be paid before these ladies leave this house. If you have not +that amount of ready cash, you have convertible securities, and they +must be melted at once. Nor is that all, Mr. Godwin. You must sign a +paper acknowledging that the document under which you took possession +of the Grange----” + +“I will do no such thing!” answered the banker defiantly. Then, with +a sudden burst of fury, he sprang upon the old clerk, and seized him +by the throat. + +“Villain! hypocrite! dog!” he cried, “you have taken my money, you +have pretended to serve me, and now you turn upon me and betray +me--you, my slave, my foot-ball, the creature that I have paid as I +pay the lowest scullery-maid in my house! But I----” + +He released his hold, for the door was opened, and one of the clerks +looked in with a scared face. He had overheard the noise of the +scuffle in the outer office. + +But as Rupert Godwin had sunk back exhausted into his chair, and as +Jacob Danielson was standing quietly by him in his usual deferential +attitude when the man looked in, he murmured an apology and withdrew, +closing the door behind him. + +“You perceive, Mr. Godwin, that violence here is not quite so secure +from detection as in the cellars of the northern wing. Every man’s +house is his castle; but there is some difference between a haunted +abbey in Hertfordshire and an office in the heart of Lombard-street,” +said Jacob, with quiet significance. “I tell you again, you had +better call your cashier, and order him to realize stock to the +amount of twenty thousand pounds. How about those Canadian +Grand-Trunk Debenture Bonds which you bought the other day? Ah, I +had my eye upon you, you see, when you were quite unconscious of my +watchfulness. That’s a capital form of security. Safe as a bank-note; +easy to realize; no fuss or bother involved in the transfer. You can +sell those in the open market. We will talk of the forged documents +afterwards.” + +Never was baffled fury more strongly visible in a human face than it +was in the scowling visage of the banker, as he turned from the clerk +and touched a little handbell on the table. + +His summons was responded to in less than a minute. The same clerk +who had looked into the room before looked in again. + +“The cashier,” said Rupert Godwin briefly. + +The clerk retired, and another man presented himself. + +“You realized some Mexican securities yesterday, by my order?” said +the banker. + +“I did, sir.” + +“To what amount?” + +“Twenty-four thousand three hundred and twenty pounds.” + +“You will hand over bank-notes to the amount of twenty-one thousand +pounds to this lady.” + +The banker pointed to Mrs. Westford. The cashier looked surprised; +but he bowed in assent, retired, and presently reappeared with a +packet of bank-notes. + +“Twenty notes of five hundred each, and eleven notes of a thousand +each,” said the cashier, as he handed the packet to his employer. + +“Good. And now your deposit-receipt,” said the banker to Jacob +Danielson. + +The clerk gave Rupert Godwin the oblong slip of paper with one hand, +while with the other he received the packet of notes. + +“There, Mrs. Westford, is the fortune amassed by your husband in +years of hazardous adventure,” said Jacob Danielson. “The documents +relating to the Grange will be admitted as forgeries by Mr. Godwin. +And you will be able to return to your home whenever you please.” + +“I cannot accept this money,” answered Clara. + +“But it is your own.” + +“It has passed through the hands of my husband’s murderer. There +is not one of these notes that, to my mind, is not stained with my +husband’s blood. It is not money which I want, Mr. Danielson, but +justice--justice on the man who murdered my husband.” + +“She is mad!” cried Rupert Godwin hoarsely. “I will not be thus +defied in my own house by a mad woman and a scoundrel. I will----” + +His hand moved towards the bell, but he did not touch it. + +“Ring that bell, Rupert Godwin,” cried the old clerk; “or if you will +not, I will.” + +The clerk’s skinny fingers pressed the spring of the bell,--not once +only, but three separate times. + +“What is the meaning of this?” gasped the banker. + +“It means that you have failed in the capacity of assassin as +completely as you have failed in your commercial career, Mr. Godwin,” +answered the clerk coolly.--“You shall have justice, Mrs. Westford,” +he continued, turning to Clara, “but not on the murderer of your +husband, for he survived the stroke that was intended to be his +death-blow. He is here to denounce, in his own person, the would-be +assassin and the daring swindler.” + +As the old clerk spoke, the powerful form of the merchant captain +appeared upon the threshold, and in the next moment Clara Westford +flung herself into her husband’s arms with a wild hysteric shriek. + +It was indeed as if the dead had been restored to life. + +Harley Westford had changed terribly since the hour when he had +last stood in that room, in all the pride and vigour of manhood. +His stalwart figure had wasted, though it still retained its noble +outline. His handsome face was pale and careworn; dark circles +surrounded his frank blue eyes, and haggard lines had been drawn +about his mouth; but as he clasped his wife to his breast, his +countenance was illumined by a light which restored to it, for a +moment, all its former brightness. + +“It is not a dream!” cried Clara; “it is not a dream! O, Harley, +Harley, is it really you? I have suffered so much--so much! I can +scarcely bear this surprise.” + +These words were spoken amidst hysteric sobs that almost choked their +utterance. Violet was sobbing on her father’s shoulder. The Captain +looked from his wife to his daughter. Unspeakable affection beamed +from his countenance; but he was unable to utter a word. He sank into +a chair presently, quite overcome, and his wife and child knelt one +on each side of him. + +Rupert Godwin looked on this picture with the gaze of a baffled +fiend. He had the passions of an Iago, but not the triumph which +gladdened the heart of the Venetian schemer even in the hour of +defeat. He had not the grim satisfaction of seeing the ruin he had +worked. He had achieved nothing--not even the misery of the rival he +hated. + +“I told you you only half did your work that night at Wilmingdon +Hall. With all your cleverness, you’ve proved no better than a +bungler!” exclaimed the old clerk triumphantly. + +The banker groaned aloud; but he uttered no exclamation of +surprise--no questioning word. Ruin had fallen upon him--so entire, +so unexpectedly, that he was quite unable to struggle longer with +the awful shadow of Nemesis. He could only abandon himself to a +sullen despair. Remorse was a stranger to _his_ nature: remorse is +the sorrow we feel for the wrong we have done to others. It was only +on his own account that Rupert Godwin suffered. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. + +“VENGEANCE IS MINE.” + + +After the first wild confusion of that scene in the bank parlour +there was a pause, a brief silence, which Jacob Danielson was the +first to break. + +“When you flung your victim to his dark hiding-place in the cellar +under the northern wing,” said the old clerk, addressing himself +slowly and deliberately to his employer, “you might as well have +taken the trouble to ascertain that he was really dead. It would have +been a more business-like mode of proceeding, and I am surprised +that you, a business man, should have failed to adopt it: but, +perhaps, your courage failed you at the last moment, and you had +not sufficient firmness to remain by the body of your victim, and +to listen for the last pulsation of the heart which you had done +your best to put to silence. However this may have been, you left +your work half undone. And when I returned to Wilmingdon Hall, after +contriving to miss my train, I returned in time to save at least the +life of your intended victim. I had suspected some sinister motive in +your desire to get rid of me, and I managed to lose the train, after +having dismissed your servant. I was thus free to hurry back to the +park, and to re-enter the grounds unobserved. I made my way rapidly +towards the house, and the nearest way took me past the north garden. +In one of the windows of the deserted wing I saw a light shining +through the chinks in the shutters. Heavy and ponderous though those +shutters are, they were not strong enough to conceal the secrets +which you would have hidden behind them. I crept softly towards the +window, and should have looked in through the chink, but the post of +spy was already occupied. An old man, a gardener, was standing with +his face flattened against the window, peeping into the room. When I +saw this I crept away as quietly as I had approached, and went round +to the occupied portion of the house. I went to the dining-room, +where I took the opportunity to secure that deposit-receipt which +has just proved so valuable to Mrs. Westford. Five minutes after I +had seated myself, you made your appearance. Your face, your manner, +both told me that something terrible had happened in that deserted +room, in spite of your wonderful self-command. When you left me, I +went straight to the window where I had seen the light. There the +old gardener was lying senseless on the ground. I stooped over him, +and found that he was in a kind of swoon. Then I felt convinced some +hideous crime had been committed in that room, and that the witness +of it had fallen senseless, horror-stricken with the awful sight he +had beheld. I peeped into the room, but I could see nothing. All +was dark. Then I remembered that during my earliest visits to the +Hall I had heard of an underground passage leading from the grotto +to the cellars of the northern wing, and communicating by means of +a staircase with the ground floor. I determined on groping my way +into this passage, and from thence to the room where I felt convinced +a horrible deed had been done. I returned to the house, and waited +in the dining-room till you had gone to your own apartments. I then +went to the servants’ hall, where I procured a dark lantern, under +pretence of searching for a purse I had lost in coming through the +grounds; and, armed with this, I reached the grotto unobserved, +entered the subterranean passage, followed its windings to the +cellars, and then groped along to the cellar staircase, intending to +penetrate to the room above. But I had no occasion to do so, for at +the foot of the cellar-stairs I stumbled upon the body of the captain +yonder. + +“I tore open his waistcoat, which was soaked with blood; and when I +felt for the beating of the heart, a faint throb told me that the +murderer had not completed his work. I found the wound, and staunched +it with a woollen handkerchief from my neck; then of a heap of straw +and rubbish which I discovered in a corner I made a kind of bed, on +which I laid the unconscious victim of an intended assassination. + +“Having done this, I hurried back to the gardens, returned to the +house, allowed one of the servants to conduct me to my room; and to +all appearance retired for the night. But no sooner was the household +wrapped in slumber, or at least in silence--for surely _one_ member +of that household could have slept little that night--no sooner was +all quiet, than I crept from my room, left the house, and went to +a little inn in the neighbourhood where I was known, and where I +hired a horse and gig on the plea of having lost the mail-train, and +wanting to drive to London in the dead of the night rather than miss +an early appointment on the following morning. + +“With this horse and gig I returned to the park, and drove to a +sheltered spot near the entrance of the grotto. Then the most +difficult part of my work had to be done. Alone and unaided I half +carried, half dragged the unconscious sea captain from the cellar +to the place where I had left the gig. I contrived to fasten him +securely in the vehicle, and then drove at a walking pace to a +house I had known in the past, and where I was sure of finding easy +admission for my almost lifeless charge. + +“That house was the Retreat; a private lunatic asylum, kept by a man +whose life I knew to be one long career of charlatanism and villany. +There I knew that only one question would be asked: Was I prepared +to pay for the care of the patient? If my answer to that inquiry was +satisfactory, all would be settled. + +“I drove slowly along the lonely road leading to the Retreat. I met +only one solitary horseman, and he asked me if my friend sitting in a +heap at the bottom of the gig was ill or drunk. I answered, ‘Drunk,’ +and passed on without further question. + +“Arrived at the Retreat I rang up the attendants, and was received by +Dr. Wilderson Snaffley, who rose from his comfortable bed to see me. +I told him that my charge was a relation who had stabbed himself in a +fit of lunacy, induced by delirium tremens; and that in order to keep +his infirmity a profound secret, I had brought him straight to the +Retreat, where I knew every effort would be made to save his life. I +said that I was prepared to pay liberally for his maintenance. + +“That was quite enough. Dr. Wilderson Snaffley examined his still +unconscious patient; but he did not ask me any troublesome questions, +nor did he even remark that people do not usually stab themselves _in +the back_ when they endeavour to commit suicide. + +“You will ask me, Clara Westford, why I acted thus--why I did not +denounce the would-be assassin, and restore Harley Westford to the +wife and children who loved him. I answer you, that one fatal passion +had warped my nature, and transformed me into something between a +madman and a drunkard. It pleased me to think that, by keeping the +secret of Mr. Godwin’s crime, I should be revenged upon you, Clara; +for I had loved you, and I believed that my presumptuous love had +been revenged by you with the cruel pride of a woman who thinks +it sport to trample on the heart of the plebeian wretch who dares +to adore her. I sought for power over Rupert Godwin--for since my +blighted youth had passed into premature old age, avarice had been +the ruling passion of my life; and, possessed of the secret of Harley +Westford’s supposed murder, I knew that I should have unlimited +command over the purse of my employer. Thus a double motive prompted +me to secrecy. And for more than a year I have kept my secret, +disturbed by no pang of remorse, moved by no contrition, until +destiny brought me once more face to face with the woman I had once +so fatally loved. + +“Then all at once the ice melted, the hardened nature softened, and I +could no longer endure the thought of what I had done. + +“I sought you out, Mrs. Westford, and from your own lips I +discovered how deeply I had wronged your noble nature. From that +moment my course lay clear before me: the only atonement in my power +was to undo what I had done. For that purpose I went to the madhouse +where your husband was hidden. A few words to Dr. Wilderson Snaffley, +informing him that circumstances were altered with me, and that I was +no longer able to pay for my patient, were quite sufficient. + +“The learned and conscientious physician discovered immediately that +his charge was quite well, and perfectly able to enter the world +again. I was thus enabled to quit the Retreat with Captain Westford +as my companion. But we were obliged to leave behind us a patient +whom we should have been glad to bring with us. That patient, Mrs. +Westford, is no other than your son, to whom the finger of Providence +had indicated the secret of his father’s attempted murder, and whom +Mr. Godwin incarcerated in a prison which was intended to entomb him +until he was transferred from that living grave to a more comfortable +resting-place in some obscure churchyard. Had Lionel Westford been +placed in any other lunatic asylum than the Retreat, you might have +had some difficulty in discovering his prison house. Fortunately, he +was confided to the care of Dr. Wilderson Snaffley and father and son +met beneath that gentleman’s hospitable roof.--A strange meeting, +was it not, Rupert Godwin, between the son who believed his father +had been murdered, and the father who never thought to look upon a +familiar face again? + +“But Providence sometimes brings about very strange meetings. Lionel +Westford’s release from imprisonment under Dr. Snaffley’s tender +care will be easily managed, I daresay. The doctor will not be +particularly anxious to retain his patient when he discovers that +his wealthy patron is a bankrupt and a felon.--That is all I have +to tell, Captain Westford; it is for you to seek redress for the +wrongs that have been done to you and yours. An aggravated attempt +at assassination is a crime rather heavily punished even by our mild +legislature.” + +“Stop!” cried Harley Westford, holding up his hand, with a warning +gesture; “‘Vengeance is mine’ saith the Lord. The law of the land +will have very little hold upon that man. Look at Rupert Godwin’s +face. Send for a doctor, some one.” There was sudden confusion and +alarm. The clerk loosened his employer’s cravat, while Captain +Westford opened the door of the outer office and despatched a +messenger post haste for the nearest surgeon. + +Rupert Godwin had fallen back in his chair a lifeless, shapeless heap +of stricken mortality. The fevered, unresting brain, so long kept on +the rack, had succumbed at last to a paralytic shock of an aggravated +character. For weeks past the banker had been subject to convulsive +starts and unwonted nervous sensations; but these sensations had +affected him at long intervals, and had been very transient in their +nature. They had therefore caused no alarm in the breast of the +unhappy wretch who had so many other reasons for fear. + +The shock of Danielson’s demand, of Harley Westford’s reappearance, +the overwhelming sense of failure and ruin, had been too much for +even that vigorous intellect. The chord, so long strained to its +utmost tension, snapped suddenly, and Rupert Godwin became a creature +whom his worst enemies could afford to pity. + +A medical man came in hot haste to the bank parlor, and then another, +and another, till there was quite a bevy of solemn-looking gentlemen +hovering over the prostrate man. The tidings of Rupert Godwin’s +affliction had spread like wildfire; and before his attendants had +carried the heavy lifeless form to a sofa in an adjoining room, +the fact that the banker had been stricken by paralysis was common +talk on ’Change. Those who had prophesied the downfall of his house +shrugged their shoulders, and lowered the corners of their mouths +ominously. + +“This will bring matters to a crisis,” said one. + +“How do we know that he hasn’t made away with himself?” asked another. + +The medical gentlemen announced that the spark called life was +not extinguished, although the other and more subtle flame called +consciousness had gone out, never again to illumine this earth for +Rupert Godwin. + +There was very little hope of his recovery, the doctors said; but +their looks and tones implied that there was no hope. The stricken +wretch lay with his dim eyes half shut; and his medical attendants +said that he might lie thus for hours--or, indeed, for days. + +It was even possible that he might continue to live in that miserable +state; and thus the Westfords left him to the care of his clerk +Danielson. + +“He hasn’t a friend in the world, or a creature who ever loved him, +except his daughter,” said the clerk; “and even she has deserted him. +I’ll look after him somehow or other for the rest of his life. I’ve +nothing particular to do with myself or my money, so I may as well +take care of him. I must get him away from this place, by hook or by +crook; for there may be a run on the bank to-morrow, and when people +find out the state of the case they may want to tear Mr. Godwin to +pieces.” + +In the course of that afternoon the clerk contrived to remove the +awful wreck of humanity which had once been his employer. He carried +Mr. Godwin to a place of safety. Not to Wilmingdon Hall; for that +splendid mansion, with all its treasures, would in all probability +fall very speedily into the hands of the officials of the Bankruptcy +Court, to be dealt with for the benefit of the banker’s creditors, +or to be mysteriously absorbed in the legal costs attendant on his +bankruptcy. + +The shelter to which Jacob Danielson took his employer was a very +humble one. It was a second floor in a little square behind the +Borough, where Mr. Danielson had been for some years a lodger. + +Here, upon a flock-bed, the banker lay for some dreary days and +nights, staring at the bare wall opposite him; and even the man who +watched him so closely failed to discover the precise moment in which +the vacant stare of idiocy changed to the blindness of death. + +Thus closed the existence of a man who had drained the cup of life’s +excitements and enjoyments to the very dregs, and who had tasted +to the uttermost the bitterness of the drops at the bottom of the +chalice. There was an inquest, very quietly conducted, and the usual +verdict of “Death from natural causes;” and this was all. The secret +of Rupert Godwin’s crimes was known only to his confidential clerk, +and those who had suffered so heavily at his hands. + +But many knew and lost by his commercial disasters, his reckless +speculation, his unjustifiable extravagance, by which the foundations +of a once substantial house of business had been undermined, until +the whole fabric fell in one mass of ruin. Many an innocent victim +suffered--many an impoverished creditor cursed the name of Rupert +Godwin. + +Let us turn to a brighter picture. Let us turn to that pleasant home +on the borders of the New Forest, that quaint old dwelling-place +surrounded by picturesque gardens, the beloved home in which Clara +Westford had passed all her happy married life. + +Once more she could call that dear home her own. Once more she +wandered in the well-kept gardens, where the autumn flowers bloomed +gaily under a bright October sky--where the rustle of the forest +leaves fell upon her ear like a soothing murmur of loving voices, +as she walked on the smooth lawn, leaning--O how proudly!--on her +husband’s arm. Once more she occupied the pretty rooms, which bore +no evidence of a stranger’s occupation, for an old servant of the +Westfords had been left in charge of the Grange during Rupert +Godwin’s brief hold upon the estate, and the smallest trifles had +been held sacred for the love of an exiled house. + +She did not return alone with her loved husband. Lionel went with +them, and Violet--happy in the society of the father and mother they +loved so tenderly. + +But the brother and sister soon found another kind of happiness in +other society; for in one of their forest walks they came upon a +young man sketching, with a beautiful girl dressed in deep mourning +by his side. + +The girl was Julia Godwin, and the artist was Edward Godwin, the +young man whom Violet had known under the name of George Stanmore. + +It was to the protection of her brother that Julia had fled, when her +father’s presence had become unendurable. Edward Godwin had returned +to England after an artistic tour in Belgium, and had established +himself again in the little cottage in the New Forest, hoping to meet +his promised wife once more among the shadowy walks she had so dearly +loved. + +His surprise on hearing that the Westfords had left the Grange, and +that the estate had become the property of a Mr. Godwin, a banker +in Lombard-street, was extreme. He wrote immediately to his sister +announcing his whereabouts, and asking her if she could throw any +light upon the circumstances under which his father had acquired this +new property. + +The reply to that letter came in the person of Julia herself. She +told her brother that she had left home because that home had become +intolerable to her; but he could not extort from her any account of +the causes that had made it so. She was loyal to the father whom she +had once so dearly loved, whom she still thought of with a passionate +regret. + +Here, in this quiet haven, the news of her father’s death reached +her. That event, which at one time would have been so bitter a +calamity for her, seemed now a kind of relief. He was dead--and +at rest. He could be called before no earthly tribunal to answer +for his crimes. He had gone to be judged by the All-just, and the +All-merciful. + +If he had but repented-- + +That was a question which no earthly lips could answer. Julia fondly +hoped that repentance had come to the sinner before the closing-in of +that dark scene, which she contemplated with unutterable horror. + +Strange explanations followed the first surprise of that meeting. The +presence of Julia Godwin compelled the revelation of a secret which +until this moment the painter had hidden from the woman he loved. He +was compelled to tell Violet that his name was not George Stanmore, +but Edward Godwin; and that he was the son of that unhappy man whose +bankruptcy and death had lately been recorded in all the newspapers. + +Violet did not tell her lover that his father had been the cruel +enemy of her family--the sole cause of the sad interval of poverty +and suffering during which she had been absent from the Grange. The +generous girl had not the heart to tell Edward Godwin this; but she +received his explanations very coldly notwithstanding. + +“I wonder you remember me now, Mr. Godwin,” she said proudly, “for +when you saw me last, on the stage of the Circenses, you did not seek +to renew your acquaintanceship with me.” + +And then Edward’s earnest protestations convinced her in a few +moments that he had not recognized her, and that he had only been +struck by what he imagined was a most wonderful accidental likeness. +After that all went smoothly between the reunited lovers, and they +began to talk of how the secret of their love was to be broken to the +merchant captain and his wife. + +They were alone together under the arching trees; for, by the merest +accident of course, Julia and Lionel had strolled one way, while +Edward and Violet went the other. + +“I can ask for your hand boldly now, Violet dearest,” said Edward +Godwin. “Fortune has been very good to me since last we met. My +pictures have been successful, both in English and Continental +Exhibitions, and I have received very liberal prices for my work. +I am growing rich, darling, and I have splendid prospects for the +future. I want nothing but a dear little wife to sit beside my +easel--a sweet household divinity, whose fair young face will inspire +me with all kinds of poetical ideas. My life has been a very hard +one, Violet; and when I was reticent as to my own history, it was +because the subject was a most painful one. There was bad blood +between my father and me. I cannot speak harshly of the dead, and +therefore I will say nothing as to the cause of our quarrel. But we +did quarrel, and we parted at once, and for ever. I went into the +world penniless, and I have lived by my pencil ever since, having +sworn to starve sooner than touch a sixpence of my father’s money. +There is no spur so sharp as poverty. I have worked hard, and I have +been amply rewarded for my work.” + +It is needless to linger with these lovers. They walked long under +the shadow of those solemn forest trees, and they could have walked +there for hours with no sense of weariness, with no consciousness of +the monotony of their conversation, though it was very monotonous. + +While they lingered in the red westering light, another pair of +lovers strolled near them, arm-in-arm. Lionel had declared his +affection for Julia, and had won from her the confession that he +had been loved almost from the first. But she did not tell him how +she had saved his life when he had so nearly fallen a victim to a +midnight assassin. + +That night Lionel and Violet confessed all to their parents. + +The communication was by no means a pleasant one to Harley Westford +and his wife. Imagine the countenances of Signor and Signora Capulet, +when informed that their sole daughter and heiress has set her +affections on the young scion of the Montagues! + +It was difficult for Clara Westford to believe that the son of Rupert +Godwin could be worthy of any woman’s love, much less of the love of +that pearl amongst women, her own idolized daughter. + +But idolized children generally have their own way, however +irrational their caprices may appear. And after considerable +pleading, Violet and Lionel won Clara and her husband to consent to +receive Rupert Godwin’s children. + +When once this consent had been gained, all the rest was easy. +Edward Godwin was not a man to be misunderstood by his fellow-men; +and the acquaintance which Harley Westford had so reluctantly begun +speedily promised to ripen into friendship. “Is the young man to +suffer because his father was a scoundrel?” the sailor asked himself. +“That may be the letter of the old Jewish law, but I’m sure it isn’t +Christianity. The Teacher who refused to cast a stone at a guilty +woman would have been the last to punish her innocent children. Let +young Godwin stand upon his own merits; and if I find he’s a good +fellow, he shall marry my daughter, in spite of the scar under my +left shoulder which bears witness against his father.” + +Mrs. Westford had been still less inclined than her husband to look +kindly on the children of her merciless enemy; but even she was not +inexorable. Julia’s grace and beauty--to say nothing of her evident +devotion to Lionel--were quite irresistible; and before long the +visitors from the forest cottage were as gladly welcomed at the +Grange as any guests who had ever crossed the hospitable threshold. + +It was early in the following June, yet quite midsummer weather, when +the bells of the little village church pealed gaily for a double +wedding. + +Two fairer brides have rarely stood before an altar; two nobler +bridegrooms seldom pledged the solemn vows which influence a lifetime. + +Captain Westford and his wife looked on with eyes that were dimmed +by a mist of happy tears. Their own life lay before them, bright and +sunny as it had been when they too had stood side by side before the +altar of a sacred fane. Might these two young lives, now beginning, +be as happy! That was the prayer breathed silently from the heart of +husband and wife. + +Two pretty little rustic villas arose in the neighbourhood of +the Grange. Not the builder’s ideal of Italian-Gothic, with a +rickety-looking campanello tower for the stowage of empty crates +and servants’ luggage, but trim little Tudor cottages, with broad +stone-mullioned windows and roomy porches--a happy blending of the +substantial and picturesque. + +Edward Godwin’s pencil soon won for him a world-wide fame; but he was +known only to the world by the name he had assumed when he first met +Violet at the county-ball and in the forest glades. + +Lionel, who had always been at heart a painter, followed the +profession of his brother-in-law, and in his own style was almost +equally successful. + +If he had loved art for no other reason, he would have loved it very +dearly for the sake of that meeting in the printseller’s shop, when +he looked for the first time on the beautiful face of his wife. + +And thus the curtain falls upon three happy homes--three united +households, in which the days glide smoothly by, across whose +threshold the demon Discord never passes; households on which the +angels may look with approving smiles--households wherein “Love is +lord of all.” + + + THE END + + + + + LONDON: + PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, + STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + + Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been + silently corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences + within the text and consultation of external sources. + + Some hyphens in words have been silently removed and some silently + added when a predominant preference was found in the original book. + + Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Bold text + is surrounded by equal signs: =bold=. + + Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text + and inconsistent or archaic usage have been retained. + + Contents: ‘JULIA’S PROTEGE’ replaced by ‘JULIA’S PROTÉGÉ’. + Page 8: ‘the penniless hidalgoes’ replaced by ‘the penniless + hidalgos’. + Page 61: ‘doated with senile fondness’ replaced by ‘doted with + senile fondness’. + Page 74: ‘the nose, Anatasia’ replaced by ‘the nose, Anastasia’. + Page 94: ‘a doating father’ replaced by ‘a doting father’. + Page 110: ‘words in replp’ replaced by ‘words in reply’. + Page 141a: ‘horror took possesion’ replaced by ‘horror took + possession’. + Page 141b: ‘would be necesary’ replaced by ‘would be necessary’. + Page 149: ‘in the civiliszd world’ replaced by ‘in the civilized + world’. + Page 154: ‘for the first sime’ replaced by ‘for the first time’. + Page 157: ‘to the effect thal’ replaced by ‘to the effect that’. + Page 173: ‘the chief subects’ replaced by ‘the chief subjects’. + Page 176: ‘there’s an undergound’ replaced by ‘there’s an + underground’. + Page 178: ‘For sometime she’ replaced by ‘For some time she’. + Page 194: ‘had scrupuously avoided’ replaced by ‘had scrupulously + avoided’. + Page 203: ‘drawing-room as cooly’ replaced by ‘drawing-room as + coolly’. + Page 237a: ‘Good-morning, Mr. Grainger’ replaced by ‘Good morning, + Mr. Granger’. + Page 237b: ‘Stay, Mr. Grainger’ replaced by ‘Stay, Mr. Granger’. + Page 242: ‘swingeing canter’ replaced by ‘swinging canter’. + Page 244: ‘instrusted his beloved burden’ replaced by ‘intrusted his + beloved burden’. + Page 266: ‘a practical investigaton’ replaced by ‘a practical + investigation’. + Page 267: ‘prepared by Dr. Snaffle’ replaced by ‘prepared by Dr. + Snaffley’. + Page 274: ‘escape faom danger’ replaced by ‘escape from danger’. + Page 280: ‘duly set set forth’ replaced by ‘duly set forth’. + Page 305: ‘unable to struggel’ replaced by ‘unable to struggle’. + Page 311: ‘stare of idiotcy’ replaced by ‘stare of idiocy’. + Page 314: ‘reluctantly begun speedly’ replaced by ‘reluctantly begun + speedily’. +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77631 *** |