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*** 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.=

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  illness is brightened, by any one of her books.”

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                        SIMPKIN & CO., LIMITED,
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                       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 ***