Chapter 3

Molton Chase is a charming, old-fashioned country house, which has been
in the possession of the Clayton family for centuries past; and as Harry
Clayton, its present owner, has plenty of money, and (having tasted the
pleasures of matrimony for only five years) has no knowledge (as yet) of
the delights of college and school bills coming in at Christmas-time, it
is his will to fill the Chase at that season with guests, to each of
whom he extends a welcome, as hearty as it is sincere.

"Bella! are you not going to join the riding-party this afternoon?" he
said across the luncheon-table to his wife, one day in a December not
long ago.

"Bella" was a dimpled little woman, whose artless expression of
countenance would well bear comparison with the honest, genial face
opposite to her, and who replied at once--

"No! not this afternoon, Harry, dear. You know the Damers may come at
any time between this and seven o'clock, and I should not like to be out
when they arrive."

"And may I ask Mrs. Clayton who _are_ the Damers," inquired a friend of
her husband, who, on account of being handsome, considered himself
licensed to be pert--"that their advent should be the cause of our
losing the pleasure of your company this afternoon?"

But the last thing Bella Clayton ever did was to take offence.

"The Damers are my cousins, Captain Moss," she replied; "at least
Blanche Damer is."

At this juncture a dark-eyed man who was sitting at the other end of the
table dropped the flirting converse he had been maintaining with a
younger sister of Mrs. Clayton's, and appeared to become interested in
what his hostess was saying.

"Colonel Damer," he continued, "has been in India for the last twelve
years, and only returned to England a month ago; therefore it would seem
unkind on the first visit he has paid to his relatives that there should
be no one at home to welcome him."

"Has Mrs. Damer been abroad for as long a time?" resumed her questioner,
a vision arising on his mental faculties of a lemon-coloured woman with
shoes down at heel.

"Oh dear no!" replied his hostess. "Blanche came to England about five
years ago, but her health has been too delicate to rejoin her husband in
India since. Have we all finished, Harry, dear?"--and in another minute
the luncheon-table was cleared.

As Mrs. Clayton crossed the hall soon afterwards to visit her nursery,
the same dark-eyed man who had regarded her fixedly when she mentioned
the name of Blanche Damer followed and accosted her.

"Is it long since you have seen your cousin Mrs. Damer, Mrs. Clayton?"

"I saw her about three years ago, Mr. Laurence; but she had a severe
illness soon after that, and has been living on the Continent ever
since. Why do you ask?"

"For no especial reason," he answered smiling. "Perhaps I am a little
jealous lest this new-comer to whose arrival you look forward with so
much interest should usurp more of your time and attention than we
less-favoured ones can spare."

He spoke with a degree of sarcasm, real or feigned, which Mrs. Clayton
immediately resented.

"I am not aware that I have been in the habit of neglecting my guests,
Mr. Laurence," she replied; "but my cousin Blanche is more likely to
remind me of my duties than to tempt me to forget them."

"Forgive me," he said, earnestly. "You have mistaken my meaning
altogether. But are you very intimate with this lady?"

"Very much so," was the answer. "We were brought up together, and loved
each other as sisters until she married and went to India. For some
years after her return home our intercourse was renewed, and only
broken, on the occasion of her being ill and going abroad, as I have
described to you. Her husband, I have, of course, seen less of, but I
like what I know of him, and am anxious to show them both all the
hospitality in my power. She is a charming creature, and I am sure you
will admire her."

"Doubtless I shall," he replied; "that is if she does not lay claim to
all Mrs. Clayton's interest in the affairs of Molton Chase."

"No fear of that," laughed the cheery little lady as she ascended the
stairs, and left Mr. Laurence standing in the hall beneath.

"Clayton," observed that gentleman, as he re-entered the luncheon-room
and drew his host into the privacy of a bay-window, "I really am afraid
I shall have to leave you this evening--if you won't think it rude of me
to go so suddenly."

"But _why_, my dear fellow?" exclaimed Harry Clayton, as his blue eyes
searched into the other's soul. "What earthly reason can you have for
going, when your fixed plan was to stay with us over Christmas Day?"

"Well! there is lots of work waiting for me to do, you know; and really
the time slips away so, and time is money to a slave like
myself--that--"

"Now, my dear Laurence," said Harry Clayton conclusively, "you know you
are only making excuses. All the work that was absolutely necessary for
you to do before Christmas was finished before you came here, and you
said you felt yourself licensed to take a whole month's holiday. Now,
was not that the case?"

Mr. Laurence could not deny the fact, and so he looked undecided, and
was silent.

"Don't let me hear any more about your going before Christmas Day," said
his host, "or I shall be offended, and so will Bella; to say nothing of
Bella's sister--eh, Laurence!"

Whereupon Mr. Laurence felt himself bound to remain; and saying in his
own mind that fate was against him, dropped the subject of his departure
altogether.

One hour later, the riding party being then some miles from Molton
Chase, a travelling carriage laden with trunks drove up to the house,
and Mrs. Clayton, all blushes and smiles, stood on the hall-steps to
welcome her expected guests.

Colonel Damer was the first to alight. He was a middle-aged man, but
with a fine soldierly bearing, which took off from his years; and he was
so eager to see to the safe exit of his wife from the carriage-door that
he had not time to do more than take off his hat to blooming Bella on
the steps.

"Now, my love," he exclaimed as the lady's form appeared, "pray take
care; two steps: that's right--here you are, safe."

And then Mrs. Damer, being securely landed, was permitted to fly into
the cousinly arms which were opened to receive her.

"My dear Bella!"

"My dearest Blanche--I am so delighted to see you again. Why, you are
positively frozen! Pray come in at once to the fire. Colonel Damer, my
servants will see to the luggage--do leave it to them, and come and warm
yourselves."

A couple of men-servants now came forward and offered to see to the
unloading of the carriage--but Mrs. Damer did not move.

"Will you not go in, my love, as your cousin proposes?" said her
husband. "I can see to the boxes if you should wish me to do so."

"No, thank you," was the low reply; and there was such a ring of
melancholy in the voice of Mrs. Damer that a stranger would have been
attracted by it. "I prefer waiting until the carriage is unpacked."

"Never mind the luggage, Blanche," whispered Mrs. Clayton, in her
coaxing manner. "Come in to the fire, dear--I have so much to tell you."

"Wait a minute, Bella," said her cousin; and the entreaty was so firm
that it met with no further opposition.

"One--two--three--four," exclaimed Colonel Damer, as the boxes
successively came to the ground. "I am afraid you will think we are
going to take you by storm, Mrs. Clayton; but perhaps you know my wife's
fancy for a large travelling _kit_ of old. Is that all, Blanche?"

"That is all--thank you," in the same low melancholy tones in which she
had spoken before. "Now, Bella, dear, which is to be my room?"

"You would rather go there first, Blanche?"

"Yes, please--I'm tired. Will you carry up that box for me?" she
continued, pointing out one of the trunks to the servant.

"Directly, ma'am," he returned, as he was looking for change for a
sovereign wherewith to accommodate Colonel Damer--but the lady lingered
until he was at leisure. Then he shouldered the box next to the one she
had indicated, and she directed his attention to the fact, and made him
change his burden.

"They'll all go up in time, ma'am," the man remarked; but Mrs. Damer,
answering nothing, did not set her foot upon the stairs until he was
halfway up them, with the trunk she had desired him to take first.

Then she leaned wearily upon Bella Clayton's arm, pressing it fondly to
her side, and so the two went together to the bedroom which had been
appointed for the reception of the new guests. It was a large and
cosily-furnished apartment, with a dressing-room opening from it. When
the ladies arrived there they found the servant awaiting them with the
box in question.

"Where will you have it placed, ma'am?" he demanded of Mrs. Damer.

"Under the bed, please."

But the bedstead was a French one, and the mahogany sides were so deep
that nothing could get beneath them but dust; and the trunk, although
small, was heavy and strong and clamped with iron, not at all the sort
of trunk that would go _anywhere_.

"Nothing will go under the bed, ma'am!" said the servant in reply.

Mrs. Damer slightly changed colour.

"Never mind then: leave it there. Oh! what a comfort a good fire is,"
she continued, turning to the hearth-rug, and throwing herself into an
arm-chair. "We have had such a cold drive from the station."

"But about your box, Blanche?" said Mrs. Clayton, who had no idea of her
friends being put to any inconvenience. "It can't stand there; you'll
unpack it, won't you? or shall I have it moved into the passage?"

"Oh, no, thank you, Bella--please let it stand where it is: it will do
very well indeed."

"What will do very well?" exclaimed Colonel Damer, who now entered the
bedroom, followed by a servant with another trunk.

"Only Blanche's box, Colonel Damer," said Bella Clayton. "She doesn't
wish to unpack it, and it will be in her way here, I'm afraid. It
_might_ stand in your dressing-room."--This she said as a "feeler,"
knowing that some gentlemen do not like to be inconvenienced, even in
their dressing-rooms.

But Colonel Damer was as unselfish as it was possible for an old Indian
to be.

"Of course it can," he replied. "Here (to the servant), just shoulder
that box, will you, and move it into the next room."

The man took up the article in question rather carelessly, and nearly
let it fall again. Mrs. Damer darted forward as if to save it.

"Pray put it down," she said, nervously. "I have no wish to have it
moved--I shall require it by-and-by; it will be no inconvenience--"

"Just as you like, dear," said Mrs. Clayton, who was becoming rather
tired of the little discussion. "And now take off your things, dear
Blanche, and let me ring for some tea."

Colonel Damer walked into his dressing-room and left the two ladies
alone. The remainder of the luggage was brought upstairs; the tea was
ordered and served, and whilst Mrs. Clayton busied herself in pouring it
out, Mrs. Damer sank back upon a sofa which stood by the fire, and
conversed with her cousin.

She had been beautiful, this woman, in her earlier youth, though no one
would have thought it to see her now. As Bella handed her the tea she
glanced towards the thin hand stretched out to receive it, and from
thence to the worn face and hollow eyes, and could scarcely believe she
saw the same person she had parted from three years before.

But she had not been so intimate with her of late, and she was almost
afraid of commenting upon her cousin's altered appearance, for fear it
might wound her; all she said was:

"You look very delicate still, dear Blanche; I was in hopes the change
to the Continent would have set you up and made you stronger than you
were when you left England."

"Oh, no; I never shall be well again," was Mrs. Damer's careless reply:
"it's an old story now, Bella, and it's no use talking about it. Whom
have you staying in the house at present, dear?"

"Well, we are nearly full," rejoined Mrs. Clayton. "There is my old
godfather, General Knox--you remember him, I know--and his son and
daughter; and the Ainsleys and their family; ditto, the Bayleys and the
Armstrongs, and then, for single men, we have young Brooke, and Harry's
old friend, Charley Moss, and Herbert Laurence, and--are you ill,
Blanchey?"

An exclamation had burst from Mrs. Damer--hardly an exclamation, so much
as a half-smothered cry--but whether of pain or fear, it was hard to
determine.

"Are you ill?" reiterated Mrs. Clayton, full of anxiety for her
fragile-looking cousin.

"No," replied Blanche Damer, pressing her hand to her side, but still
deadly pale from the effect of whatever emotion she had gone through;
"it is nothing; I feel faint after our long journey."

Colonel Damer had also heard the sound, and now appeared upon the
threshold of his dressing-room. He was one of those well-meaning, but
fussy men, who can never have two women alone for a quarter of an hour
without intruding on their privacy.

"Did you call, my dearest?" he asked of his wife. "Do you want
anything?"

"Nothing, thank you," replied Bella for her cousin; "Blanche is only a
little tired and overcome by her travelling."

"I think, after all, that I will move that trunk away for you into my
room," he said, advancing towards the box which had already been the
subject of discussion. Mrs. Damer started from the sofa with a face of
crimson.

"I _beg_ you will leave my boxes alone," she said, with an imploring
tone in her voice which was quite unfitted to the occasion. "I have not
brought one more than I need, and I wish them to remain under my own
eye."

"There must be something very valuable in that receptacle," said Colonel
Damer, facetiously, as he beat a retreat to his own quarters.

"Is it your linen box?" demanded Mrs. Clayton of her cousin.

"Yes," in a hesitating manner; "that is, it contains several things that
I have in daily use; but go on about your visitors, Bella: are there any
more?"

"I don't think so: where had I got to?--oh! to the bachelors: well,
there are Mr. Brooke and Captain Moss, and Mr. Laurence (the poet, you
know; Harry was introduced to him last season by Captain Moss), and my
brother Alfred; and that's all."

"A very respectable list," said Mrs. Damer, languidly. "What kind of a
man is the--the poet you spoke of?"

"Laurence?--oh, he seems a very pleasant man; but he is very silent and
abstracted, as I suppose a poet should be. My sister Carrie is here, and
they have quite got up a flirtation together; however, I don't suppose
it will come to anything."

"And your nursery department?"

"Thriving, thank you; I think you _will_ be astonished to see my boy.
Old Mrs. Clayton says he is twice the size that Harry was at that age;
and the little girls can run about and talk almost as well as I can. But
I must not expect you, Blanche, to take the same interest in babies that
I do."

This she added, remembering that the woman before her was childless.
Mrs. Damer moved uneasily on her couch, but she said nothing; and soon
after the sound of a gong reverberating through the hall warned Mrs.
Clayton that the dinner was not far off and the riding-party must have
returned; so, leaving her friend to her toilet, she took her departure.

As she left the room, Mrs. Damer was alone. She had no maid of her own,
and she had refused the offices of Mrs. Clayton, assuring her that she
was used to dress herself; but she made little progress in that
department, as she lay on the couch in the firelight, with her face
buried in her hands, and thoughts coursing through her mind of which
heaven alone knew the tendency.

"Come, my darling," said the kind, coaxing voice of her husband, as,
after knocking more than once without receiving any answer, he entered
her room, fully dressed, and found her still arrayed in her travelling
things, and none of her boxes unpacked. "You will never be ready for
dinner at this rate. Shall I make an excuse for your not appearing at
table this evening? I am sure Mrs. Clayton would wish you to keep your
room if you are too tired to dress."

"I am not too tired, Harry," said Mrs. Damer, rising from the couch,
"and I shall be ready in ten minutes," unlocking and turning over the
contents of a box as she spoke.

"Better not, perhaps, my love," interposed the colonel, in mild
expostulation; "you will be better in bed, and can see your kind friends
to-morrow morning."

"I am going down to dinner to-night," she answered, gently, but
decisively. She was a graceful woman now she stood on her feet, and
threw off the heavy wraps in which she had travelled, with a slight,
willowy figure, and a complexion which was almost transparent in its
delicacy; but her face was very thin, and her large blue eyes had a
scared and haggard look in them, which was scarcely less painful to
witness than the appearance of anxiety which was expressed by the
knitted brows by which they were surmounted. As she now raised her fair
attenuated hands to rearrange her hair, which had once been abundant and
glossy, her husband could not avoid remarking upon the change which had
passed over it.

"I had no idea you had lost your hair so much, darling," he said; "I
have not seen it down before to-night. Why, where is it all gone to?" he
continued, as he lifted the light mass in his hands, and remembered of
what a length and weight it used to be, when he last parted from her.

"Oh, I don't know," she rejoined, sadly; "gone, with my youth, I
suppose, Henry."

"My poor girl!" he said, gently, "you have suffered very much in this
separation. I had no right to leave you alone for so many years. But it
is all over now, dearest, and I will take such good care of you that you
will be obliged to get well and strong again."

She turned round suddenly from the glass, and pressed her lips upon the
hand which held her hair.

"Don't," she murmured; "pray don't speak to me so, Henry! I can't bear
it; I can't indeed!"

He thought it was from excess of feeling that she spoke; and so it was,
though not as he imagined. So he changed the subject lightly, and bade
her be lazy no longer, but put on her dress, if she was really
determined to make one of the party at dinner that evening.

In another minute, Mrs. Damer had brushed her diminished hair into the
fashion in which she ordinarily wore it; thrown on an evening-robe of
black, which, while it contrasted well with her fairness, showed the
falling away of her figure in a painful degree; and was ready to
accompany her husband downstairs.

They were met at the door of the drawing-room by their host, who was
eager to show cordiality towards guests of whom his wife thought so
much, and having also been acquainted himself with Mrs. Damer since her
return to England. He led her up to the sofa whereon Bella sat; and,
dinner being almost immediately announced, the little hostess was busy
pairing off her couples.

"Mr. Laurence!" she exclaimed; and then looking around the room, "where
_is_ Mr. Laurence?" So that that gentleman was forced to leave the
window-curtains, behind which he had ensconced himself, and advance into
the centre of the room. "Oh, here you are at last; will you take Mrs.
Damer down to dinner?" and proceeding immediately with the usual form of
introduction--"Mr. Laurence--Mrs. Damer."

They bowed to each other; but over the lady's face, as she went through
her share of the introduction, there passed so indescribable, and yet so
unmistakable a change, that Mrs. Clayton, although not very quick, could
not help observing it, and she said, involuntarily--

"Have you met Mr. Laurence before, Blanche?"

"I believe I have had that pleasure--in London--many years ago."

The last words came out so faintly that they were almost
undistinguishable.

"Why didn't you tell me so?" said Bella Clayton, reproachfully, to Mr.
Laurence.

He was beginning to stammer out some excuse about its having been so
long ago, when Mrs. Damer came to his aid, in her clear, cold voice--

"It _was_ very long ago: we must both be forgiven for having forgotten
the circumstance."

"Well, you must renew your acquaintanceship at dinner," said Mrs.
Clayton, blithely, as she trotted off to make matters pleasant between
the rest of her visitors. As she did so, Mr. Laurence remained standing
by the sofa, but he did not attempt to address Mrs. Damer. Only, when
the room was nearly cleared, he held out his arm to her, and she rose to
accept it. But the next minute she had sunk back again upon the sofa,
and Mrs. Clayton was at her cousin's side. Mrs. Damer had fainted.

"Poor darling!" exclaimed Colonel Damer, as he pressed forward to the
side of his wife. "I was afraid coming down to-night would be too much
for her, but she would make the attempt; she has so much spirit. Pray
don't delay the dinner, Mrs. Clayton; I will stay by her, if you will
excuse the apparent rudeness, until she is sufficiently recovered to go
to bed."

But even as he spoke his wife raised herself from the many arms which
supported her, and essayed to gain her feet.

"Bella, dear! I am all right again. Pray, if you love me, don't make a
scene about a little fatigue. I often faint now: let me go up to my
bedroom and lie down, as I ought to have done at first, and I shall be
quite well to-morrow morning."

She would accept no one's help--not even her husband's, though it
distressed him greatly that she refused it--but walked out of the room
of her own accord, and toiled wearily up the staircase which led her to
the higher stories; whilst more than one pair of eyes watched her
ascent, and more than one appetite was spoilt for the coming meal.

"Don't you think that Blanche is looking very ill?" demanded Bella
Clayton of Colonel Damer, at the dinner-table. She had been much struck
herself with the great alteration in her cousin's looks, and fancied
that her husband was not so alarmed about it as he ought to be.

"I do, indeed," he replied; "but it is the last thing she will
acknowledge herself. She has very bad spirits and appetite; appears
always in a low fever, and is so nervous that the least thing will
frighten her. That, to me, is the worst and most surprising change of
all: such a high-couraged creature as she used to be."

"Yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Clayton; "I can hardly imagine Blanche being
nervous at anything. It must have come on since her visit to the
Continent, for she was not so when she stayed here last."

"When was that?" demanded the Colonel, anxiously.

"Just three years ago this Christmas," was the answer. "I don't think I
ever saw her look better than she did then, and she was the life of the
house. But soon afterwards she went to Paris, and then we heard of her
illness, and this is my first meeting with her since that time. I was
very much shocked when she got out of the carriage: I should scarcely
have known her again." Here Mrs. Clayton stopped, seeing that the
attention of Mr. Laurence, who sat opposite to her, appeared to be
riveted on her words, and Colonel Damer relapsed into thought and spoke
no more.

In the meanwhile Mrs. Damer had gained her bedroom. Women had come to
attend upon her, sent by their mistress, and laden with offers of
refreshment and help of every kind, but she had dismissed them and
chosen to be alone. She felt too weak to be very restless, but she had
sat by the fire and cried, until she was so exhausted that her bed
suggested itself to her, as the best place in which she could be; but
rising to undress, preparatory to seeking it, she had nearly fallen, and
catching feebly at the bedpost had missed it, and sunk down by the side
of the solid black box, which was clamped with iron and fastened with a
padlock, and respecting which she had been so particular a few hours
before. She felt as if she was dying, and as if this were the fittest
place for her to die on. "There is nothing in my possession," she cried,
"that really belongs to me but _this_--this which I loathe and abhor,
and love and weep over at one and the same moment." And, strange to
relate, Mrs. Damer turned on her side and kneeling by the iron-clamped
chest pressed her lips upon its hard, unyielding surface, as if it had
life wherewith to answer her embrace. And then the wearied creature
dragged herself up again into an unsteady position, and managed to
sustain it until she was ready to lie down upon her bed.

The next morning she was much better. Colonel Damer and Bella Clayton
laid their heads together and decided that she was to remain in bed
until after breakfast, therefore she was spared meeting with the
assembled strangers until the dinner-hour again, for luncheon was a
desultory meal at Molton Chase, and scarcely any of the gentlemen were
present at it that day. After luncheon Mrs. Clayton proposed driving
Mrs. Damer out in her pony-chaise.

"I don't think you will find it cold, dear, and we can come home by the
lower shrubberies and meet the gentlemen as they return from shooting,"
Colonel Damer being one of the shooting party. But Mrs. Damer had
declined the drive, and made her cousin understand so plainly that she
preferred being left alone, that Mrs. Clayton felt no compunction in
acceding to her wishes, and laying herself out to please the other
ladies staying in the house.

And Mrs. Damer did wish to be alone. She wanted to think over the
incidents of the night before, and devise some plan by which she could
persuade her husband to leave the Grange as soon as possible without
provoking questions which she might find it difficult to answer. When
the sound of the wheels of her cousin's pony-chaise had died away, and
the great stillness pervading Molton Grange proclaimed that she was the
sole inmate left behind, she dressed herself in a warm cloak, and
drawing the hood over her head prepared for a stroll about the grounds.
A little walk she thought would do her good, and with this intention she
left the house. The Grange gardens were extensive and curiously laid
out, and there were many winding shrubbery paths about them, which
strangers were apt to find easier to enter than to find their way out of
again. Into one of these Mrs. Damer now turned her steps for the sake of
privacy and shelter; but she had not gone far before, on turning an
abrupt corner, she came suddenly upon the figure of the gentleman she
had been introduced to the night before, Mr. Laurence, who she had
imagined to be with the shooting party. He was half lying, half sitting
across a rustic seat which encircled the huge trunk of an old tree, with
his eyes bent upon the ground and a cigar between his lips. He was more
an intellectual and fine-looking than a handsome man, but he possessed
two gifts which are much more winning than beauty, a mind of great
power, and the art of fascination. As Mrs. Damer came full in view of
him, too suddenly to stop herself or to retreat, he rose quickly from
the attitude he had assumed when he thought himself secure from
interruption and stood in her pathway. She attempted to pass him with an
inclination of the head, but he put out his hand and stopped her.

"Blanche! you must speak to me; you shall not pass like this; I insist
upon it!" and she tried in vain to disengage her arm from his detaining
clasp.

"Mr. Laurence, what right have you to hold me thus?"

"What right, Blanche? The right of every man over the woman who loves
him!"

"That is your right over me no longer. I have tried to avoid you. You
have both seen and known it! No _gentleman_ would force himself upon my
notice in this manner."

"Your taunt fails to have any effect upon me. I have sought an
explanation of your extraordinary conduct from you in vain. My letters
have been unanswered, my entreaties for a last interview disregarded;
and now that chance has brought us together again, I must have what I
have a right to ask from your own lips. I did not devise this meeting; I
did not even know you had returned to England till yesterday, and then I
sought to avoid you; but it was fated that we should meet, and it is
fated that you satisfy my curiosity."

"What do you want to know?" she asked, in a low voice.

"First, have you ceased to love me?"

The angry light which had flashed across her face when he used force to
detain her died away; the pallid lips commenced to tremble, and in the
sunken eyes large tear-drops rose and hung quivering upon the long
eyelashes.

"Enough, Blanche," Mr. Laurence continued, in a softer voice. "Nature
answers me. I will not give you the needless pain of speaking. Then, why
did you forsake me? Why did you leave England without one line of
farewell, and why have you refused to hold any communication with me
since that time?"

"I _could_ not," she murmured. "You do not know; you cannot feel; you
could never understand my feelings on that occasion."

"That is no answer to my question, Blanche," he said firmly, "and an
answer I will have. What was the immediate cause of your breaking faith
with me? I loved you, you know how well. What drove you from me? Was it
fear, or indifference, or a sudden remorse?"

"It was," she commenced slowly, and then as if gathering up a great
resolution, she suddenly exclaimed, "Do you _really_ wish to know what
parted us?"

"I really intend to know," he replied, and the old power which he had
held over her recommenced its sway. "Whatever it was it has not tended
to your happiness," he continued, "if I may judge from your looks. You
are terribly changed, Blanche! I think even I could have made you
happier than you appear to have been."

"I have had enough to change me," she replied. "If you will know then,
come with me, and I will show you."

"To-day?"

"At once; to-morrow may be too late." She began to walk towards the
house as she spoke, rapidly and irregularly, her heart beating fast, but
no trace of weakness in her limbs; and Herbert Laurence followed her, he
scarcely knew why, expecting that she had desired it.

Into Molton Grange she went, up the broad staircase and to her chamber
door before she paused to see if he was following. When she did so she
found that he stood just behind her on the wide landing.

"You can enter," she said, throwing open the door of her bedroom, "don't
be afraid; there is nothing here except the cause for which I parted
with you." In her agitation and excitement, scarcely pausing to fasten
the door behind her, Mrs. Damer fell down on her knees before the little
black box with its iron clamps and ponderous padlock; and drawing a key
from her bosom, applied it to the lock, and in another minute had thrown
back the heavy lid. Having displaced some linen which lay at the top,
she carefully removed some lighter materials, and then calling to the
man behind her, bid him look in and be satisfied. Mr. Laurence advanced
to the box, quite ignorant as to the reason of her demand; but as his
eye fell upon its contents, he started backwards and covered his face
with his hands. As he drew them slowly away again he met the sad,
earnest look with which the kneeling woman greeted him, and for a few
moments they gazed at one another in complete silence. Then Mrs. Damer
withdrew her eyes from his and rearranged the contents of the black box;
the heavy lid shut with a clang, the padlock was fast again, the key in
her bosom, and she rose to her feet and prepared to leave the room in
the same unbroken silence. But he again detained her, and this time his
voice was hoarse and changed.

"Blanche! tell me, is this the truth?"

"As I believe in heaven," she answered.

"And this was the reason that we parted--this the sole cause of our
estrangement?"

"Was it not enough?" she said. "I erred, but it was as one in a dream.
When I awoke I could no longer err and be at peace. At peace did I say?
I have known no peace since I knew you; but I should have died and waked
up in hell, if I had not parted with you. This is all the truth, believe
it or not as you will; but there may, there can be nothing in future
between you and me. Pray let me pass you."

"But that--that--box, Blanche!" exclaimed Herbert Laurence, with drops
of sweat, notwithstanding the temperature of the day, upon his forehead.
"It was an accident, a misfortune; _you_ did not do it?"

She turned upon him eyes which were full of mingled horror and scorn.

"I _do_ it!" she said; "what are you dreaming of? I was mad; but not so
mad as that! How could you think it?" and the tears rose in her eyes
more at the supposition which his question had raised than at the idea
that he could so misjudge her.

"But why do you keep this? why do you carry it about with you, Blanche?
It is pure insanity on your part. How long is it since you have
travelled in company with that dreadful box?"

"More than two years," she said in a fearful whisper. "I have tried to
get rid of it, but to no purpose; there was always some one in the way.
I have reasoned with myself, and prayed to be delivered from it, but I
have never found an opportunity. And now, what does it matter? The
burden and heat of the day are past."

"Let me do it for you," said Mr. Laurence. "Whatever our future relation
to one another, I cannot consent that you should run so terrible a risk
through fault of mine. The strain upon your mind has been too great
already. Would to heaven I could have borne it for you! but you forbid
me even the privilege of knowing that you suffered. Now that I have
ascertained it, it must be my care that the cause of our separation
shall at least live in your memory only." And as he finished speaking he
attempted to lift the box; but Mrs. Damer sprang forward and prevented
him.

"Leave it!" she cried; "do not dare to touch it; it is _mine_! It has
gone wherever I have gone for years. Do you think, for the little space
that is left me, that I would part with the only link left between me
and my dread past?" and saying this she threw herself upon the black
trunk and burst into tears.

"Blanche! you love me as you ever did," exclaimed Herbert Laurence.
"These tears confess it. Let me make amends to you for this; let me try
to make the happiness of your future life!"

But before his sentence was concluded Mrs. Damer had risen from her
drooping attitude and stood before him.

"Make amends!" she echoed scornfully. "How can you 'make amends'?
Nothing can wipe out the memory of the shame and misery that I have
passed through, nothing restore the quiet conscience I have lost. I do
not know if I love you still or not. When I think of it, my head swims,
and I only feel confused and anxious. But I am sure of one thing, that
the horror of my remorse for even having listened to you has power to
overwhelm any regret that may be lingering in my unworthy breast, and
that the mere fact of your bodily presence is agony to me. When I met
you to-day I was battling with my invention to devise some means of
leaving the place where you are without exciting suspicion. If you ever
loved, have pity on me now; take the initiative, and rid me of
yourself."

"Is this your final decision, Blanche?" he asked, slowly. "Will you not
regret it when too late, and you are left alone with only _that_?"

She shuddered, and he caught at the fact as a sign of relenting.

"Dearest, loveliest," he commenced.--This woman had been the loveliest
to him in days gone past, and though she was so terribly changed in eyes
that regarded her less, Herbert Laurence, her once lover, could still
trace above the languor and debility and distress of her present
appearance, the fresh, sparkling woman who had sacrificed herself for
his sake; and although his style of address signified more than he
really thought for her, the knowledge of how much she had undergone
since their separation had the power to make him imagine that this
partial reanimation of an old flame was a proof that the fire which
kindled it had never perished. Therefore it did not appear absurd in his
mental eyes to preface his appeal to Mrs. Damer thus: "Dearest,
loveliest--" but she turned upon him as though he had insulted her.

"Mr. Laurence!" she exclaimed, "I have told you that the past is past;
be good enough to take me at my word. Do you think that I have lived
over two years of solitary shame and grief, to break the heart that
trusts in me _now_? If I had any wish, or any thought to the contrary,
it would be impossible. I am enveloped by kind words and acts, by care
and attention, which chain me as closely to my home as if I were kept a
prisoner between four walls. I could not free myself if I would," she
continued, throwing back her arms, as though she tried to break an
invisible thrall. "I must die first; the cords of gratitude are bound
about me so closely. It is killing me, as nothing else could kill," she
added, in a lower voice. "I lived under your loss, and the knowledge of
my own disgrace; but I cannot live under his perpetual kindness and
perfect trust. It cannot last much longer: for mercy's sake, leave me in
peace until the end comes!"

"And the box?" he demanded.

"I will provide for the box before that time," she answered, sadly; "but
if you have any fear, keep the key yourself: the lock is not one that
can be forced."

She took the key from her bosom, where it hung on a broad black ribbon,
as she spoke, and handed it to him. He accepted it without demur.

"You are so rash," he said; "it will be safer with me: let me take the
box also?"

"No, no!" said Mrs. Damer, hurriedly; "you shall not; and it would be no
use. If it were out of my sight, I should dream that it was found, and
talk of it in my sleep. I often rise in the night now to see if it is
safe. Nothing could do away with it. If you buried it, some one would
dig it up; if you threw it in the water, it would float. It would lie
still nowhere but on my heart, where it ought to be!--it ought to be!"

Her eyes had reassumed the wild, restless expression which they took
whilst speaking of the past, and her voice had sunk to a low, fearful
whisper.

"This is madness," muttered Herbert Laurence; and he was right. On the
subject of the black box Mrs. Damer's brain was turned.

He was just about to speak to her again, and try to reason her out of
her folly, when voices were heard merrily talking together in the hall,
and her face worked with the dread of discovery.

"Go!" she said; "pray, go at once. I have told you everything." And in
another moment Herbert Laurence had dashed through the passage to the
privacy of his own room; and Mrs. Clayton, glowing from her drive, and
with a fine rosy baby in her arms, had entered the apartment of her
cousin.